You’re Somebody Else | Ghost x Fem!Reader | Prologue
Note: This is based on a request which I changed a bit since I did not play any other Call of Duty game besides Modern Warfare 2 (2022). I did a bit of research tho for the older games so I hope it’s not complete bullshit that I’m pulling out of my ass, also related to the military stuff xD
Thank you for this first request of my current favorite character :))
Also a warning, this series will be angsty as hell but I’m not planning to make it very long, as I learned my lesson with a certain witcher fic xD
This fic has religious undertones at least in this part, I hope I don’t make anyone uncomfortable with this. I grew up Christian (tho I’m an atheist now) and I thought a bit about how I would react if I was suddenly in a parallel universe where I and several other people are supposed to be dead.
Warnings: Death, Mentions of Gore, Angst, COD Typical Violence, Mentions of Original Characters, Mention of Religion and Hell, Inaccurate Depiction of Medical Stuff, Injuries and prolly Military, Transmigration (lol)
Summary: You watched him die and yet he’s somehow still alive. You’re certain that you’ve died too and yet you’re still kicking. Is this a message from the universe? A second chance to make things right? To confess? You want to believe it but you quickly realize that he’s not the same man you knew and loved. Yet your heart is fluttering when he touches you. Can you love this new version of him?
Word Count: 5.05k
Taglist: -
If you want to be tagged in my stories send me a pm with the fandom/character name! Or comment on the fic :)
it has been YEARS since i've written smut, wow. enjoy my pretty boy <3
chase your high; suguru geto
things to know: one-shot, plug!geto, fem!reader, college au?? idk it doesn't really matter, lowercase intended, suggestive language, a bit of fluff and crack, smut: oral, fingering, riding, manhandling, overstimulation. substance use (just weed and alcohol lol), not proofread, kinda sorta what me and my boyfriend had going on years before we started dating
you looked down at your phone, rereading your text sent to suguru a week ago, letting him know you'll need him to drop off some pre rolls for today. and god knows you really needed them to relax.
you had just finished a midterm that gave you insane anxiety for the past three weeks. you needed to do good on this exam to pass the course, especially because you had been slacking ever since the semester started. you didn't want to have to retake this course next year when you could graduate this year. and the worst part about it all? you left that exam hall not knowing if you did good or bad.
you sighed, swallowing your pride to double text him.
sunday 1:03pm
you: hi sugu
you: would you be able to drop off my usual? at my place? any time before next thursday :) thank youuuuu
saturday 12:12pm
you: hey
you: any updates?
today 6:39pm
you: do you not want my money
you: i'm gonna start buying from choso
you were bluffing. you would only ever buy from suguru. despite the fact he always ghosted you, replying back when you're not in the mood to smoke anymore, you still took him up on the offer anyway because no one has ever sold you better strains than he has. not even choso.
not to mention, he never bothered upcharging you, or selling you overpriced shit like how other campus plugs tried. luckily, you knew your shit and wouldn't let them scam you for shitty product. matter of fact, he'd give you whatever you needed for free and rolled.
he only charged you the first two times you've bought from him. you remember both times being eighths of sativa, which he gave to you bagged. ever since then, you'd always have cash in your hands every time he dropped something off, but he refused to take money from you. honestly, your favourite part of it all was how he rolled for you.
no, you take that back. your favourite part was how gorgeous he is. how he shows up with different hair every time; in a bun, ponytail, completely down, or half-up half-down. how he hovers over you, leaning on your door frame with his arms crossed whenever he came over to drop something off. how he inches closer to have somewhat mundane conversations, making you flutter with goosebumps all over. how he calls you sweetheart, doll, good girl, or pretty girl, every time, giving you something to imagine while pleasuring yourself high later that same night.
sexy man, pre rolled, good product, good prices—no, free. his only downfall was never replying in a timely manner.
that was just something you'd have to compromise and deal with.
you went on with your night, accepting the fact you just weren't going to get high tonight. you showered and changed into something comfy, nothing much, just a white tank top and matching shorts that barely covered your ass. you put on your chunky blue light glasses to get rid of the raging headache you had, and cracked open a cooler (spoiler, you drink more than one) to take the edge off. you were five episodes into a new show you started when your phone lit up with a notification.
today 10:47pm
sugu: that's funny, sweetheart
sugu: you still need that?
you: i'm calling the cops on you
sugu: chilllll
you: terrible customer service. i'd rate you a solid 2/10 if you had a yelp
sugu: you love me
you: unfortunately
sugu: i'll be there in 15
at least he kept his word this time.
suguru showed up at your apartment room's door at 11pm in a grey sweatsuit and his hair down. the ends of his damp hair left a wet stain in the shoulders of his hoodie. when you opened your door, you noticed him eyeing you up and down—gaze lingering a bit too long at your breasts, nipples hard because of the cold, outside air hitting you suddenly.
he caressed your chin briefly yet gently. his fingers were cold as ever, reflecting the weather outside. "hey, pretty girl."
he looked irresistible. the alcohol from earlier had amplified whatever thoughts you had, and right now, you wanted to pounce on him and eat him alive.
he reached into his pocket and held out a baggie of an eighth, "i didn't get to roll before coming here, my bad."
"you know," you started while he stared at you with a grin, knowing you wanted to rip into him for ghosting you again, "i was hoping i'd be asleep by now, relaxed and high. it's almost midnight... and now you're telling me i have to roll on my own?"
he shrugged. you rolled your eyes and continued, "come in. you're rolling. and smoking with me."
you were frustrated. like in every aspect. the lack of urgency from him, the exam, the fact you were craving sex but couldn't bother with other men anymore. you could not shake it off for some reason. with suguru's sudden arrival, you figured you'd just smoke and put yourself to sleep with your vibrator.
you led him to your dining table that only had space for two anyway. his eyes wandered down—from the back of your head, to the small of your back, to the way your hips swayed, your ass, and your bare legs. that was a view he could get used to. no, you were a view he had gotten used to but was too afraid to get close to.
when you first texted him, he didn't know who the hell you were. you said a mutual friend, shoko, gave you his number. he trusted shoko with his life, and because she vouched for you, he was fine with it, but he'd never give out his number without meeting the person first. the first two times you ordered eighths off him, he used shoko as a middle-man because he was busy.
the third time, he showed up to your apartment room himself. the second he laid his eyes on you, he was mesmerized—it was over for him. he cursed himself for not meeting you earlier. he would've given the others for free too. he made a mental note that he'd roll for you the next time he dealt you too.
every time suguru showed up to your room, he'd make good conversation with you and you appreciated that. he'd stay around longer each time, asking you how you were, listening to you complain about whatever the fuck was going on in your life—you felt heard. it didn't take long for you two to become friends, and it was all because of him. you thought it would be strictly transactional interactions because that's how it tended to be with your previous plugs. he was literally perfect in person, he just sucked at replying to you.
it's not that suguru ghosted you on purpose. well, it is. but only because he could not keep his composure if he was around you as often as you texted him for something. he already tried his best not to flirt with you, or touch you every time he'd see you. it wouldn't be professional, y'know.
but you didn't make it easy either. you knew what you were doing whenever you saw him. maybe. you weren't sure. it could have been involuntary. most likely a bit of both. he's only ever seen you in skimpy nightwear. now, that was involuntary. you just wanted to be comfortable. but the way you bat your eyes at him, held onto his bicep, and flirted with him, saying subtle things that affirmed your attraction towards him—that was on purpose.
he knew that. what he didn't know was whether you actually felt that way, or if you were just doing that for free weed. he hoped it wasn't the latter, because he'd give you whatever you needed for free anyway.
you watched as his rough, long fingers gently folded the RAW rolling paper around the grinded strain. he brought it up to his mouth and licked it for it to stay in place. as he licked it, he caught you staring, practically eye fucking him. all he did was smirk and wink at you. you instantly pressed your thighs together, hoping you'd eventually ignore the pulse in between your legs.
when he finished with the first joint, he swiftly placed it in between your already parted lips. you held the delicate roll in between your index and middle finger so he could light it for you.
while you continued to inhale and exhale, he rolled a few more joints while conversing with you. your conversation only consisted of silly little, everyday things. but things became intimate as quickly as the paper burned.
"why were you out so late?" you curiously wondered while also trying to continue to make small talk. "am i holding up other customers?"
"nah," he answered. "just got held up at work. then sho and satoru were trying to get me to smoke with them, but i'd rather come out to see you."
"awww, am i your favourite?" you gasped.
"of course, sweetheart." suguru held up the paper to his tongue, finishing the final joint. "you still single?"
"god, it's been so long," you exhaled another puff of smoke and handing him the joint. "i'm very single." he chuckled at your whine, once again noticing the way you looked at him, spoke to him, and kept physical contact with him in minimal ways. "... i think i want you to be my next victim."
"yeah?"
"yeah."
"oh, did i just say that?" you suddenly became super hyperaware of the situation you put yourself into and broke eye contact with him in a panic. "well, only if you're single. i wouldn't wanna mess anything up if you have a girl. and of course, only if you want. no pressure here. oh, and i do have cash too. i can pay, it's not like an alternate form of payment. do you guys even accept that? i swear-"
"shhhh. i'm not seeing anyone. i don't want your money. just want you," he replied to each concern slowly, grin seeping in his voice. he casually gestured with his two fingers for you to come sit on his lap, "now stop talking and c'mere."
you did as he said and straddled him. he adjusted you so you'd be on top of his bulge, that kept jumping up after every few seconds. everything he did was with purpose and intent. he smiled at you, moving some stray hairs out of your face.
you stared into his eyes—his beautiful, dark, monolid eyes, that you swore had hues of purple. his lips were a soft nude, still moisturized despite smoking. his skin was so clear and glass-like, you were almost envious. just everything about him was so perfect, you wondered how a man so ethereal could exist.
he inhaled one last time, finishing the joint and placing it on your pink ashtray. he parted your lips a bit with his thumb on your chin, "open up." he exhaled the smoke into your mouth. you inhaled it with ease, and exhaled from your nose.
you looked down at his lips and back at his eyes again, noticing he was doing the exact same thing. you made the first move, leaning in and placing your lips onto his. it was slow, but so, so sensual. your tongues intertwined desperately.
the lingering sexual tension every time you saw each other was finally being acted on. it took too many long months for it to happen, but whatever. finally.
his cock jumped underneath you, causing you to hum into the kiss. your back was arched, skin against his fleece hoodie. your hips began moving on their own, grinding on him involuntarily. you needed him bad. you wondered if he could feel your pussy throbbing on top of him, or if you left a mark on his sweats because you were soaking. your body was betraying you, completely letting your veil down.
he didn't pull out of the kiss immediately. he bit your bottom lip before letting go. "hey, doll."
"hi," you smiled back, heat rushing to your face. "are you sure you're okay with this?"
"you overthink too much," he sighed. he picked you up with his hand gripping on your ass. he laid you down on your couch and hovered above you. "y'know, you're oblivious. i've been wanting this. you've made it so hard for me these past few months."
"i'm glad the feeling's mutual." you were about to latch your lips onto his again until a thought stopped you. you raised a brow, "is this why you ghost me all the time?"
he shrugged like it was cute. "i was trying to be professional."
"you're funny," you giggled, "you're a dealer talking about being professional."
"yeah, yeah." he leaned closer and kissed your jaw. "you'll see what i mean in a sec."
"show me then, handsome."
you didn't get the chance to tease him again. he kissed you before you could say anything else. the buzz from the weed and coolers softened everything around you, sharpening and intensifying every place he touched. his hands slid in between your legs, spreading them just enough for him to settle between.
your head sank into the couch cushions and he followed you down, pushing your tank top higher as he kissed along your stomach. your breath hitched when he kissed your inner thigh. your fingers slipped into his hair when he kissed higher. your hips lifted off the couch on instinct and he slid your shorts down your legs, tossing them onto the ground.
he parted you with his fingers and worshiped your body underneath him. "you're so pretty."
your entire body tightened when he put your legs over his shoulders. he leaned in and licked one slow stripe in between your labia all the way up to your clit. your back arched instantly.
"isn't fun now, is it?" he chuckled before lowering his mouth again, this time wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking it gently, just enough pressure to make your toes curl.
his tongue circled you slowly, drawing soft sounds from you he was determined to hear more of. he nearly moaned as he touched you. your reactions were everything he had imagined when he fisted his cock in the shower after dropping your weed off.
he lifted his head, mouth glistening. "you taste so good." he was already pussydrunk.
you were everything he'd been trying not to lose his composure over for the past few months. now that he had you, he wasn’t going to let go without making you feel good. he buried himself back in between your legs, tongue plunged deep inside you before circling back to your clit relentlessly.
it didn't take much longer for your orgasm to rush over you. your hands tightened in his hair and he groaned, "that's it. don't hold back."
you couldn't if you tried.
he touched you in all the right places.
your orgasm hadn't fully settled in when his hands slid under your thighs and lifted you effortlessly again. your body was limp when he guided you to his lap, your back against his chest.
he began kissing you all over your neck, sucking on your tender skin every once in a while. it definitely left dark marks reaching from your jaw to your collarbone. he groped your tits, freeing them from your tank top. he drew circles into your nipples, the stimulation making you want more.
"suguru," you mumbled as he continued to kiss your neck. "i want you inside me."
"hmm?" he hummed against your skin. "not yet. be patient."
he spread your legs again, knees grounding yours, keeping them wide. his hand slid from your tits down your stomach until it reached the sensitive space between your thighs. two fingers slipped between your folds, working through the arousal he had worked out of you just earlier.
"haah~" you threw your head back at the sudden touch. his fingers were somehow still cold because of the outside.
his fingers teased you first—slow strokes, learning the rhythm of your breath, the way your hips lifted when he brushed a certain spot. your body reacted before your mind could catch up. your thighs were tightening, head tipping back onto his shoulder, chest rising too fast.
"suguruu…" your voice came out thin, needy.
"i got you," he whispered, one hand slipping up to grip your hip, the other settling exactly where you needed him. "just relax back on me."
you melted into him. back molded to chest, hips arching into his hand, the buzz making every movement feel like it echoed inside you.
then his fingers slid inside you faster this time, the angle curling upward, each one pulling a sound from you you didn’t mean to make. your hips jerked forward, your hand flying to grab the back of his neck behind you. your thighs trembled over his, your nails digging lightly into his forearm as you held onto him.
his thumb stimulating your clit slowly contradicted his fingers thrusting in and out of you at an insane speed you were not used to. his finger work was so precise. he paid immense attention to you.
the sensation built too fast—dizzying, pulse-heavy, warm.
then your hips began to move. "oohhh, fuuckk!" you tried shutting your legs together, pleasure tearing through you, you tried pushing yourself off him as you were finishing.
"don't run." he spread his knees wider, forcing you to keep your legs open. his fingers were piercing into your thigh, ensuring you wouldn't move from his hold.
your breath was taken away from you. when you relearned how to breathe again, you let out another ungodly sound. "i'm cum-cumming— nghh! it's too much!"
suguru was a man on a mission. his only goal was to make you crumble, and it was working. he wanted you to know you were his now. he was making sure you would never go to anyone else again—for weed, sex, or quite literally anything else.
where most men would have stopped, he kept going. he was overstimulating the fuck out of you, finger fucking you through your release, making you scream louder and louder. everything inside you burst at once. his constant pounding forced squirt to gush out of you. your body shuddered.
"i know, baby," he felt you clenching on his fingers, orgasm lasting for a good two minutes. "but keep 'em wide open for me. let me take care of you, yeah?"
you didn't know a man could make you feel that way. no, you didn't know you could feel that way, period.
you didn't just finish.
you broke.
his mouth opened against your skin in a quiet, wrecked groan. "fuck," he breathed, his voice dropping to something raw. “ya took that like a good girl. look at you. what a mess."
you fell onto him, looking down at his grey sweats now soaked with your secretions. "i can get those washed for you. 'm sorry."
"don't apologize. that was so fucking hot." he began kissing all over your skin again. he turned you around to face him in one swift movement yet again. "you just keep getting sexier n' sexier."
"no, sugu." you knew what he was trying to do. "i'm tapping out."
"i thought you wanted me inside of you," he smirked, bucking his hips up, teasing you further.
"i do," you retorted, legs still shaking with the slightest movement, head spinning because of the immense amount of pleasure amplified by the intoxication. "but don't think i can take more."
"course you can," his voice dipped, warm and sure, confident in his words as he wrapped a hand around the base of his cock.
he was thick. very thick. his tip was a coral pink, already slick with precum that glistened in the low light of your apartment. his tip looked like it would stretch you before you took one of his many inches. the veins running along his length were pulsing under his fingers as he slowly stroked himself once.
you looked down and back up at him. your thighs quivered at the sight alone, heart curling through your stomach. "wow. you've gotta be fucking kidding me," you blurted, whining, "there is no way that's fair."
he smirks, absolutely entertained. "you complaining?"
"well, yeah. you expect me to just... take that?"
"pretty sure you'll figure it out," he grinned, snark oozing through every word he said. "you're a smart girl."
you scoff, "please. i know," waving him off like he isn't your entire focus.
you steadied yourself over him, thighs still trembling from how hard he'd just dragged an orgasm out of you. he guided you forward, settling you over him again. the contrast of his size made you gasp. your pussy fluttering around nothing, already trying to open for him.
"look at thaaatt. she's still begging for it." his hands slid up the back of your thighs and gripped the curve of your hips, guiding you slowly, almost lazily, like he had all the time in the world to feel you fall apart on top of him.
your palms slid over his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie like you needed the anchor. you did. the room felt hazy, warped by the alcohol and the weed and the way your body still pulsed for him. "you're lucky i like you. shit. i would've kicked you out for attempted murder."
your walls stretched around him, hugging him too tightly, pulling him in like your body was starving for him no matter how overwhelmed you’d been seconds ago. your fingers dug into his shoulders, your hips trembling as you fought to keep control of your pace.
"fuck…" you breathed out, voice breaking as you felt the head of his cock against your slit. the contact alone made your hips jerk, your body chasing him without permission. slick coated him instantly, and you felt heat roll through your stomach at how easily your thighs fell open for him.
he praised, his voice rough. "just a little more, doll."
you lowered yourself the rest of the way, bottoming out with a shaky, broken moan you couldn’t swallow down. the fullness knocked the breath out of you—god, he was big. you felt every inch of him pressing against spots you didn’t even know you had.
"just take it easy." you didn't know he still had a joint on him. he placed it in between his lips, cuffed his hand over it and lit it. he tilted his head back, exhaling the smoke, "now, be a good girl and ride me."
he passed the joint over to you as you settled onto him. you inhaled the marijuana, settling back into the same high as before.
your body reacted before your mind did. his cock pressed hot and heavy as your hips rocked in slow, needy circles at first, trying to ease the stretch while also chasing more pressure. then sharper little lifts that made his cock angle upward inside you. the moment he brushed your g-spot, your breath fractured, your mouth falling open as a trembling whimper spilled out of you.
you gave the joint back to him as the pain quickly turned into pleasure. your fingers replaced the joint with the back of his neck, pulling yourself closer as your hips found a shakier, faster rhythm. when you sank down again, deeper and heavier—he hit that same spot with precision.
each time you dropped down onto him, the stretch punched a gasp out of your throat. your cunt clenched around him involuntarily, fluttering with every desperate little bounce. your thighs burned, trembling, but the pleasure was too sharp, too intoxicating to stop.
his forehead pressed to your shoulder as he steadied his breathing. you felt his control slipping in the way his fingers flexed against your hips, the way his thighs tensed beneath you, the way his cock throbbed inside you like he was fighting the urge to thrust up into you.
your hand flew to your lower stomach without thinking, fingers pressing lightly over the place where you felt him the most. he was thick enough, deep enough to where you could feel the outline of him moving inside you.
his eyes instantly dropped to below your navel. he watched your hand on your stomach. he watched the way your body fluttered around him every time you lifted and then sank back down, your arousal coating him so much that each drop of your hips made a soft, wet sound. what caught him off guard was how he could see himself in you. the sight of it all made him groan.
he’d told himself he’d keep it together, that he wouldn’t be the one to lose it first, but watching you fuck yourself on him like that shredded whatever control he thought he had. everytime your pussy squeezed around his cock, his fingers tightened on your hips like he needed proof you were actually there. you were so messy, so desperate, and so pretty on top of him, he knew he’d be replaying this in his head every time he closed his eyes. if he wasn’t careful, he was going to cum just from watching you.
"sugu— oh my god-" your voice cracked into a moan as you sank all the way down, your ass meeting his thighs. the fullness made your head fall back, your lips parting as a soft cry spilled out. you felt him pulse inside you, felt him hold back a groan against your chest.
"you're doing so good," he murmured into your neck, his breath hot on your skin. "never thought you could look prettier."
your hips stuttered, lifting and dropping again, chasing that sweet friction at your clit each time you bottomed out on him. every stroke of him inside you sent heat curling in your stomach.
the pleasure building up had made your vision blur. you were in such a euphoric state, you didn't realize your body was still moving on its own, chasing after yet another orgasm. you were riding into oblivion.
suguru’s hand came up gently, fingers curling under your chin before giving your cheek the lightest tap. it was barely a touch, more a reminder to look at him. "hey," he murmured, voice low, steady, commanding in the softest way. "eyes on me, sweetheart."
your lashes fluttered, redirecting your gaze back to him even as your body trembled around him. your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling lightly as your hips rocked faster, sloppier, just embarrassingly needy. each movement made your breasts bounce softly against his chest, your nipples brushing the fabric of his hoodie and sending sparks through you.
"suguru— f-fuck—" your words dissolved into a broken moan as you ground down hard, circling your hips to feel every inch of him. your clit grinding against his pelvis, and the jolt of pleasure made your thighs shake violently.
he was hanging on by a thread. every time you rolled your hips, he felt your cunt squeeze around him like you were trying to milk him dry, like your body already knew exactly how to ruin him. he could feel you shaking, hear those pretty, broken sounds fall out of you, but all he could think was mine. you were his.
you were so far gone on his cock, on his weed, on him, he knew there was no way you’d ever go back to anyone else after this.
mission accomplished.
he took another slow drag from the joint, exhaling like he had all the time in the world to let you use him. as your pace faltered, his hips began to thrust up to meet you, fucking into you from below.
"yeaahh, just like that. chase your high, baby."
i got lazy </3 can you tell i don't write smut, sorry lol i'm trying to learn again
Content: soulmate au, caleb is your stalker, he is an unreliable narrator and very much unhinged, he breaks into your home and sets up cameras, possessive and obsessive behavior, he kills someone but it's non-graphic, smut, L-bombs, oops reader is a little unhinged too, talk of marriage, marathon sex, somnophilia (with prior consent given)
➢ Read on AO3
From a young age, Caleb has always had a knack for seeing patterns. He makes mathematics look easy, he breezes through things like puzzles or building model airplanes, and he observes everything in life with a quiet calculation that unnerves most people.
His family calls him special. People who meet him for the first time call him a bit strange yet charismatic. Since childhood, he knew there was something different about him. Caleb has a gift no one else has: he can see fate.
Fate is beautiful. Connections and relationships are woven throughout the universe in the form of deep red threads. Some are thick cords, strengthened by a bond that's been realized early on in life. Others are thin, fraying, and tangled when someone touches a body they aren't meant to be with but want anyway.
These threads aren't exclusively for romantic bonds. Some destined relationships are lifelong friends, platonic life partners, or anything in between. A few people even have more than one if they're lucky. No matter the type of soulmate, everyone has a thread tied to them. Everyone except Caleb.
It's a cruel thing, seeing everyone else's destiny but being blind to your own. He doesn't even know if he has a soulmate at all. As a teen, he convinced himself it was a test—maybe he just needed to work harder to find his soulmate. He spent far too much time researching old mythology about destiny and fated lovers.
Growing into young adulthood, he spent even more time watching people, searching for someone else who might be missing their own thread. With Caleb's good looks and charming personality, he's always been spoiled for choice when it comes to a potential partner. Many people throw themselves at him, not realizing their threads tug them back toward someone else entirely.
It's not like he needs to reject his admirers. He knows he could just be another passing tangle or knot in someone's connection with a true soulmate. But that doesn't appeal to him. He wants to feel that undeniable pull, that intimate connection that comes with finding the person who was made for him. So he continues waiting—and watching for patterns he can study.
He soon learns how to guess people's whole life stories just from the way their threads are woven. It becomes second nature to figure out someone is having an affair or if they've lost a loved one or are desperately trying to escape fate altogether.
When he bumps into you at a café, he initially thinks nothing of it. He plasters on his usual suave smile while reaching down to grab your fallen bag. And when he hands it back to you, he freezes in place.
Caleb has never believed in sparks flying or love at first sight. Especially not when he's witnessed firsthand how every connection is planned by some higher power. But when he sees your face—your apologetic smile and the way you look at him with genuine kindness—he thinks fate becomes inconsequential.
His eyes land on the red thread tied around your left wrist like a shackle, and his heart drops. For a fleeting moment, he hoped you'd have no thread like him. He almost turns away, until he notices the wrongness of it.
Your thread is…ugly. A weak, dull color as it yanks at your wrist like an incessant child, trying to tug you toward something you don't seem to have any interest in.
The moment you turn your back on Caleb to resume your order, his eyes never leave you. You become an obsession—half because of that immediate flicker of something he felt when he saw you, and the other half because he has to find out why fate feels different around you.
His feet carry him mindlessly behind you when you leave the café. Careful not to arouse suspicion, he follows you all the way to your apartment. And imagine his surprise when he realizes you live right down the hall from his own apartment.
Caleb doesn't believe in coincidence. So he takes it upon himself to learn even more about you.
Clearly, the universe is sending him a sign. Maybe it messed up when writing your destiny. Maybe some cosmic being needs his help in fixing the mistake. Either way, he's the only one who can correct that dreadful thing holding you back from having a true soulmate. He's the only one who could be your soulmate.
He watches you for weeks, taking his time to collect as much information about you as he can before he makes his next move. People, normal people, are hilariously predictable. Not only are they beholden to fate, but they also desperately cling to routine. Just another pattern that Caleb picks up on with far too much ease.
It barely takes him a month to have your entire schedule mapped out and memorized. Even on the rare occasion when you do something spontaneous, he's able to intuit where you might go, who you might be with, and what time you'll decide to head back home.
He takes advantage of one of the moments you're not home, picking the lock on your front door with ease. Knowing exactly how much time he has before you return, he's planned the perfect opportunity to plant hidden cameras in each of the rooms of your apartment.
He's so well-prepared that he even has a few extra minutes afterward to go through your most precious belongings. It's hard not to steal a caress of your soft bed, rifle through the diary hidden underneath it, or gingerly smell one of your hoodies hanging on the couch.
If you were here now, you would freak out. Caleb's not insane enough not to know that. But he also believes if you gave him a chance to explain—you're meant to be with him, duh—maybe you wouldn't be too mad. That's why he does something completely unplanned and leaves with your hoodie after double-checking that all the cameras work.
Luckily, you don't notice the missing item or the added tiny red dots peeking out from strategically placed spots. One of the things Caleb loves about you is how sweet and trusting you are. It's something anyone else could easily take advantage of, though. And he doesn't like the thought of that.
Being a guardian angel isn't enough for him. Watching from afar won't mean much if someone gets too close to you when he's unprepared or turns his back for a moment. He needs to make sure no one else slides into your life. Especially if that someone could be whoever is on the other end of that counterfeit bond wrapped too tightly around your wrist.
So Caleb manufactures more accidental meetings with you. You're neighbors, after all. When you take out your trash, Caleb times his exit perfectly, turning a corner just fast enough to bump into you. His charming apology makes you a bit flustered, and he thinks you're even cuter when you're within arm's reach.
The second meeting happens at a bookstore three blocks down. The one you frequent every Saturday around lunchtime to read a new book while snacking on something salty. He’s already browsing the shelves when you walk in, glancing at you with feigned surprise when you notice your neighbor likes one of the books you read last week.
After that, it becomes easier. He embeds himself into your routine until he's impossible to ignore.
First, he's a simple stranger who you notice every once in a while. Then, an acquaintance who happens—coincidentally—to love the same cafés, the same obscure novels, the same quiet walking paths you prefer at dusk. He laughs at the right moments. Listens when you speak. Remembers little details you share that you think anyone else wouldn't bother paying attention to.
Finally, he becomes a friend. A staple in your daily routine. A shoulder you cry on when days are hard and you need someone to rely on.
In those moments, Caleb wants nothing more than to confess his feelings for you. Everything is going so well, and he can sense that you'd reciprocate his confession.
With every cozy hangout, conversation that stretches past midnight, and shared meal where your knees brush his under the table, Caleb watches the subtle shift in your body language. The way you lean closer and your voice softens. You're falling for him.
But that grotesque thing around your wrist begins to thrash in protest whenever he gets too close. His teeth grit every time he sees its blatant disapproval.
Why is the universe resisting him now? You are his other half. He's never been so sure of anything else in his life. Is this the real test he mistakenly thought he'd been put through as a child?
At night, he lies awake and dissects every possible next step. No matter the scenario, he arrives at the same conclusion. There is only ever one outcome with fate.
He's seen it before in past observations: no matter how much fate veers off course, it always finds a way to correct itself. But perhaps that's only because no one with Caleb's gift has ever tried to intervene.
People believe fate does not bend for desire, or that it doesn't reward patience and effort. They believe it simply is. But when you grow up seeing its physical manifestation and the way people fight against it, it's hard not to come to the conclusion that even something preordained can be manipulated by someone strong enough.
If Caleb's been given such a gift…then it would be a shame not to use it.
He'll make sure there is no possible way the universe could pull you into someone else's orbit. Which means he needs to find the parasite at the other end of your tether. He needs to measure their worth. Even though deep down, he already knows what answer lies at the end of his calculations.
And he's proven right when he finally does find your dead weight. Your so-called soulmate doesn't seem to treasure true love or fate at all. Even worse, the man doesn't even add up to a quarter of the exceptional person you are.
Your destined counterpart spends his days slouched at a bar that smells like stale beer and desperation. Caleb watches from across the street first. Then from inside. Then a day later, from a camera discreetly installed in the man's messy home.
He scowls as he watches your fated half drown in cheap booze and women that barely stay the night before being kicked out onto the street like trash. One could barely call this a routine when it's more like a never-ending rut for a loser who thinks he's the shit when he actually just smells like it.
This is what pulls at your wrist every night? This is what dares to fight when Caleb leans into you with a look full of yearning?
The knowledge taunts him for three days. That's all it takes before he ponders something brand new about the universe while watching a belligerent idiot snore facedown on a stained mattress.
Can fate defend itself?
Caleb makes sure what he's about to do will look like a freak accident. It's just something that happens to a drunkard who no one will miss anyway.
It turns out it's easy to sever the very thread of fate that he always admired as a kid. In fact, he's a little disappointed by the lack of ceremony. There's no bolt of lightning striking him down, no divine intervention or a voice booming from above in anger of what Caleb has taken into his own hands.
Fate is weak and pathetic as it tries to resist its new order from a power more determined than a fickle thing like the universe. It bleeds and whimpers before the last rush of air leaves its lungs.
Caleb stares down at the broken thread, now unattached from the man you were never meant to meet.
It feels like a stupid thought now, but he knows he has to attach it to himself. He doesn't believe in its power anymore, but you might. You might feel its loss if it decays, the same way he's seen remnants of other people's bonds that ended when their lovers passed away too soon. Besides, he wants there to be no question that there is an unshakeable bond between you two—even if you can't see it for yourself.
Caleb works quickly, tying a knot around his left wrist a bit too tightly, like he's scared it might come undone if he isn't meticulous enough. Some strange bit of life still left in the thread resists him at first, stubbornly recoiling from the wrongness of what just transpired. But familiarity is a powerful thing. He has already watched you, memorized you, and diligently shaped his life around the edges of yours. He makes fate recognize effort now.
It stings for a few minutes, feeling like forcing a shape into the wrong space. Fortunately, his lack of a thread becomes an advantage. There is nothing to conflict, nothing to reject the intrusion other than your own thread trying to hold onto something irrelevant.
And after a few heart-pounding moments, the knot finally holds—and your thread stills. Caleb exhales for the first time in minutes. He leaves the unmoving body on the dirty mattress, smiling when he thinks of the next time he'll see you with a strengthened bond.
Your neighbor—and new best friend—is the sweetest man you've ever had the pleasure of meeting. You never thought you'd find someone like him in this day and age. A true gentleman, he makes you feel seen in a way that feels inevitable. Like he was always waiting for you to run into him on a busy day at your favorite café.
Lately, you've been unable to stop yourself from flirting with danger. And it really is a dangerous thing to fall in love with a neighbor. If things don't work out, then you'll have to bump into an ex every day just to go in and out of your apartment.
But if the only dangerous thing about wanting a man like Caleb is the possibility of a constant heartache, then you'll take your chances. Besides, your chest already tightens painfully every time he smiles at you. Your heart really does skip a beat when he laughs at your jokes, or hugs you when you're sad, or when his hands wander just a bit while he cuddles up beside you on your couch.
Caleb is different than any men you've ever met. He's better. Maybe he's the best you might ever get. And you're not going to let someone else snatch him up.
That's precisely why you've already put so much faith in him. Someone as gentle as Caleb could never hurt a fly, so you happily gave him a key to your apartment for emergencies. You let him come over even when you're looking like a mess after tiring days at work. You even fall asleep on him sometimes, so trusting that he would always protect you even in your most vulnerable states.
His easygoing charm and innocent puppy-like eyes make your heart beat only for him. But you're also a bit annoyed; no matter how much his touch might wander at times, he always holds himself back.
You've tried baiting him with shorts that "accidentally" ride up a bit between your thighs when you bend down in front of him. You've even let your hands trail his chest and abs while watching movies beside him.
It takes all your willpower not to jump him right then and there the moment your fingertips trace the quivering lines of his lower stomach. His breathing always turns heavier with cute little gasps of air when you touch him. But still, he doesn't take things further.
It's for this reason that you decide to take a leap of faith and ask him on a date. You're not usually this bold with your crushes, but something about Caleb makes you want to be brave. When the two of you meet up at your usual café for lunch, you take advantage of a quiet moment.
"Caleb?" you say, trying to keep your voice steady as he looks up at you over the rim of his coffee mug.
He sets the cup down, giving you his full attention like he always does. You stammer for a second, and he smirks, as if he can guess what you're about to say. That cockiness is what makes you turn a nervous question into a headstrong declaration.
"I want to go out on a date with you."
Immediately, you feel a bit stupid for the phrasing and the way you looked at him like he had no say in the matter. But Caleb—always the type to play along with your every whim—smiles, his dimples making you swoon a bit. You notice a flicker of something strange in his expression, but it's too fast to put to words.
"You do?" he asks with a chuckle, far too calm when you're over here sweating buckets and waiting for a proper response. "Well, I could never say no to you."
The warmth that spreads through you is immediate and dizzying. You laugh in relief, feeling ridiculous for ever doubting yourself or his feelings for you. Caleb wipes away any residual doubt the second he gets up from his chair and presses a chaste kiss to your cheek.
He promises to plan everything for your date, even though you were the one who asked him out. The next weekend, he meets you at your apartment promptly on time, with a bouquet of your favorite flowers and a small box of treats from that dessert place you love visiting.
Everything is perfect and effortless. Even more so than how it usually feels being by his side. He picks a restaurant you mentioned wanting to try weeks ago—one you hadn't expected him to remember. He holds doors open for you, rests his hand lightly at your back while leading you to the table, and looks at you like you're the only person in the room.
As always, conversation with Caleb flows easily. Since you've known him, he's always been able to guess what's on your mind, what might be bothering you or making you nervous. It's uncanny just how much he can stay in sync with you, as easily as breathing.
But this time, there's something just a bit different about your dynamic. Something charged with a heightened tension.
When your fingers reach across the table to brush against his hand, he doesn't pull away or avoid eye contact. He looks at you like what you've just done has sealed something he's been waiting to finalize for a long time.
It should scare you, that dark look in his eyes. Because for a second, he looks a bit unrecognizable. But all you feel is a sensation like something clicking into place.
You intertwine your fingers with his and ask, "Do you believe in soulmates?"
For the first time since you've met him, Caleb looks surprised. Nothing ever catches him off guard. Yet somehow, this simple question does the trick.
Wondering if maybe your question was a bit embarrassing, you backtrack. "I know it sounds silly. But—"
"Yes," he interrupts with a whisper. "I mean…I'm not sure if I did before meetin' you." His thumb rubs your knuckles back and forth as he holds your hand just a bit tighter. "But now I know."
If it was anyone else, you might have been amused by how cheesy his words are. But when Caleb is the one saying them—so earnestly, too—all you feel is a rush of heat through your body.
The rest of the date happens in a bit of a blur. Both of you can't seem to keep your hands off each other, even opting to skip dessert if it means getting back home quicker.
You really aren't the type to invite a first date inside your home, no matter how well the night goes. This time it's different because it's Caleb, the man you've already shared so much with. He's been inside your home before. He's seen you in every way but one. And you're desperate to show him that missing piece now.
As soon as you unlock your door, you push him inside, all pretense forgotten the moment your shoes and coats come off. You crash into him, feverish kisses stealing his breath away as he chuckles between them. You don't care how eager you seem, you just want his lips on yours.
Using his tie as a leash, you tug him backwards with you, blindly stumbling to your bedroom. But even when you think you might bump into a wall, Caleb redirects you with his eyes closed, like he's memorized the route you need to take without so much as parting from your lips. If you weren't getting drunk off his kisses, maybe alarm bells would ring in your mind—you've never taken him to your bedroom before now.
Nothing matters anyway. Nothing except getting him out of these stupid clothes and showing him just how much you've wanted him all night. When Caleb gently pulls you down onto your bed, you move with more roughness, your frenzied kisses pausing so you can shove him to sit back against the headboard and straddle his lap.
His eyes sparkle with mirth, but he lets you manhandle him. The realization makes your stomach flutter. Testing the waters further, you use his shoulders as leverage before grinding down on him. Caleb's hands fly to your hips with a gasp, but he doesn't control your movements. He just lets you rock at your own pace, basking in the weight of your core rubbing against his clothed erection.
His compliance encourages you, making you needy for leaving more kisses along his Adam's apple and neck. He moans for you while his hips buck instinctively beneath yours, and it makes another flood of arousal pool between your thighs.
"Mm, is this okay?" you mumble against his skin while grinding with more pressure, desperately chasing friction.
His fingers tighten on your waist, but he still doesn't stop you. "Y-you can use me however you want, baby," he replies through another breathy moan. "I'm yours. All yours."
How did you get so lucky, you wonder before biting down on his neck. You make sure to suck a mark worthy of being on someone who gives himself to you so eagerly. It's the least you can do for how sweetly he whimpers and claws at your hips while you hump him until you're nearly coming on his lap.
In the midst of your greed, you've undone his tie and ripped a few of the buttons on his shirt, making room for more licks and bites. When you lean back to look at your handiwork, both of you are panting, not nearly satisfied yet but needing a moment to catch your breath. And your sweet friend, no, boyfriend now, looks at you like he's ready to worship you.
He slides one hand up your body, taking his time to feel every curve until his fingers gently wrap around your left wrist. He holds his breath and glances at you with hesitation, like touching your arm is a sin.
It's cute how even after your frenzied touches and kisses, he acts like he still needs permission to reciprocate them. You nod, and then he carefully lifts your hand to his trembling lips before kissing the inside of your wrist.
The gesture seems deeper than you can understand, especially with the way he keeps glancing at you as if you know its hidden meaning. But you're lost for words, only feeling that aching throb between your legs and needing him to soothe it. He notices your confused expression but presses another kiss to your hammering pulse before smiling up at you.
"Let me take care of you now," he says, tugging you by the wrist to reposition you beneath him.
It's your turn to be maneuvered, and you let him. He kisses down your body, fingers still tickling that wrist he seems fixated on before he pins it to the mattress.
The two of you pull at each other's disheveled clothes until you're both bare. Until the tip of his cock nudges against your lower belly as Caleb continues showering you in love. But before you can feel it inside you, he seems to have other plans.
His kisses travel across your chest, against stiffened nipples, along the softness of your tummy, then finally between your thighs. When he pushes your legs apart, you shudder, feeling the cool air kiss your soaked folds a second before his warm breath does. Then he drags the flat of his tongue in one long, deliberate stripe from your entrance to your clit.
The sound you make is obscene. Your hips jerk up before you can stop them, accidentally shoving your cunt harder against his mouth. But Caleb's only response is a needy moan, like he’s the one being pleasured, the vibration humming straight through your core.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he mumbles, lips brushing your swollen clit as he speaks. “Let me hear you, baby. You're mine now—those sounds are mine.”
You barely have time to let the certainty of his words sink into your fluttering stomach before he dives in like a man starved. No teasing anymore. Just hungry, wet, open-mouthed kisses to your pussy.
It's like he knows exactly what pace to set and how much pressure his tongue should apply to make you wail for him. Could it be possible this man was sent from Heaven to satisfy all your cravings? You swear you might become religious after this.
His tongue nudges against your clit before his lips suction around it, and your back arches off the bed while you moan for him. One hand flies to his hair while your other fists the sheets, and still he doesn’t let up. If anything, the way you yank his hair only makes him moan louder against you.
There's a faint rustle of movement, and you glance down to see Caleb gently rocking against your mattress, so lost in the taste of you that he needs to hump your bed.
"Oh my god, I think I'm gonna come," you cry, feeling overwhelmed by how quickly he's able to pull this much pleasure from you. You fuck his face with more fervor now, shamelessly bucking your hips and pulling on his hair with a tightness you'll only regret after you come down from this high. "Caleb, please…need your fingers. Wanna come around them," you whine with each buck.
You peek down at him, and he's watching you with dark eyes, a scary determination in them while his hand snakes in between your legs. His fingers slide inside you with ease, curling in a rhythm that matches how he laps up your slick.
The soft smacks of his lips against your skin and the squelch of your wet pussy fill the room, mingled with your growing screams. And then you gush around his thick digits—coating his lips, chin, and palm with your orgasm. Caleb takes it all with a look of reverence on his flushed face, licking every drop you give him and gasping for air when he finally parts from your twitching body.
When he slides up your body to look at you with a satisfied grin, your pussy clenches again at the sight of his glistening mouth and pupils blown wide. He looks dazed, proud. His cock slides against your still-twitching pussy, smearing precum against the mess you already have between your legs—but he doesn’t rush you. Instead he kisses you deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.
“Please,” you whisper against his lips when he pulls back just enough to breathe. “More, I need more. Need you inside me.”
He exhales a shaky laugh that turns into a groan when you wrap your legs around his waist. “Yeah…yeah, baby. I’ve got you, don't worry.”
Reaching down, he nestles the head of his cock between your folds and then finally pushes in. It's slow, so fucking slow, but you revel in the jolt of pleasure that shoots down your body as he stretches you out cautiously. He's bigger than any man you've had before, but every thick inch slides inside easily, filling you all the way until his hips are flush with yours.
Caleb curses beneath his breath, head falling to rest against yours while he pants and gasps at the feeling of you wrapped so tight around him. His eyes meet yours, locked and unable to tear away when he starts to move.
You both groan from the feeling, gripping each other tighter and starting to build up a faster rhythm. It's easy to get lost in this feeling, and you lose track of what you mumble and chant while Caleb picks up the pace. But while you struggle to keep your eyes on him, he can't stop staring.
He also can't keep his hands off you while fucking you nice and deep. His fingers toy with your nipples, rolling and pinching them to get more sounds out of you. And then they caress your stomach, pushing down slightly right above your mound to elevate the feeling of how he fills you up. You stutter and shake, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him into a breathless kiss.
His lips find yours again and again between thrusts, sharing his breath with you before he whispers, "Fuck, I love you."
That sentence sends your thoughts to a screeching halt, but your pussy clenches even harder around him. You should be appalled that he's saying such a thing so soon. You should reconsider this whole relationship and how quickly you've allowed it to escalate.
You should, but you don't want to. In fact, you think you love him too.
Feeling your second orgasm barreling toward you too fast, you crash your lips against his again, nails digging into his shoulders and leaving little red crescents.
“Hm, I…love you too,” you babble, after breaking the kiss. Your brain practically short-circuits with how close you are to coming. You can't stop the words spilling out of your mouth. “Love you so much. Don’t stop, oh, don’t stop—”
The second those words leave your lips, a switch seems to flip in Caleb's brain. His whole body locks up for one heartbeat, buried deep inside you, cock throbbing hard enough that you feel it pulse against your walls. Then he exhales a ragged sound against your mouth, and the slower, careful rhythm he’d been holding onto shatters. His hips snap harder, punching the air from your lungs and making your eyes roll back.
“You can't take that back now,” he growls, his voice alarmingly different from the sweet, hesitant Caleb who kissed your wrist like it was sacred.
He’s moving faster, rougher, but still so deep it feels like he’s trying to carve himself into you permanently. Your foreheads stay pressed together, making it impossible to look away from the wild, glassy look in his eyes.
“I’m gonna marry you one day,” he groans, like it's a fact and not a hypothetical. “I'll put a ring on this finger"—he snatches the same hand he’s been obsessed with all night and brings it to his lips to kiss the bare spot where a ring would sit—“and make sure everyone knows you belong to me.”
This is so wrong, god this is so wrong. Everything is moving so fast. You shouldn't like this. You can't tell if this is just dirty talk or something more serious, but that look in Caleb's eyes is a little terrifying.
And yet? Your cunt flutters hard around him at the words, more of your arousal gushing down and soaking the sheets beneath you.
“Oh, fuuuck, that's it," he says with a manic laugh, folding your legs higher until your knees are pressed up against your sweaty chest. "I can feel how much you like this, baby. It's okay if you do," he coos. "Gonna ruin you for anyone else. No one else gets to touch you. No one else gets to hear you moan like this. You’re mine—only ever gonna be mine. Say it again for me, sweetheart." His voice cracks, and it's the only thing making you refocus on his words while your ears ring from the pleasure. "Say you love me while I fill you with my cum.”
You’re beyond proper speech now, just broken whimpers and gasps, but you manage to choke out, “Love you—I love you, Caleb.”
He slams in one last time, hips grinding flush against yours, cock pulsing as he comes with a choked sob that makes your toes curl. Your pussy spasms and clamps around him, milking him dry as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you.
Turns out you're just as crazy in love as he is. And you don't have it in you to be ashamed right now.
Caleb's counting his lucky stars that he spent all those nights watching you touch yourself through the flickering camera feeds he set up. It's what helped him learn all the ways you like to be caressed, the speed you prefer when you have a silicone cock deep inside you, and the fantasies you'd whisper to yourself when you imagined someone above you.
You won't need fantasy anymore, though. He knows everything about you. That's why he's able to make you cream on his cock over and over again, while his hips move at a speed even he didn't know he was capable of.
The gravity of this moment—of finally claiming the person he's going to keep for the rest of his life—is heady. It makes Caleb insatiable and greedy for more. More of your addicting sounds, more of your shaking orgasms, more of his cum spilling deep inside you.
More, more, more. Caleb can't stop chanting it each time you melt and rake your nails against his back and allow him to take everything from you.
You're so pretty, so perfect, all his. It goes straight to his head, and his cock, when you beg for all that he's giving you even when your body is so weak that it can't hold itself up.
You like being pushed to your limit, it seems. Right when you become too exhausted to keep your eyes open, you sleepily tell him he can keep going if he wants to. He can't help but come inside you again just from hearing your whispered permission to use you while you fall asleep.
The fact that you trust him so readily…god, he knew you were made for him. He doesn't keep you awake too long, even though his cock already throbs insistently for more of your warmth after he pulls out with a groan.
Caleb is no stranger to patience. He's glad he waited to find you. Because now he'll never let you go—and there will be many more days to spend reminding you of that if you ever forget.
No matter what happens now, you're bound to him forever. Fate made sure of it.
a/n: thank you all for the 2k celebration votes 💕 I hope I made good on our wish for more scaryleb teehee
and none of this would be possible without my ride or die @heartyluv, who constantly inspires me with her takes on scaryleb and toxic!caleb. everyone say a big thank you to her bc she let me yap about this fic to her and she beta read it for meeee, ilysm Jay 😘
Synopsis: Dragon!Sylus x Phoenix!Reader Pt. 1/2 here!!
You died a horrible death. Torn to shreds and burnt to a crisp by the very dragon you had saved out of pity and raised by your side.
You: Fucking finally
Warning(s): angst with happy ending!!! memory loss trope, traumatic remembrance, dw non-mc gets angst too, did I mention a lot of mutual pining? i'm not good at extended sadness, you might get cavities at the end, reader is a menace to Sylus LOL
14.4 k words (def the longest thing i've written)
A/N: PLEASE THE WAY I WAS GONNA POST THIS EARLIER TODAY BUT THEN TUMBLR DIED FOR 3 HOURS. Errr so I said I'd let non-mc get some heat for everything that happened in Pt. 1 but I think I accidentally also made Sylus more angsty too... but here's to happy endings with our favourite dragon :D Pls ignore canon aether/protocore lore, i'm just making shit up as i go, I DON'T UNDERSTAND WHAT'S GOING ON IN THE MAIN STORY OR FANCY GAMEPLAY MECHANICS I JUST PLAY FOR FREE FOR CUTE DATES WITH HOT MEN. As usual, thank you so much for reading!
You slowly open your eyes, gritting your teeth as a splitting headache tears through you. You'll definitely need concussion testing when you return to the Hunter's Association. All you remember is starting your mission to infiltrate the N109 zone before swiftly getting knocked out. This task is indeed as dangerous as Jenna and MC warned you about, the pain nearly as bad as when you first woke up after your ascension.
***
At the time, your mind was blissfully blank, unaware of where you are, who you are, and what time it is. Nothing around you looked familiar, and your body felt like it just went through a trainwreck. You faintly remember your sister... a trial... a journey to... burn? You struggled to bring yourself up, realizing you've been beaten down into your true form. Your claws grip onto roots in the ground as you swing your wings over, wincing at how heavy they are. Oh, they're long. Much longer than before, your flight feathers are sleek, blood red and curl slightly. Heart racing, you look back at your tail, amazed by its beautiful, trailing feathers with a heart shaped tip.
I did it? You think incredulously, I actually burned?
You try to recall what happened, but the only thing your effort rewards you with is another splitting headache. You look around at the abandoned buildings around you, noting the difference in materials. Much less wood, more metal, and what seems like crushed rock. Perhaps it was time to turn back into your human form, you think. The terrain is too rugged to stay safe to stay safe with your delicate feathers. You wander listlessly through the post-apocalyptic landscape, not knowing where you're headed, but very sure of a direction; almost as if you're being drawn in by a magnetic force.
Just as you take a moment to catch your breath, you're knocked off your feet by the ground rumbling. Looking up, you see a horrifyingly large creature made of... stone? It throws its head at you, its roar blasting in your ears. Suddenly, a white haired man emerges out of nowhere, swinging at it with a blade.
You're once again thrown into the air by a blast of light, and you close your eyes, resigning to your fate, when you're scooped into someone's arms.
Looking up, you're met with a pair of familiar eyes!
"MC!!!!" You wriggle around excitedly.
"Y/N, how many times do I have to tell you, don't SQUAWK!"
You cower, settling down as you watch her yell a few commands to her partner. The monster is quickly defeated as the man glances at you, still being princess-carried in MC's arms.
"Sorry Xavier, I need to bring this bird home!"
She brings you to into an art studio by the seaside, patching up your wounds.
"What were you doing in a no-hunt zone?!" she admonishes, "You nearly walked yourself into N109! Those places aren't safe!"
"I... don't know, I just woke up with no recollection of anything, and something inside me just drew me there... it felt... almost familiar?"
MC sighs, smoothing the feathers on your head. "That's ok, it took me nearly a decade to remember everything about my ascension as well. You've been rebuilt from ashes, afterall."
She looks at you with worry, "But even if you've been there before, its changed drastically in the last thousand years," she shakes her head. "No, even just the last fourteen, since the chronorift catastrophe. You shouldn't be out here alone."
Wait... "A FEW THOUSAND YEARS???"
Unfortunately for you, it seemed like your ascension was so brutal, you had to take your sweet time to be reborn. Now, a once lush and green landscape filled with lakes and mountains is transformed into a bustling metropolis, with areas of glamour as well as danger.
You shortly join the Hunter's Association with your sister, despite your disappointment of not having a detectable evol. Compared to her resonance evol and aether core in her heart, you're given only meager tasks, despite your insistence on proving your ability to fight. It's strange, you think, how little you feel when fighting wanderers. At first you thought it was just a psychological shift from becoming truly immortal, knowing you're unable to die. But as the days go on, you can't help but feel an aching emptiness in your chest, and the pull towards the N109 zone gets ever stronger.
Thus, the moment Jenna mentioned a task involving Onychinus, you volunteer yourself for the job, much to your sister's dismay.
"This is no trivial matter!" she paces Rafayel's studio in exasperation. "The Hunters Association is facing a big threat... you just got here, so you probably won't understand, but it's a faction that's been gathering and modifying protocores. It's rumored the leader is attempting to activate the Reversal Array."
"Reversal Array...?"
"It's a powerful illicit tool that's in the last stages of development in N109 with the ability to permanently alter space-time. Given the power these protocores hold and the unpredictable nature of Onychinus' leader, it's a huge risk. Something like this has never been built before, and once activated, no one can predict the consequences. The energy flux of Linkon city and Skyhaven would the first to be disrupted by such a powerful tool, bringing unimaginable danger."
This was... certainly more involved than you expected. "Who is this leader of Onychinus? Is he really evil? If he's such a lawless and horrible character, why haven't the Hunter Association..."
Gotten rid of him?
MC and Rafayel exchange a look, smiling wryly.
"Easier said than done. Based on his sheer amount of power, he is definitely a creature from the ancient times as well, having ascended at least five thousand years ago."
Your brow furrows at the name, trying to ignore the involuntary shudder that runs down your spine.
"There hadn't been much recorded about him, but it is said that after the Chronorift Catastrophe, he went mad."
Went mad? What kind of twisted direction was this story going? You were expecting to hear an epic villain origin story or the tale of a ruthless anti-hero, but in the next second he went mad?
MC continues "when the dust settled, he suddenly came to his senses and willingly went to Tartarus."
Your mouth falls open, "The interstellar space-time prison?!"
She nods, "Indeed. He did manage to become the first person to escape Tartarus, but not before experiencing a year of imprisonment. You must know, for every hour that passes here, it's the equivalent of a year in there. It must have been during his time at Tartarus where he first became acquainted with the idea of making a Reversal Array, and since he took over Onychinus, has built an empire on illegal trading and modifying of protocores."
A chill runs down your spine. This person actually jumped himself into Tartarus and remained there for the equivalent of ten thousand years. Not ten days, not ten months, not ten years. Ten thousand years! What kind of unyielding spirit must he possess?
You ask, "So... Sylus wants to activate the Reversal Array... for what purpose? To do evil?"
Silence hangs in the air. "The reason for all of this is unknown," Rafayel steps in, "But one could only try to imagine the magnitude of penitence he is holding if he's doing this much to go back in time."
After hearing all this, your impression of the leader of Onychinus has shifted from a heinous villain to a god-like figure with so many unknown pasts. You're itching to get your mission started...
Only to end up here. Dazed and defenseless again.
***
Caw! Bang!
You're shaken to your senses as the hooded man in front of you is shot cleanly through the head. You're about to reach for your own weapon until you realize your hands are still bound, and two young boys step out from behind your kidnapper, staring at you with beady eyes behind black beaked masks.
"Y/N?" One of them calls your name.
"How do you know my name?" You demand, furiously struggling at the rope between your wrists.
"Oh wow, is it really you?" The other one pipes up behind you, causing you to swerve around.
He pouts, throwing his hands up almost teasingly, "Y/N! Don't tell me you've forgot all about us!"
"Dang, Luke, what do you think the Boss will give us if we bring her back to him?" the first hums excitedly.
In the blink of an eye, your hands are freed, and you're being lifted into the air. A minute later, you're standing in front of a dark apartment complex, heart thundering in your chest.
That familiar feeling again...
Your nest!
This is where your nest once stood, thousands of years ago, apparently. Frowning, you take a look around. From this vantage point, you can almost imagine the view from the mountains again, except this time, there was no white clouds and blue sky. Just a dark haze and everlasting twilight.
"Bring what, exactly?" a deep voice rings from behind.
You turn around to see a white haired man emerging from the luxurious glass doors.
The air stills around you, but your heart beats faster and faster. As you make contact with his ruby eyes, you see one of them flicker with a ring of gold, and your breath is suddenly pulled out of your chest.
Is he... what was drawing you here?
"Boss!" the two boys chirp happily. "We'll leave you to it!"
The leader of Onychinus? Was he... Sylus?
The man however, remains motionless, barely a foot out of the fancy entrance since the moment he saw you. His face is turned directly towards you as he stares at you for a long, long time, without moving an inch.
Y/N...
It was his Y/N.
He looks... unwell. You decide. Fingertips trembling as they peeked out from his sleeves, his lips shaking.
Suddenly, two lines of tears roll down his captivating, unfocused eyes, like dewdrops, one after another. Yet the corners of his lips turn up uncontrollably.
You are stunned by the sudden turn of events.
First, you run into two birds that claim to know you, and then they turn out to be henchmen for the leader of Onychinus, who upon seeing you, begins to cry, then laugh?
None of them were normal.
You return your gaze to the strange man in front of you. "What business do you have here?"
His tears flow endlessly. He moves his lips, but no sound comes out.
Your chest pounds again. "Are you... looking for me too?" you ask.
He subconsciously nods, pauses, then gently shakes his head.
You call his name, feeling the syllables roll off your tongue. "Sylus."
"If your Reverse Reincarnation Array succeeds, what do you plan to do?"
Sylus lowers his head. "To atone for my sins." he utters.
You can't imagine what heinous crime someone of his... infamous nature could commit that would make him so desperate to do anything to prevent it from happening again.
"Are you sure the people of the past would forgive you? For what you've done, and what you're doing now?"
Sylus shakes his head. You're confused. What did that mean?
"My sins... cannot be erased." His voice cracks slightly, falling like a withered leaf, "I can never forgive myself either."
This conversation was making you tired. If he didn't think he would be forgiven, why was he even trying to do it?!
Sylus gives you a smile, the lingering look in his eyes strangely gentle. "Someday, you'll understand".
You don't know what you would understand in the future, but you understand right now that Sylus has his own set of rules and psychological barriers to get through. Getting slightly uncomfortable with the conversation, you attempt to change the subject as you plan your escape from this bewildering person. You aren't in the mood to fail your mission before it even starts.
"To tell you the truth, I used to live here... A long time ago, this whole place was a mountain." You gesture out at the dark skyline before your eyes. "But it once suffered a mountain fire. It must have stretched for hundreds of miles. Nothing from my old home probably survived."
Sylus' pupils contract slightly. "You... know about mountain fires?"
"I don't," you quickly supply. "My memories of the last... thousand years are pretty fuzzy. But I can feel it - I lived here before. My nest would've been... right here where you... live?"
"Do you want it back?" He suddenly asks.
You're flabbergasted, looking at the glass and concrete building you're standing in front of.
"No no, it's fine. It's been so long. You can keep it" you wave your hand.
Sylus is silent again for some time.
You dust yourself off, "Ummm, if that's settled then, I'll leave you to it?"
Shit, you forgot to gather information about the protocores!
"Wait! About the protocores!" You turn around suddenly.
He is still standing there, a quiet smile on his lips like a handful of melting snow.
"Y/N" he calls your name.
How did he know your name as well?
"When you return to the Hunter Association," he glances at the watch on your wrist, "let them know that I will no longer activate the Reversal Array."
Your eyes widen.
"What?"
Sylus smiles at you. "From now on, I will not activate the Reverse Reversal Array."
***
"He WHAT?!" your sister screeches.
"Ow, ow, ow!" You cover your ears, "now who's the one talking about squawking?"
"Are you talking in your sleep?" She glares at you.
"No, I'm perfectly lucid." You reply blankly.
She paces the room agitatedly. "No, no, impossible! He's sacrificed so much, so much for the Reversal Array. You're late, so you don't know. For the last eight years, he's been preparing. Gathering materials from god knows what corners of the galaxy. He even obtained an Aether core and nailed it into his own eye!"
You look up at Rafayel's studio ceiling, its surface intricately inlaid with luminous pearls of varying sizes, delicately arranged into complex patterns.
"I'm really not kidding, I'm totally confused too. I've been thinking about our interaction the whole way back here and still can't figure it out" you mutter.
She looks at you expectantly, "tell me more details, elaborate! What exactly did you say to him? I feel like something's definitely wrong here, he's not the kind of person who easily gives up."
You think for a moment before recalling, "when we first met, he seemed dazed... and then he cried-"
"Stop!" your sister holds her hand up, incredulously. "The leader of Onychinus cried?"
"Yes"
"Why???"
"Sister, you ask too much of me" you groan. "I've only heard of this man for barely two days, I'm not a bug inside his head! I didn't even get to ask him anything about his protocore operations." Defeated, you flop onto her bed. He seems... open to talking at least, you think. I need to go back there soon.
After you leave, Sylus sits on his balcony for a long time.
The everlasting night of N109 is deep and the dew heavy; the hem of his clothes gradually get damp. A withered yellow-green leaf swirls down, brushing past his nose, landing on his sleeve.
It's not even autumn yet, but the leaves are already falling.
Sylus gently lifts the lonely fallen leaf before crushing it in his palms, watching the way it turns into dust. He remains standing there, eyes vacant, silently rubbing his hands until nothing remained.
He suddenly stands up, facing the way you leaped off the side of the building. No one is there. It could have just been his imagination, a hallucination of you speaking to him again after thousands of years
"And you? Were you looking for me too?"
Sylus feels a pang of unbearable sorrow in his heart. He finally answers softly into the wind, "Y/N, I've been looking for you for so long. You had a miraculous encounter, you were reborn, do you know how happy I am?"
***
Barely a week later, you return to N109, determined to find Sylus again to ask him why he behaved so irrationally during your first meeting. This time, however, you can feel an uneasy energy penetrating through the air as you get closer to the Onychinus base. There's an underlying current of metaflux energy that almost seems to be following you around. You curse under your breath as you quicken your steps.
You turn a corner, only to see an hooded figure blocking your path. A human?
"Oh, this is interesting," he drawls, "I haven't encountered a specimen as interesting as this since the last set of experiments. The professor would be delighted."
You reach for your pistol, but not before you hear his airy voice again. "Let's take a look at what you've got in that head of yours".
In the blink of an eye, you feel the energy around you shift, and you are seemingly frozen in place.
An evol user?
Your eyes slightly open, eyelashes trembling incessantly. A series of heavy blows pound into your mind, each sound accompanied by your sister's warning voice and Sylus' blood and tears:
"Dragons are inherently cold and heartless... to ascend they must kill their lovers"
"Come on, Luke, Kieran, we're stealing this dragon!"
"I beg you! I beg you to promise me, everything I have is a gift from you, my life is a gift from you, I can't hurt you, I can't hurt you..."
"I don't need your protection, Y/N, please don't protect me anymore... If you still have any pity for me, I beg you to kill me, it's the quickest and most effective way, do it, do it..."
"Y/n, I hate myself so much. I hate myself so much..."
"Kill me... kill me..."
Just when you feel like you're about to drown in the pain, a series of gunshots ring in your ears, and the haze is immediately lifted.
Looking up, you see Sylus standing a dozen feet away from you, the hooded figure scrambling from the assault of bullets.
"The professor will be delighted to hear of this. What an entertaining past you have," he grins ferociously, pressing down on a wound on his shoulder, "so good that our dear leader of Onychinus should get a good look too."
Bang, bang, bang!
Another round of bullets pound the ground where he crouched a moment ago, but the hooded man was gone.
Sylus!
You turn back to look at him.
His face is deathly pale. Even more wrecked than the first time you saw him in N109 a few days ago. You realize with a cold sweat he must have saw the same memories, and felt everything you just experienced.
You slowly bring your hand up to your chest. The emptiness that was once filled by is presence is gone. Instead, a strange, sharp, stabbing pain hits you as you meet his ruby eyes, leaving a persistent dullness behind"
Sylus... Sylus...!
He suddenly turns around and leaps away from you, his back disappearing into the vast darkness of the night.
Luke and Kieran arrive just moments later, catching sight of your figure still collapsed on the ground.
"He's gone..." you mutter dejectedly, suddenly snapping your head up to look at the twins, "Which way did he go? Did he say anything to you?"
Kieran cocks his head at you curiously, "No? But how are you?" Luke chimes in, "covered in blood, got hurt? Did you get into a fight with a Wanderer?"
You weren't in the mood to answer. You were about to give a vague reply when you look up and see the shadow of a figure in front of you.
Your lips part slightly, "Sylus...?"
He stands behind you, still as a ghost, but doesn't respond to your call of his name.
Luke turns around, "Hey, you're back again!"
Sylus' eyes are lowered, nose twitching slightly. A faint smell of blood lingers in the air.
His chest heaves, thin lips parting and closing repeatedly before finally pursing them tightly together as he looks at the twins.
"Is she injured?"
"I don't know, why are you asking me?" Luke turns to you and asks, "Are you injured?"
You bite your lip. "No."
He relays the message: "No."
Sylus pauses, then drops the gun he was holding and turns to leave.
"Sylus!" You immediately chase after him, trailing behind, "You... wait a minute—"
Sylus doesn't wait, his feet never stopping; yet he doesn't leap away either, only mechanically and quickly moving forward.
His scattered silver hair, like a pale, powerless banner of remembrance, speaks of his grievances, piercing your eyes.
You try to catch up to his pace, "Sylus... I didn't mean to lie to you."
"I was told that the dragons of Philos, after killing their beloved, that they would forget their past life... I thought you would forget, that it wouldn't affect you, so I thought this path was feasible. You would become the most powerful creature alive, and I didn't really die, I also became a real phoenix... I-I thought it was beneficial for both of us, a win-win situation..."
Sylus doesn't turn around, doesn't stop, but a trace of blood appears at the corner of his lips, which he wipes away forcefully with his thumb.
"I admit my original intentions were selfish, but more than anything else, I never intended to hurt you," you all but cry. "If my ascension came at the cost of your sadness, I definitely would have found another way! I know you care about everyone, you care about me, and if I knew you would remember everything, I never would have hid my original intentions; I definitely would've talked to you openly and honestly about it..."
Sylus' lips curve into a sarcastic smile, full of mirth.
"I didn't know how long it would take for me to be reborn, I never imagined it would be thousands of years," you keep rambling, fearing what would happen if you stopped. "When I woke up, I didn't remember anything about how I got here, so when I saw you... I didn't recognize you at first, and your explanation didn't make sense either. But I really didn't mean to shock you—if I had known earlier, if I had known it was you, that you had suffered for so long... I would have told you the whole truth immediately! Even just a moment earlier would have been better..."
Sylus closes his eyes briefly, his eyelashes slightly damp, but the wind dries them.
He keeps his eyes closed, not opening them.
You bite your lip, continuing, “ I’m sorry, I didn’t remember who you were at first, I forgot what kind of person you are, I-"
Sylus stops walking.
You don't expect him to stop so suddenly, nearly running into his back, clasping your hands together and looking at him.
Sylus turns around: “Do you love me?”
You were bewildered: “What?”
“Do you love me?”
You are rendered momentarily speechless.
It's actually a very simple question with only two possible answers, yet in that moment, with all the memories of your actions crashing back at once, you can't bring yourself to say anything.
Sylus barks out a laugh.
After sneering, his expression turns utterly desolate: "Why aren't you saying anything?"
You lower your head, like a child who had done something wrong: "What...what do you mean...?"
He looks as if he is shattered.
You are tongue-tied, afraid anything you say would make it even worse, "I don't want to see you hurt, I don't want to see you sad. I never intended to trick you, really! My kindness to you was real, and my wish for your well-being is even more genuine!"
Sylus interrupts you, "Don't say anything more."
You purse your lips.
If he were living a carefree and happy life right now, you wouldn't feel so burdened, perhaps even be able to sit down and reminisce with him about the good old times...
But he isn't. He spent ten thousand years in the time-space prison, came to the hell that was N109, took over and rebuilt Onychinus from the ground up, impaled his eye with an aether core, and fought mercilessly for protocores to create the Reversal Array.
When you first heard his story, you had thought to yourself, "This man is truly stubborn, yet so incredibly resilient. He's gone to such lengths, for whom?"
For whom?
You quietly lower your head, not daring to utter a single word.
After a long while, Sylus replies, "You tell me that didn't mean to make me sad."
You immediately nod, "Really. I mean it."
Sylus smiles, "When I was very young, I was stolen from my family and taken by the high sorceress. I knew less about the dragon race than you did. We fall in love, and scales grow on our hearts, ultimately leading us to kill our lovers—I don't know that."
He repeats, "I didn't know."
His "I don't know" carries a hint of self-reproach, as he continues after taking a deep breath: "After regaining my memories during the Chronorift Catastrophe, I nearly tore myself apart learning that I killed you. I was tormented every single day, cursing myself, trying to figure out why and how I could do such a thing. It wasn't until I spent time in Tartarus that I did further investigation into my past, and finally understood that Philoean dragons possessed such a constitution."
"But you...you all knew all along. From the very beginning, bringing me back to your mountain, wasn't this your plan all along?"
You shake your head first: "No—"
Seeing Sylus' cold expression, you change your wording to be more precise, "Not entirely...you were so badly injured back then, on the verge of death. Even if you weren't a dragon, but an ordinary person, seeing you like that, I would have saved you!"
"I would rather not have been saved by you." Sylus says.
You are speechless.
Sylus' Adam's apple bobs. "You're saying that because you thought I'd forget, you didn't think it would affect me?"
This time, you didn't know whether to say "yes" or "no" because every affirmation only seemed to make him angrier.
Sylus shakes his head repeatedly, his anger turning into a bitter laugh: "It doesn't affect me, huh? What a grand 'It doesn't affect me'! I didn't want to kill, I thought you knew! But you, you out of all people—first gave me a home, then waited to watch me destroy it with my own hands, cursing me to be an ungrateful sinner who slaughtered his only family!"
"No!" you gasp, but Sylus doesn't give you a chance to speak. "Even if I've forgotten, even if I don't remember now, why should I be stained with such blood? Did you ask me? Did you ask me if I ever wanted this? My hands are stained with the blood of my beloved, can mere power really erase that!?"
You truly couldn't utter a single word.
You let him curse you; as long as it appeases his anger and lessens his grievances, you wouldn't retaliate.
"You said if you had known from the beginning, you would have talked to me frankly. I want to ask you, what exactly would you have told me?"
You whisper, "It's just... just telling you the truth, without hiding anything, telling you everything about how we can both ascend..."
He continues, "You'd tell me that ascension was only possible for me by killing my wife, and that you can also ascend by being killed by your husband; then you'd persuade me to do it with all your heart and logic, preferably by burning you to pieces, so that we can reunite as a family in the later, joyfully drink our victory wine, and then live happily ever after, is that right!?"
Sylus is truly enraged, his hands clenching into fists.
"But you knew you couldn't, and didn't because the me back then never would've trusted you, fell in love with you knowing you had an ulterior motive."
You quickly look down at the ground, remaining completely still. A fight was fine, but no, you wouldn't fight back. He had tormented himself for too long, suffering countless hardships; this was the least you owed him.
Sylus' tension doesn't lessen. His hand trembles for a moment, reaching for your neck, as if to strangle you, but he doesn't even touch you. After trembling for a while, it moves down half an inch from your shoulder, pauses for a moment, and doesn't reach forward again.
He can't bring himself to move forward, can't retreat either, and he can't even bear to touch you. His hand feels like it grew out of thin air, with nowhere to go. For a moment, he wishes it would just be severed.
You feel like all the air has been squeezed out of your chest at once. "Hit me if you want," you say quietly. "The thing I hate most in this life is hurting others. Whatever it takes for you to feel better, anything is fine."
"Hit you?" Sylus slowly savors the words on his tongue, tone incredulous. "You think I want to hit you?"
Isn't that right? You silently look at the bulging veins on the back of his hand.
"What right do I have to hit you?" He asks, "what right do I have to resent you?"
"Y/N, it was me who killed you cruelly, ascending to immortality without a scratch. This is the benefit you promised me. It's a win-win situation."
These words, initially considered and spoken aloud by you, are supposed to be perfectly rational. So why do they feel so different coming from his mouth?
You feel your heart wrench and instinctively reach out to pull him, "Sylus!"
He shakes you off, "Don't touch me."
You stare at him, silently retreating your hand into your sleeve before obediently saying, "Okay."
Silence hangs thick between you. "I'll leave now," you whisper. "If you don't want to see me, I promise I won't appear before you again."
Sylus' lips part slightly, as if he wants to say something but then stops.
You try taking a step back. You aren't sure if turning away now was the right thing to do, or if it would just provoke him further. You tentatively take one step, then two, looking for any reaction from him. Just as you are about to turn around completely—
"Do you love me?" Sylus asks.
Back to the initial question.
Quickly, he changes his phrasing: "Have you ever loved me?"
Before you can answer, his lips trembled, and his tone softens as he clarifies the question:
"Not in the way of 'I don't want to see you hurt', 'I don't want to see you sad', it has nothing to do with whether you're good to me, and nothing to do with whether you want me to be happy. It's just…have you... loved me?"
You open your lips, but don't answer immediately.
Sylus had asked this question twice, defining the concept so clearly.
You needed to think carefully before answering him.
He said it wasn't that you didn't want to see him hurt or sad, nor was it about whether it was good for him or not—what... exactly... was his definition of love then?
You hesitate for a moment, and Sylus slowly smiles.
"Don't think about it."
You stare at him blankly.
He lowers his head, voice as soft as mist: "I won't make things difficult for you, let it go."
He pauses, wanting to turn around and leave gracefully, but his feet feel like lead, unable to move. He was unwilling, so unwilling to give up.
Finally, he asks, "Then do you know...do you know that I love you?"
Looking into his eyes, your mind is a complete mess. You shake your head at first, considering his outburst just now, then rigorously nod, thinking about your past. Just as you are about to speak, you hear him burst into laughter.
"So you didn't know that either."
Emphasis on the word "either." His tone is very wrong.
"No, I..."
"I never thought," he says slowly, "that one day you would stand perfectly fine before me, and I would feel even more broken"
Something within you shatters. You feel like crying, but no tears come out.
Sylus turns away, a series of muffled chuckles rising from his chest, finally turning into a loud laugh. The phrase "neither human nor monster" echoes repeatedly in his mind. Sylus laughs so hard he bends over, tears welling in his eyes.
You look at him worriedly, trying to take his arm. He doesn't even flinch, so you pinch the corner of his sleeve: "Sylus, please," you beg, "I know, I promise I know."
He yanks his sleeve away from your grasp. That small corner which you just held is slightly warmer than the rest. His fingers touch it, pause, and slowly grasp it.
He clenches his hands tightly, but says, "Go away. I don't want to see you again."
"Okay, I understand. I'll avoid you from now on. But there is one last thing I need to do," you agree shakily.
"You drove the aether core into your own body to activate the Reversal Array. The Reversal Array was to resurrect me. This is what I owe you. I will settle your conflicts with the Hunters Association and conclude any last business you have regarding this matter. Once this is settled, I will never appear before you again."
Sylus listens quietly, his slightly curved lips stiffening.
"No need."
You look at him, puzzled.
His expression is as cold as ice. "It was all just me overreacting in my head. What's it to you?"
You close your eyes, fighting the lump in your throat. His contempt for you was his business. What you should do is your own business. You would do your best to complete what you needed to do; even if he loathed you, you were here to repay whatever debt you can.
“Then, I…”
A shrill beeping from your watch catches both of your stares. A distress signal. From MC.
You glance back at Sylus, hesitating for a moment before finally saying in a low, sincere voice, “Sy, I will do whatever it takes to gain your forgiveness. Please wait for me. After I save my older sister, I’ll come find you.”
Sylus wants to remain indifferent, but you called him Sy... His heart softens uncontrollably.
“You don’t need to hesitate. Go to your sister.”
You nod and turn to leave. But after a few steps, you stop and turn back again. "Wait for me!" you call, "I'll definitely come find you."
With that, you run off completely.
Sylus feels your presence fade into the distance, until your outline becomes a tiny dot, a faint, almost imperceptible breath. He slowly bends over, collapsing to his knees as if utterly exhausted. He should have left, gone to a secluded corner, like he always did when he licked his wounds alone. Instead, he hugs himself as if he were freezing, burying his head into his arms and curling into a ball. A sob gradually rises, turning into a heartbroken roar.
***
You don't remember how you get home. You barely recall running to MC's side, recklessly jumping in front of the Wanderer as you take it down in a single slash. You thought you'd feel residual fear, relief, anything, but its as if ice had frozen over your veins.
"It's definitely something to do with EVER," MC says through gritted teeth, wincing as you dab alcohol on her wounds. "They know magnitudes more about this protocore and aether core business than they'll let on, and Sylus and I are known to possess aether cores in our bodies. That's why they're after me for sure".
You pause, hesitating before telling her about your own encounter today.
"Holy shit," she exhales loudly. "Y/N, I know I told you ascending was going to be a difficult trial, but I didn't expect you to go SEDUCE AN ENTIRE DRAGON?!"
Your sister lets out a low whistle. "I knew I was the one who said dragons were heartless and self-protective bastards but..." she trails off, looking at your defeated slump of feathers. "You're giving them a run for their title, you heartless little bird."
You bristle at her words, anger shooting through you as pain thunders in your chest, in synch with your heartbeat. "What did you just call me?"
MC reclines in her chair, seemingly unbothered. "Was what you felt when he confronted you just guilt about his sacrifices? If you had regained your memories alone, would you have tried to approach him about it?"
"Well, yes, knowing his did all of this for me, of course!"
"Let's say he did actually forget, and he never dabbled into this protocore stuff, so any consideration about his reaction is out of the picture. Would you still feel anything for him right now?"
You fall silent. If he were a powerful dragon who forgot all about you, would you still try to approach him with the memories of your past?
You sister scoffs, "there's your answer."
A long silence ensues.
"I was inexplicably led to him first," you finally reply. "Even now, I don't feel anything unless it's about him. Even when my mind forgot... I don't think my heart did" you say softly.
"You're gonna have to tell him that, not me" your sister sighs, "and define for yourself what love means to you."
***
From then on, you continue your missions in N109, mostly just doing surveillance, an exchange of intel once in a while at the Elysium. But instead of going home most days, you'll hang out on Sylus' rooftop in your true form, letting the maroon haze of N109 camouflage your red feathers. He doesn't want to see you, but you like staying close to him, feeling the warmth that floods your chest and your heart that comes alive whenever you're in his presence.
The twins perch next to you once in a while, asking you if you and their boss are ok. You can't lie to them… so the answer is no. But you're trying to fix something.
You ask the boys if they have ideas on how to apologize to someone to try to win them back.
"Like… a breakup?" Kieran asks. "For those kinds of situations, don't you usually bring them gifts… and ask for forgiveness?"
"Oh… yeah…" You wonder what dragons would want.
Kieran bites his tongue trying not to say "you", as Luke jumps in, "Dragons like… precious things! Valuable trinkets and the such, right?"
You furrow your brows. "Are you sure that's not what crows like?" as the twins caw in laughter.
You come back some time later with a necklace. On it hangs onyx inlaid with gold in the shape of a dragon scale. "You think this is valuable enough?" you ask the twins, eyes wide. "I… spent a lot of time and money to get it."
"Well… in terms of value…" Luke hesitates, "it probably doesn't matter. The Boss is rich rich."
Your jaw drops, "like… how rich?" you're almost afraid to ask
"Like, he has a treasury with two tons of gold kind of rich! And that's not even all of his physical assets."
Your hope deflates like a popped balloon.
Kieran tries to save you, "Boss, he definitely saved up the two tons of gold for you though."
You burry your head deeper into your feathers, wailing. Not the two tons of gold! You knew it! He's trying to draw a clear line between the two of you. The two tons of gold you said he owed you for saving him, he's going to pay it off and never see you again.
Defeated, you brush off your body, ready to take off and go home. The twins call after you, seeing you left the necklace behind, but you don't even look back. "I don't care, throw it out, keep it for fun. It doesn't matter, anyways."
Kieran sighs as Luke picks up the delicate chain, twirling it around his finger. The two make their way inside when Sylus emerges from his study, face stone cold. "Hand it over".
Luke doesn't need to clarify what the boss is referring to, tossing the small piece of jewelry into Sylus' palm in a graceful arc.
Sylus rubs the dragon scale, watching the lines of gold run through black onyx. He can feel your presence, even without seeing you. In fact, every since you regained your memories, his gaze hasn't completely left you. Every night with you on his rooftop, he feels himself resting better, despite tossing and turning, staring out his window in the direction of your roosting and sulking, trying to figure out what goes on in your stupid little phoenix head.
It's impossible for him to stay angry at you. Ten thousand years was long enough, how could he bear to miss a single moment with you now? He doesn't want your apologies, or your attempts at proving your feelings. The first time you said "I love you" to him was for the sake of ascension. What if the second time, it was out of guilt?
He looks up, talking to the hollow hallways in your absence: "I only hope that next time you say you love someone, it's simply because you love them."
***
You have a nightmare that night. You're fighting a wanderer as you're struck in the chest, thrown back against the perimeter of the protofield. Looking up, your sister and Rafayel are floating away from you, into a deepspace tunnel taking them back to thousands of years ago before you ascend. "Ah, it's tragic," MC says, looking at you with pity. "Our little phoenix finally grew up… but without a heart." No! You try to scream, I definitely have one! Look, look, it's hurting as I speak! You look down, only to find a clean hole through your chest, blood still dripping from the wound. You're suddenly back in the cave with Sylus. His dragon form holding you up, eyes glistening with hatred as the words, "Go. To. Hell." come out with a snarl.
You wake up shaking, unable to fall back asleep for the rest of the night. Your trembling doesn't subside until the sun peeks through the curtain of the dorms at Hunter HQ, indicating the beginning of another day, another mission at hand. There's an important auction going on tonight in N109, which you've been preparing tirelessly for the past few days. Items of unimaginable value are to be sold, including rumors of modified protocores, and possibly even an aether core.
Taking a deep breath, you adjust the pistol strapped underneath your skirt one more time before putting on your mask. You walk up to the entrance of the Solon Hotel as confidently as you can muster, handing over your counterfeit invitation to the doorman. He frowns as he pulls out a list. "Are you a guest of someone here?"
Dammit.
"Yes," you reply, not offering more information than necessary.
"I will need a name, ma'am". A warning. You glance at the security guards just beyond the front doors.
"Sylus Qin" the words come out of your mouth before your brain has time to react.
"Oh?" the doorman looks up at you with surprise. "He's never brought a partner before."
You stare him down, holding your breath as you battle his gaze, refusing to be the one to back down first.
"Mr. Qin didn't indicate that he's -"
"She's with me." You fight your reflexes as you're pulled under the arm of a familiar voice coming up from behind you.
You look up to see Sylus in a black suit and a blood-red mask, eyes leaving no room for doubt.
"Oh… yes. This way, please."
You're led through the grandiose foyer, Sylus' grip on you iron tight as he immediately drags you into a secluded corner.
"What are you doing here?" he hisses, "this isn't the place for you to fool around."
You balk. If he's going to be so rude, you're not bothering with pleasantries either.
"On a mission, what's it to you?" you shoot back.
"You. A hunter without even an evol, in a place like this? Don't make me laugh" he scoffs.
You fight the urge to kick him, retorting "don't underestimate me, I can fight."
"And as soon as you step out there, as an outsider, you'll be targeted immediately."
"How would they know?" you question. "Is the Hotel a giant net? Do they have location trackers on everyone here?"
"In case you can't tell, Miss Hunter, you're the only one without an evol here. And anyone can tell that you don't have an energy field set up around you."
You grit your teeth. "That's so annoying".
A laugh escapes Sylus, so softly, that if it weren't for the quiet surroundings, you would've missed it. You swear it carries a hint of pleasure. "What are you laughing at?"
"Can't I laugh at your circumstances?" he smirks.
"Yes, yes, yes," you roll your eyes. "Laugh all you want".
Biting your lip, you evaluate your current choices. You definitely need to stay for the auction; if you leave now, it'll only make you look even more suspicious. It seems like staying by Sylus' side was the best course of action at the moment, but you're not sure if he's willing to take on the extra burden. Hell, you wouldn't be surprised if he's happy to leave you stranded here.
"Ah wait… that won't work either…" you mutter to yourself. You're an outsider anyways, and Sylus is not. There's no way to avoid being singled out, but you can't just hide in a corner the whole time. Even if you go along with him, he'll raise suspicion too.
You were not about to ruin whatever his original plans were. He's the innocent party here.
"Well, thank you for the intel, Sylus," you announce. "I'll have to return with backup next time."
You notice your hand still in his, loosening your grip. "You ok?"
"Are you trying to drive me crazy?"
You're puzzled. "What do you mean?"
You weren't being unreasonable, right? Wasn't everything you said just now very considerate? You weren't here to hurt or take anything of his, and you even proactively suggested going separately to avoid bringing him danger— you were being incredibly thoughtful!
Fine, it's ok, everything is fine, anything is possible. You take a deep breath and pull your hand away. "Tell me then, what's your solution? I'll do anything you come up with."
Sylus' heart skips a beat. He quickly clenches his fist to prevent you from pulling away.
"There's two ways to avoid letting your guard down. One, be an evol user with a recognizable faction's energy signature."
"You know that's not possible."
He grabs your hand firmly is his again, words at the tip of his tongue. After some hesitation, he finally says, "I can transfer some of my energy to cover you".
You gape slightly, eyes darting around. It does sound like a feasible idea —simple, quick, and convenient, solving your current dilemma.
You think it's great, but are also afraid you're misunderstanding something. "How… would you do that? Do I…. Is it… with my mouth?"
"Yes."
"Oh…"
"You don't want to?"
You actually don't really mind, you're just worried about his mental state… "Are you willing to?" you tentatively ask.
Sylus grits his teeth. A bitter, turbulent mix of emotions well up in him, a torrent of love and hate swirling. One moment he tries to console himself, telling himself it was fine if you were so nonchalant about this, he didn't want you to see through his nervousness anyway. The next, he feels wronged; he was the one with the upper-hand here, why did he have to say "I do" first?
But he knew saying "I don't want to" was impossible for him.
In the end, he doesn't give you an answer, only stating "it's for the sake of getting things done."
"Alright!" you exclaim. "Let's do it then."
You readily agree, tilting your head back, waiting for him to breathe into you.
The area you're standing at is covered in shadows, with a faint dim light of the main ballroom in the periphery. Because you're standing so close, his silhouette is clearly visible. You're taken for a moment by how deep and handsome his features are.
Before you can do anything else, Sylus' indifferent voice rings, "What, I have to do everything myself?"
Jeez, he just needs to bend his head, how tiring could that be? You think, exasperated. Truly, the dragon in front of you can be so gracious one minute, and so petty the next.
"Fine, don't move. I'll do it"
You stand on your tiptoes, giving your thudding heart a word of encouragement before pressing your lips to Sylus' cool, soft ones.
When he said he wasn't going to do anything, he really did stand up straight, not even bending his neck. His build makes the height difference between you two quite obvious, and you are forced to put your hands on his shoulders for leverage to reach him. You're struggling on your feet, about to lean back to say something when his hands encircle your waist, holding you tightly and lifting you slightly off the ground.
Losing your stability, your hands that had been clinging to his shoulders quickly move to his neck. In your moment of distraction, he seizes the initiative, filling your lips and tongue with his tender, lingering breath.
You blink. This method of "transferring energy" could easily be misinterpreted as a kiss.
Even though he's cold and personally admitting to hating you, a tiny seed of hope is planted into your heart. Could it be… he still had feelings…
Sylus suddenly bites your lips, hard enough to draw blood.
He can't bring himself to hit you, to scold you, he had wanted to say something harsh to you earlier, but even those words wouldn't come to him.
Helplessly, he lowers his head, deepening the kiss, brutally giving you all the unspoken, unspeakable, and forbidden feelings he wanted to convey.
You look up at him, tongue tracing a line and tasting blood. "Why'd you bite me?"
Sylus' chest heaves as he calms his breathing slightly. His lips leave yours, but the hand around your waist remains, tightly clenched, without loosening its grip.
The lips that had just kissed you parts slightly, and his voice comes out low. "I really hate you, you know?"
Licking your lips, you fall silent. Did you go mad just now? Thinking that Sylus still liked you?
You immediately apologize again. "I'm sorry."
"Sorry for what?"
"I'm sorry for not telling you the truth about ascension sooner. If only I had left you a letter, or…"
He suddenly cuts you off with a question of his own.
"Before, when you kissed me, what were you thinking?"
You're startled by the sudden change of topic. "Huh?
Sylus' fingers tighten around your waist: "When we first we got together, you kissed me every day. Have you forgotten? Morning, noon, night. What were you thinking then?"
"I… I wasn't thinking anything…" you stutter. Maybe just that he was really cute??
Sylus' stare hardens "Who taught you to kiss me so many times a day then?"
Something in you instinctively knew you shouldn't tell him the truth. "No one".
"You're lying," he's certain about it.
"I-I"
"No one taught you? The way you treated me? If you didn't hear it from somewhere, would you even have thought about kissing me?" He glares at you.
You cower at his tone, not daring to lie anymore. "I saw my older sister do it with her husband a lot…"
Sylus' gaze softens for a second, as he doesn't snap at you anymore, only calmly stating, "so it was your sister who taught you."
You try to discern his expression as he looks away from you again. "Did you… hate me just now because you were reminded of that? If so, I'm sorry, I didn't expect to bring up bad memories…"
"Saying things like that will make me hate you even more."
"Never mind, never mind," you quickly wave you hand, "I'll shut up now."
Good going, Y/N, you groan to yourself, good going for sure.
Sylus brings you to his seat in the wings, semi-private behind heavy velvet curtains, yet with a clear view of the stage. Sitting down next to him, you suddenly catch sight of a familiar chain on his neck…
You glance at Sylus' emotionless face, suddenly pursing your lips as smile you tried to suppress appears on your face.
"Sylus," you whisper, "have you… forgiven me a little bit?"
"What do you mean?"
You reach up to point at the necklace. "You're wearing what I got for you… and you're helping me stay safe… isn't that concern?"
He looks at you, his heart tightening and relaxing at once. Something was about to burst out.
You tread carefully, "If so… can we start over… as friends?"
Sylus laughs, but it doesn't sound very happy. "You want to be friends with me?"
"Of course!" You nod hastily, eager to take anything you can get.
His smile vanishes abruptly.
His tone is nonchalant: "You're overthinking it."
Oh. So it was just polite talk after all.
It's alright, you're thick-skinned enough to not take your misunderstanding too seriously. You turn and focus on the auction going on in front of you. Sylus sighs next to you, unable to anything other than glare at you fiercely… in secret. He wouldn't be friends with you. You were his wife, and he'd never see you as anything other than that.
After a while, you call him again. "Sylus?"
He doesn't answer.
You aren't discouraged. "Sylus? Sylus? Sy?"
Sylus frowns: "What?"
"What do I have to do for you to be friends with me again?"
"I won't consider you a friend." He announces.
"Not even a little room for negotiation?"
"Not even a little room for negotiation."
Ahhh… this is hard, you think. "It's okay if we're not friends… I just want to make you happy."
"I'm very happy," Sylus scoffs.
Really? You couldn't tell. "You don't smile much."
Sylus rolls his eyes, "I don't smile because I'm naturally not a smiley person."
"You don't? You used to…" You pause, seeing Sylus' indifferent gaze. Ooof, ok. You won't bring up the past again.
You sit quietly for a while, then suddenly rub your hands together, hugging your arms, muttering, "its cold in here."
Sylus looks at you suspiciously.
You don't look at him, crossing your arms. "You dragons are warmed by an internal fire, you wouldn't understand."
Sylus coughs, "Come closer."
"Will it work?" you hesitate.
Sylus has already shifted his position, moving closer to you. Your body is soft and warm, like a pool of water, directly submerging his heart.
You blink, secretly glancing at Sylus. He's completely absorbed in the calls, brows furrowed in concentration, not noticing your gaze. Oh yeah, you were supposed to be taking note of what was being sold here. Your cheeks burn as you're thankful for the mask on your face right now. With your free hand, you slowly touch your chest. It feels heavy, strange. Being next to Sylus like this, it feels like happiness, like sadness, indescribable.
***
At the end of the night, you walk through the streets with Sylus in silence. You're about to comment that you should go home and prepare your report for the next day, when you suddenly feel a change in the energy around you. Sylus is immediately on alert, looking around for possible sources of danger. Spotting a dim light in the periphery of your vision, you drag him over to see an ancient sculpture, embedded with softly glowing diamonds.
A flux nexus... what was something like that doing here?
Sylus frowns and reaches out, as if to see if it were real. In the blink of an eye, the metaflux around you changes, and you're drawn into a protospace with multiple wanderers charging at you.
You suddenly realize your hand is still clasped together with Sylus, and facing the onslaught of elemental projectiles, you could only dodge. Yet the angles of which the attacks were coming from were so broad, Sylus was bound to get hurt like this.
Without hesitation, you swing your pistol to deflect an ice shard aimed at Sylus' back, then swiftly take a step back, using your other hand to brace against another attack.
Sylus acts quickly, without the constraint of one hand, he easily destroys the wanderer in front of him. Realizing what just happened, his expression turns stern, eyes almost spitting fire. The hand you let go of reaches back to you, "come back!" he hisses.
"Holding hands is hindering our defenses," you argue.
Sylus' temple throbs.
"I can't die anyways, Be careful!"
Another wave of attacks follow. These metaflux minions almost seem alive, angles strange and unpredictable, densely packed like a crowd of insects, relentlessly stabbing at you.
You doge several times, trying to remember the path you had took, seeing you had already taken quite a few steps back. A chill runs through you: the distance between you and Sylus was widening. In the chaos, distance between you is inevitable, but after several waves of attacks, the distance is only growing.
Is it possible that the enemy was doing this on purpose?
In that brief pause of thought, you realize another problem: Sylus is enduring far more attacks than you are. His attacks were all aimed at his life, while yours were mostly meant to force you to retreat.
You spot two blades coming towards you. Your gaze hardens, and you tilted your head back.
At this angle, the weapon aiming for your side would inevitably slash your throat.
Although Sylus is resisting, his mind and eyes remain focused on you. For a moment, all his blood rushes to his brain: "Y/N!"
The knife subtly shifts its angle a second before impact, tip grazing your throat, only lightly piercing your skin.
Aha. You get it now.
You run to Sylus, focused only on closing the distance between the two of you as you fire away at any enemies in your line of sight, completely abandoning your defenses.
"Sylus!" you stand back to back with him, breathing heavily, littered with cuts.
"Finally came back to me?"
"No, I think I figured this- WATCH OUT!"
You push him out of the way of a lava rock, not worrying as the projectile almost immediately loses its deadly edges as it comes into contact with you, still sending you tumbling backwards with its inertia.
Sylus finally defeats the last of the wanderers, both of you letting out a sigh of relief as a golden stone drops in front of the Flux Nexus.
So this was what an aether core looks like...
Sylus tilts his head at you, prompting you to reach out to take it. However, a milisecond before your fingertips graze its surface, an electrifying force stings you hand, numbing your senses, and the aether core is thrown into the palm of someone else.
"Ahh, the professor was right. Thissss was an ingenious solution." The hooded figure laughs, "Sssso much easier to obtain the aether core thanksss to you two."
Another EVER agent?
His golden eyes glint in the darkness. "Who knowsss? Maybe I'll even get two today" as he lunges towards Sylus.
You're forced back by the sheer amount of energy produced by their force fields clashing, fighting tooth and nail. You keep your eyes glued to the aether core in the opponent's hands. Zeroing in on his non-dominant side, you leap towards him as he braces against Sylus' attack. You swipe the golden shard off his hand putting two bullets clean through his neck.
You land and throw the aether core at Sylus, turning around to see what your opponent actually looked like.
To your horror, he stands up, shakily, but clearly not dead despite his detached head.
"Heh, or maybe not. You're curioussss indeed," he spits blood from his mouth, lips curling into a vicious smile, "I'll get thisss fixed first."
Before Sylus can attack again, the man suddenly turns around as a faint blue light pulsates from the deepspace tunnel in the sky.
Before your eyes, a wormhole descends, and the mysterious man leaps into the fabric of space-time, sending a blast of energy in your direction.
You don't realize you're at the edge of the tunnel until too late, body giving away to its gravitational pull as you plummet rapidly.
From the corner of your eye, you catch sight of a rope coiling towards you. You neither doge nor avoid it, letting it wrap around your waist. Grabbing it with one hand, you use the momentum to swing upwards, back towards Sylus.
Just... a little further! You inwardly curse, reaching out to him with all your might. His expression is terrifyingly cold and gloomy, his eyes red-rimmed, staring at you coldly without moving. For a second, your eyes widen as you think "he won't just abandon me here, right?" as you look up at him desperately.
Sylus grabs your hand. With a jerk, he spins you halfway through the air, slashing fiercely at the rope with his other arm.
According to your calculations, you should've fell badly, but fate is kind... well to you at least. Someone else is doomed - you land right on top of Sylus.
You quickly scramble to your feet, grabbing his wrist to help him up.
"Let me see, how badly are you hurt?"
Thankfully, it's Sylus. Only superficial wounds that heal rapidly in front of your eyes.
Sylus turns to you, eyes bloodshot.
"What were you doing just now?" he seethes"
At the mention of this, you suddenly smile at him. "Sylus, you know what, our teamwork is pretty good!"
In your excitement, you give him a hard pat on the shoulder before freezing. What's with the smugness? Patting him like that? Did you think you're that close with him?
You awkwardly lick your lips, giving him a sheepish grin. "The situation was urgent, we didn't have time to discuss the plan, but our ideas are surprisingly aligned! Every step was perfectly coordinated."
Your smile fades slightly, oh boy. His tone doesn't sound good.
His face is grim: "Didn't you promise you'd be careful? How did you fall?"
"Oh, you misunderstood!" You exclaim excitedly, "Didn't you notice? The pattern of those Wanderers' attacks, and the EVER agent too—the other side only wanted to kill you, not me. Whatever was aimed at me wasn't a fatal wound. They were using this method to separate us, so the differential treatment was even more obvious."
"Do you know what that means? You definitely know!"
Sylus remains silent, staring at you.
"..."
Ignoring his lack of reaction, you lean in closer and happily analyze the situation for him, "Look, when I fell back due to the lava stone, I wasn't even hurt! The blades and shards are conditioned to not hurt me! Meaning EVER absolutely must capture me alive, so I definitely can't die. You on the other hand, they want your aether core, so they'll do anything they can to kill you and extract that from you."
He raises an eyebrow. "So?"
You jump excitedly, "So?! That makes us the perfect pair! I can use the fact they need me but can't hurt me to act as a target, and you can go-"
He stands up, closing his eyes. "Y/N. Stop. You weren't the one who had to live with through losing someone you loved. I let go of you once, whether I could help it or not. I can't do it twice."
"Sylus" you call out to his retreating figure. "Sylus. Don't feel any pressure."
"Sylus, the reason I pushed you out of the way isn't because I felt responsibility for you to live. It's not because I'm trying to repay the emotional damage I know I caused you either. It's simply because I also do not want to live in a world where you don't exist."
"If I had to do this all over again, I'd still risk my life for you. But that is my decision, due to my own selfish reasons; not something you should feel responsibility over."
You let silence hang in the air for a while longer before you go back to your rambling.
"EVER seems to live up to its name, being literally everywhere...Don't you think the way they're after the aether core in your eye, and the wormhole stuff," you open your arms, making a large circle, "— is a huge conspiracy?"
"Does this have anything to do with saving your sister?" Sylus asks.
You are speechless.
Well, kind of, but no! Not what you're referring to right now! EVER being in N109 and going after Sylus' eye is a completely separate matter from your sister. Did he think that you didn't care about anything that doesn't have to do with her?
You stare at him, blinking repeatedly, a genuine sense of sadness filling your heart. "Do... do you think I'm heartless? You listen to me say all of these things about your condition and just move on? Or you think that not caring is my normal reaction."
You didn't feel so bad initially, but after voicing your thoughts, you feel even more distressed. "I've tried to tell you so many times... I truly didn't mean to hurt you with what happened before, heck, I thought I would be the one heartbroken when you would forget all about me. If I had known you would remember it, I'd rather not ascend at all than let you become this way. Why won't you believe me?" You begin to cry, tears finally dropping from your eyes like raindrops, unable to stop.
"I didn't," Sylus panics immediately, suddenly feeling helpless at the sight of you crying. "I didn't mean it that way."
He fully regains his senses, disregarding everything else and pulling you into his arms.
"I'm sorry, Y/N, I didn't express myself clearly. I just... didn't want you to be too tired. Your older sister's situation is already exhausting enough; you don't want to worry about me too. I didn't want you to be distracted by these things."
"Oh, I see."
Sylus tightens his arms around you. "I didn't think before I spoke."
"You think that I see you as a distraction?!" You're full-out sobbing now, hiccuping against his chest, trying to wriggle out of his grasp.
!!!
Sylus is the one left speechless this time, not knowing what to say. He hates seeing you like this, crying because of him. He can only hold you as you struggle against his grip, letting you hit his chest, listening to the sounds of your crying die down as he whispers "I'm sorry" over and over. When your barrage finally ends, he feels you slump against him, exhausted from your earlier exertions.
You wake up in a bed. The curtains are drawn, with only a candle at the bedside providing any sort of illumination to the room. You shift under silk sheets, blearily rubbing at your puffy eyes. You're shocked to find an almost familiar room layout, the same placement of the bed, tables, chairs, and desk reminiscent of your nest thousands of years ago.
Was this... Sylus' room?
You gingerly make your way off the bed, roaming around, touching the rich cloths and expensive furnishings, though, you're sure they probably cost more than a year's worth of your salary. Glass doors opens up to a spacious balcony, where you find Sylus leaning against the railing, head in his hands.
Without a word, you come up from behind him, arms wrapping around his waist.
He freezes for half a second, then immediately melts into your touch, pulling you up until you stood on his feet. "The floor's cold." He mutters softly before asking, "Do you feel any better?".
You nod, looking into his eyes. "Sylus, you said you don't think I'm heartless... does that mean you've forgiven me? If you're not angry anymore, can you... come home with me?"
"I swear on my dignity as a phoenix that no matter what happens, I'll never abandon you. Even if we run into trouble, we'll fight to the death together, okay?"
Sylus' breath catches as he lowers his head and smiles.
Suddenly, he hugs you tightly, harder and harder, crushing you against his chest, feeling the years of unbearable suffering crumble into dust and sand, blowing away in the breeze.
In that moment, he firmly believes that he is the happiest person in the world.
You, on the other hand, were finding it hard to breathe. Sylus was only focused on strangling you in his embrace, remaining silent. Without hands, you can only lower your head and tap his shoulder: "Why don't you give me an answer?"
Sylus chuckles finally releasing you: "Philos ancient oak is really nice, you really don't want to live here?"
You look around. This did use to be your old nest, afterall.
"I'll have to commute for my job..." you consider, "and have to move all my things over."
"You can keep your things in Linkon City," he replies, "I'll just get you new ones here."
Speaking of this, you suddenly remember, "Don't you have a lot of money? You said you'd repay me for everything back then, but I don't want it. I'd rather you owe me forever."
Sylus straightens up, looking down at you and smiling.
You: "What do you mean by smiling? Are you that petty?"
Oh… you suddenly realize that after saying so much, Sylus hasn't even said "okay" to any of this yet. Did you go too far?
Nevermind the money situation, what you really wanted to know was just, "so... can we go home together?"
Sylus' gaze is reflective and clear, like a dark night sky. Looking at him like that, you can't discern any answer.
You couldn't tell that every fiber in his being is screaming at him to say "yes," while he was doing everything he could to restrain himself. After torturing himself for a while longer, he finally lets out, "Let me think about it, okay?"
"Sure, perfect" you agree. "Think it over carefully."
Sylus adds, "You can keep that money though."
"That would be so embarrassing," you immediately retort. "That's so much money! If you give it to me, I might actually spend it all."
Looking at your expression, Sylus feels a wave of pity washing over him as he casually replies. "Just take it all. It's not that much, really. And I'm too lazy to move it."
You're stunned for a moment. "...Is that even a reasonable thing to say? Do you even know how much money that is?"
Sylus laughs, "I put it there, how could I not know?"
Alright... if he said so. You accept without hesitation. "I never pretend to refuse money. You said it was for me, so I won't be polite."
"Please do."
That's a good sign. Just as you're about to open your mouth again, Sylus gathers you into his arms and brings you back inside.
"What?"
"It's chilly outside. Come in, I'll use my fire to help you dispel the cold.
You look at him curiously. "Why are you suddenly being so nice to me?"
Sylus avoids your gaze. "I should be nice to you anyway."
"Hmm?" What was he getting at?
Sylus' expression stiffens. He silently lowers his head. After hesitating for a while, he says, "Y/N, actually you don't need to... You don't need to pity me."
You don't understand. "I didn't pity you."
"The reason you want to come home with me... isn't it because...isn't it because of pity?"
"No," you reply immediately. "I just want to be with you."
"Y/N, if you see someone very pitiful in the future, would you take them back home again?"
Flabbergasted, you stare at him as if he's crazy. "Do I look like an animal shelter?"
You pause for a second. "It depends on how pitiful they are; if we can help, we should, but only as needed, right? I can't be out here bringing everyone home, there's no room. What does this have to do with me staying with you anyways? Even if I do save some poor soul, at most I'll let them recover and then let them go; they're an outsider. You're different."
Sylus' heart trembles. Hearing your words, he sees a glimmer of hope, like a ray of dawn breaking through the endless night. He askes with difficulty, "You want to be with me... but why?"
"I told you before, haven't I?" You say. "I love you. Did you forget so quickly?"
"I haven't forgotten, I just..." A tender sprout breaks through the soil in his heart, desperately stretching towards the sunlight, expectant and yearning.
"What do you mean by 'love'?"
You're puzzled for a moment. Oh, right. For Sylus, 'love' has different concepts, different distinctions. You feel troubled again, faced with the difficulty of explaining your feelings.
"I just like you. Even now, I still don't want to see you hurt, I don't want to see you sad. I want to be good to you, I want you to be happy, I want to protect you..." You mumble on. God, isn't this going back to the same old story? This wasn't the kind of love Sylus wanted; he would be unhappy with your words again.
You attempt to continue, “I also think you're beautiful. I don't think I've met any other man is as good-looking as you. Like Xavier, everyone says he's handsome, but I think he's just so-so. And Rafayel too, always claiming to be a natural beauty, I think he's just ok as well; whatever my sister likes. Only you, Sylus, I think you're the most beautiful. Your nose, eyes, ears, mouth—I love them all."
This is a little embarrassing, and your cheeks flush slightly: "When I see you, I want to be close to you. I don't know why. I also want to touch you, just your hands, your face, your hair, and things like that... When I see your lips, I want to kiss them too—not just three times a day, but... I think about it all the time."
After saying so much, You feel that your vocabulary is truly lacking. Your usual speaking skills are alright, but when it come to describing how you like Sylus, it was all over the place, illogical and disjointed.
You finish talking and look at him: "That's... pretty much the situation here. What do you think of this... love?"
Sylus remains silent for a long time, just staring into you eyes.
After a while, your eyes begin to sting—what was up with this sudden starting contest? Your mind is racing with so many thoughts, it feels as if your head is about to explode.
Help! Was what you just said really that absurd? Why isn't Sylus giving you any reaction?
Did you offend him? Not really… It's an objective fact that he's handsome... If he's angry, why doesn't he just yell at you or even start a fight?
Aaaaaaaa, what should I do now? Should I say something again? But I haven't said anything for ages, and now I don't know what to say. You think dejectedly. Help! I want to move, but I don't know if I should. I guess I'll just stay frozen like this???
"Y/N"
You perk up: "Yes?"
Sylus tilts his head slightly, his beautiful eyes gradually reddening, glistening with tears like stars reflecting in a dark river.
He hugs you tightly, chin resting on the crook of your neck, his cheek gently pressing against your hair. His eyes are closed, the base of his eyelashes slightly damp, but his eyes remain tightly shut.
"Y/N," he murmurs, "Y/N... It's my fault...I was so stupid..."
You frown, "You're not stupid."
Sylus looks at you, his arms still around your waist, scrutinizing you closely as if you're meeting for the first time. He looks for a long time, his lips gradually curving upwards until they formed a rather silly smile.
He whispers, "You love me?"
"Now that's a really stupid question," you retort.
Sylus laughs again.
"Want to kiss me?" he asks.
You nod, "I've wanted to for a long time, can I?"
He's the one who leans in and captures your lips in his.
Sylus lowers his head, gaze falling onto your face, his eyes deepening. "Y/N, if you want me to go home, I'll go home with you. If you want to stay with me, I'll stay with you forever. From now on, you don't need to think about anything else. Just tell me what to do."
You look up at him: "That sounds so unreasonable. Am I that kind of person?"
"I want to fulfill your wishes," he says softly, "it's is what makes me happiest."
Ahh, you clear your throat: "Okay, then listen carefully—my request for you is to be safe and sound."
He chuckles before agreeing, "Then I'll be safe and sound. Your wish is my command."
You lose yourself in the rich colors of his eyes when he suddenly speaks up again.
"Y/N, you just reminded me."
"Oh?" you tilt your head, "I reminded you… of what?"
"It's not exactly a reminder", he says, "I haven't forgotten."
What could it be???
Sylus' Adam's apple bobs: "We're husband and wife."
"Ah…"
It... does seems so.
If that wedding ceremony all those years ago still counts... then you two are indeed husband and wife.
You nod, lowering you hand from his face, "That's true."
Sylus' breath hitches. He was only intending to tease you, but your actions and words are relentlessly testing his patience.
He parts his lips slightly: "Then I..."
"Then you...??"
He laughs.
Your heart pounds, feeling the vibrations coming from his chest: "Can you stop beating around the bush? What are you... doing? Tell me, what are you laughing at..."
Sylus hums in agreement, seemingly lost in thought, then suddenly reaches out, wrapping his arm around your waist, pulling you closer.
He whispers, "Y/N, I still owe you."
You're bewildered by the sudden change in topic. "...When did this happen? How much?"
Sylus smirks, "I still owe you a wedding night. When are you going to make it up to me?"
You blink twice, suddenly realizing what he means. Blush instantly blooms on your cheeks. "Sylus! You...you've changed! You've become so outspoken!"
"Me? Outspoken?" he laughs again, "Thank goodness for that; if I wasn't, who knows how much that little blockhead of yours would understand? I speak my mind now."
You grit your teeth, "Wow, you...!"
"Anything wrong with that?"
You wrack your brain for a suitable comeback, deflating with a huff when you're unable to find one.
"Great. That's right, little birdie." Sylus smiles smugly. He originally intends to let it go —he didn't feel like bullying you too much— however, the next moment, you ask, "So when are you going to fix it?"
"..." Sylus lowers his eyes, the candlelight reflecting in his dark gaze.
"Now, perhaps?" you challenge.
Sylus doesn't waste any words, scooping you up in his arms.
Fix it? Fix it?! Did you know what you were asking for?? You're still injured!! He couldn't do anything reckless to you in your current condition! He's never teasing you like that again, he thinks, gritting his teeth. Even when you take it seriously, he's going to end up being the one suffering anyways.
Sylus puts you down on the bed. "Rest now."
You protest, "Hey, you just said..."
"Don't talk." He orders, voice leaving no room for arguments.
Oh... you see how this is....(do you??) He's... in a hurry?
The second your back touches the bed, you press one hand to your face, using the cool touch of your fingers to absorb the heat suddenly radiating from your skin. Your other hand reaches aside to extinguish the candle in consideration.
Instantly, the room plunges into darkness.
After a moment, Sylus' voice tightens. "Why did you turn the light off?"
"Huh?" you ask, "D-did you want the light on...?"
Sylus: "..."
You make your intentions very clear: "Let's turn it off. It's too bright; it'll be embarrassing for me my first time."
Sylus slowly clenches his fist, exhaling in small breaths. He doesn't want to think about how he got himself into this predicament. All he could do right now was desperately try to calm himself down—did you think that restraint was easy for him? That holding himself back from touching you was as simple as breathing, requiring no effort at all?
Looking into your clear, unwavering eyes, well... that's definitely what you thought.
Sylus kneels down beside the bed: "Y/N"
"Hmm?" Because of the darkness, you feel more relaxed, voice carrying a sweeter, softer, and more charming quality than usual.
He falls silent.
After a moment, a hand reaches out and covers your mouth: "Don't make a sound."
??? Why??? You're very confused, but obediently keep your mouth shut, communicating only with your eyes: What's wrong? Did I do something?
Sylus licks his lips, and his other hand comes up to cover your eyes as well. "Don't look at me either."
Ohhhhhh, you got it (you don't), your mind racing, forgetting the earlier rule about not talking. "Ahaha, seeing you so bashful, I suddenly don't feel so shy anymore."
Sylus' voice comes out hoarse. "Are you trying to drive me crazy?"
"Okay, okay, I won't say anything!" So strict, so domineering! He's definitely a petty dragon, not allowing you to say another word, you think. You shut your mouth, closing your eyes, and obediently remain motionless.
Seeing that you've finally quieted down, Sylus' expression softens. Like a miser guarding his treasure, he strokes your hair, fingertips gently trailing down your cheek.
"There's something I've been thinking about for a long time," he whispers.
He leans down, cool lips touching your forehead, your eyelids, the curve of your nose, before giving you a gentle peck on the lips. "I've always wanted to do this."
He's been wanting to ever since he first fell for you.
Truth to be told, you're already restless, and his actions make you feel like ants were crawling all over you. Being silenced is suffocating!!!
You let out a weak chirp.
Sylus is used to it by now. "What now?"
"Can I talk?" you ask.
Sylus sighs, "Speak."
"Can you hurry up? All this diddle-daddling is making me itchy."
Sylus lets out a laugh, but compared to his previous ones, it sounds like a warning.
"You sure know how to get under someone's feathers, don't you?" He growls.
You say bluntly, "I don't understand what's taking you so lo-"
Sylus rolls onto the bed, pulling you into his arms and pressing one hand against the back of your head, drawing you tightly into his chest.
Your muffled voice comes through in protest, "I'll suffocate like this."
Sylus replies in the calmest voice he can muster. "I won't suffocate you."
"Oh." You relent. "And then?"
Sylus can feel his vein popping, "Don't speak, birdie. Just wait."
Okay... you'll wait then...
The room is dimly lit. Sylus exudes a reassuring scent of pine and musk, warm and comforting, gentle and tolerant. The pleasant aroma makes your eyelids droop.
You wait patiently for a while, but Sylus doesn't make a move. You're trying to guess if he's just shy or mentally preparing himself (more like the opposite!), but your mind is already beginning to go fuzzy. You don't dare fall asleep though. Isn't it supposed to be your wedding night? If you fall asleep now and provoke this petty man, would he get upset again?
Why won't he let you say anything? Or let you take the initiative? If it were up to you, you'd be closing your eyes, steeling your nerves, and already been... well... groping him? What an embarrassing picture... errr... all over him already.
Ugh, how much longer is he going to make you wait? You think, eyelids fighting against gravity. Sylus!!! Sylus... You coward, petty, unfair dragon... all words... no... action...
Huff... huff...
Sylus looks down at your body curled up against him. You're fast asleep, resting soundly and peacefully in his arms. All of your nervousness, exasperation, and pent-up energy are transformed into docility, and he feels his heart melt.
༄ summary: At fifteen, you are saved from a storm by a Lemurian boy. Three years later, he washes ashore mute and mistaken, believing your cousin Mei is the girl he pulled from the sea. You know the truth, but the sea witch’s bargain demands a price before the third moon rises. You are faced with an impossible choice - tell him… or let him go.
༄ cw: MDNI!, fem!reader, non-mc reader, little mermaid au, fairytale au, princess!reader, MC is called Mei, unrequited love, mistaken identity, major character death, angst with no happy ending, hurt/no comfort, background mc x caleb, unbeta'd, unedited
༄ wc: 9.4k
༄ a/n: HAPPY VALENTINES DAY 🥹
༄ lads masterlist ༄ AO3
The storm comes on your cousin's eighteenth birthday.
You remember this clearly.
The way the sky split open, the way the sea turned from sapphire to slate in the span of a single breath.
One moment the royal vessel is cutting through calm waters, lanterns strung along the rigging for the celebration, music spilling across the deck where Mei is laughing, radiant in a gown of soft lavender, her dark hair loose in the salt wind.
The next moment, the world tilts.
You are only fifteen.
You are not supposed to be on the upper deck.
You are not supposed to be on this ship at all.
Your uncle, the King, though you have called him Father for as long as you remember, forbade it.
The sea is no place for you, he said, the same words he has said every year since you were old enough to ask why Mei and the other children were permitted to play on the shore and you were not. It is the same careful refusal delivered with a tenderness that almost masked the fear beneath it.
You were only three years old when the sea took your parents.
Your real Father, the King's younger brother, had been dispatched on a diplomatic mission to the southern kingdoms. Your mother sailed with him, as she always did, because they were the sort of couple who did not do anything apart.
They left you in the palace with your nanny and your cousin Mei, who was six and who held your hand at the harbor and said, They will come back. They always come back.
They did not come back.
The ship went down in a storm three days out of port.
No survivors. No wreckage.
The sea swallowed them whole and offered nothing in return, not a plank, not a ribbon, not a body to bury. Your uncle closed the ports for a week of mourning and then closed them around you for the rest of your life.
You do not remember your parents.
You have a miniature portrait of them that you keep in a locket, and sometimes you study their faces and try to find yourself in them, the shape of their jaws, the set of their brows, the curve of their lips.
People say you have your Mother’s eyes.
You would not know.
All you know is that the King and Queen took you in without hesitation.
They gave you their name, their home, their love.
They raised you alongside Mei, and if there was ever a difference in affection between their daughter by blood and their daughter by grief, you never felt it.
The Queen braids your hair the same way she braids Mei's. The King reads to you at night from the same book of fairy tales you loved. When you are ill, they sit at your bedside and refuse to leave until you recover.
They love you.
You have never doubted this.
But they are afraid.
The guilt of your parents' death, the mission the King himself ordered, the ship he chose, the sea he sent his brother into, has hardened into something immovable, a conclusion that lives in the marrow of their bones.
The sea takes what they love.
The sea took the King’s only brother and his wife.
The sea will not take you too.
And so you are kept from the water.
The beach below the palace cliffs is forbidden.
The harbor is off-limits without an escort of no fewer than four guards.
You are not taught to swim.
You are not permitted on boats.
When the court sails for summer holidays, you remain behind with your tutors and your books and the loneliness of a girl watching from a window while everyone she loves disappears over the horizon.
And yet.
And yet.
You love the sea.
You love it the way a caged bird loves the sky.
You love the sound of it, the smell of it, the way the light changes when the tide shifts.
You sneak to the cliffs when your maids and guards are not watching and stand at the edge, letting the wind pull at your hair, breathing in salt air like you are starved of it.
The sea killed your parents.
You know this.
You understand deeply why your uncle prohibits you from stepping close to it.
But the sea does not feel like death to you.
It feels like home.
Like something vast and ancient is calling your name in a language you almost, almost, remember.
So when Mei's birthday celebration is held on the royal vessel this year, and you are told, as always, to remain at the palace, you do something you have never done before.
You disobey.
You slip aboard in the chaos of departure, hidden among the servants, dressed in a servant’s garb you have stolen from one of your maids, carrying crates of wine and garlands of flowers.
You tuck yourself below deck and wait until the ship is too far from shore to turn back, and then you creep up the stairs because you want to see the stars over open water, because you want to watch your cousin dance, because you are young and foolish and the sea has been singing to you your entire life and tonight, for the first time, you are close enough to answer.
The sea is not singing tonight.
The sea is hungry.
The wave that takes you is enormous, a wall of black water that crashes over the railing and sweeps you off your feet like you are nothing.
You hear screaming, Mei's voice, sharp with terror, calling your name, and then the ocean closes over your head and the world becomes dark and cold and silent.
You fight.
You kick and claw toward what you think is the surface, but the current is too strong, pulling you deeper, spinning you until you cannot tell up from down.
Your lungs burn. Your limbs grow heavy.
The cold seeps into your bones, and you think, with the strange calm of someone who is drowning that this is how you die.
The same sea.
The same way.
Just like your birth parents.
And then, hands.
Not human hands.
The fingers are too long, the grip too strong, and there is something strange about the skin, smooth as pearl, cool as the water itself.
They wrap around your waist and pull you upward with a force that defies the current, and suddenly you are breaking the surface, gasping, choking on salt water, alive.
You can barely see through the rain and spray, but you see him.
Blue eyes.
That is the first thing.
Eyes that glow, luminous and unearthly, the deep cerulean blue against the darkness brought by the storm. They pierce the storm like twin flames, too bright to be human, too vivid to be real. Hair that clings to his face in wet strands. A face that is startlingly beautiful, elegant, and otherworldly.
And below his waist are not legs.
A tail.
Scales that shimmer between deep blue and iridescent pink, catching the fractured light of the storm, the blue dominant and dazzling, shifting to rose at the edges like the sky at the last moment before nightfall.
Lemurian.
The word surfaces through the haze of panic and cold.
The sea people.
The ones your tutors said were legends, fairy tales told to children who asked too many questions about the deep.
He is no legend.
He is warm where the sea is cold, solid where the water is relentless, and he holds you against his chest as he swims toward a rocky outcropping barely visible through the storm.
His tail cuts through the water with effortless power, and you cling to him because he is the only real thing, the only safe thing, in a world that has become chaos.
When he reaches the rocks, he lifts you onto the flat surface with a gentleness that surprises you. Your fingers scrape against stone as you pull yourself up, coughing water, shaking so hard your teeth rattle.
And then he sings.
It is not a song you can name or describe.
It is not a melody that belongs to any instrument or language you know.
It is something older, deeper.
A sound that seems to come from the ocean itself, haunting and achingly beautiful. It wraps around you like warmth and the cold recedes. The terror of your almost drowning recedes.
Everything recedes except the sound of his voice and the blue of his eyes.
You reach for him.
Your trembling hand finds his face, his cheek, smooth and cool, and he goes still.
The singing stops.
He stares at you with those impossible eyes, and something shifts in his expression.
Something ancient and vast and unbearably tender.
His hand comes up to cover yours, his palm warm.
"You are safe," he says, and his voice is the most beautiful thing you have ever heard. Low and melodic, with an accent you cannot place."I will not let you drown."
You want to speak.
You want to tell him your name, ask his, and understand how this is possible.
That a creature from legend is holding your hand on a rock in the middle of a storm.
But the exhaustion is pulling you under, and the last thing you see before you lose consciousness is his face, haloed by lightning, and the worry in his glowing blue eyes.
When you wake, it is already morning.
The storm has passed.
You are on a beach, alone.
Your cousin's search party finds you an hour later.
Mei weeps when she sees you. She holds you so tightly you think your ribs might crack, and she says, over and over, "I thought I had lost you. I thought the sea took you."
The King's face when they carry you home is something you will never forget.
It is not anger, though it does come later.
It is the face of a man who has already buried his brother to the ocean and has just, for one terrible night, believed it took his brother's child, his daughter, as well.
He holds you and does not speak for a very long time.
"Someone saved me," you tell them, your voice raw from salt water. "In the water. Someone pulled me out."
"Who?"
You do not know how to explain. So you just shake your head and let them wrap you in blankets and carry you home.
You never tell anyone the truth.
But you never forget his face.
His voice.
The warmth of his hand against yours.
You are fifteen years old, and you are already in love with someone who does not know your name.
Three years pass.
You grow up in the shadow of your cousin's radiance.
Mei is the crown princess of Linkon, beautiful and accomplished and destined for a political marriage that will secure and strengthen the kingdom.
You are the younger ward, quieter, less remarkable daughter, content to spend your days in the palace library or walking the cliffs above the sea.
Always the sea.
The King's restrictions tightened after the night of the storm.
Guards are now posted at the cliff paths, the beach gate locked, stern lectures delivered with the desperate love of a man who cannot lose another person he loves to the water.
But you find your ways.
A window seat that faces the ocean.
A tower room where the sound of the waves carries on the wind.
The cliffs, when you can slip past the watchful eyes that are always, always watching.
You are drawn to it in a way you cannot explain, standing at the edge of the rocks and staring into the water as though, if you look hard enough, you might catch a flash of iridescent scales beneath the surface.
You never do.
You paint him, sometimes.
In secret, in the privacy of your chambers, with watercolors that can never quite capture the luminous quality of his eyes or the way his voice made you feel.
The paintings are hidden beneath a loose floorboard in your closet like love letters no one will ever read.
Mei's heart, meanwhile, belongs to someone entirely unsuitable.
Caleb has been a friend to both of you since childhood.
A boy who grew into a soldier, who climbed the military ranks with the same stubborn determination he once used to climb the palace walls on a dare.
He is tall and broad-shouldered, with purple eyes that are warm when he is laughing and fierce when he is protecting someone he loves.
He is now the youngest general in Linkon's history, and he is hopelessly in love with your cousin.
The feeling is mutual, though neither of them will admit it.
You watch them dance around each other.
Mei's blush when Caleb offers his arm, Caleb's careful distance when he remembers his rank is not suited for a princess.
Your uncle has made it clear that Mei's marriage will serve the kingdom, not her heart.
A general, however decorated, is not a suitable match for a crown princess.
You ache for them.
The quiet tragedy of loving someone who is right there, close enough to touch, but separated by duty and difference in status.
You understand that ache better than anyone.
You are not betrothed to anyone, which suits you fine.
The suitors who have expressed interest in the King's ward have been met with your polite disinterest, because how can you consider marrying someone when your heart already belongs to a creature you met once, in a storm, three years ago?
Foolish, you tell yourself.
He is not coming back.
He probably does not even remember you.
But you remember him. Every night, before you sleep, you close your eyes and hear his voice.
You are safe. I will not let you drown.
And then, on a morning in late spring, everything changes.
The guards find him on the beach below the palace cliffs.
You hear about it from a servant. A breathless maid who comes running into the library where you are reading, her eyes wide.
"Your Highness! They have found a man on the shore! He is injured, and he cannot speak, and Princess Mei is with him —"
You are on your feet before she finishes the sentence.
You run.
Through the corridors, down the winding stone stairs that lead to the beach, your heart hammering with a ferocity that has nothing to do with the adrenaline of running.
Because you know.
Before you even see him, you know.
The beach is crowded, guards, physicians, servants clustering around a figure lying on the sand.
Mei is kneeling beside him, her hand on his shoulder, speaking in the gentle voice she uses when she is trying to calm you when you are scared as a child.
You push through the crowd, and your world stops.
It is him.
The blue eyes are there.
They do not glow now as they were in the storm, but still that impossible shade, deep blue threaded with veins of soft pink, like the heart of a wave caught in light.
Half-open and dazed with pain.
The face is exactly as you remember, beautiful and otherworldly. His hair is longer now, tangled with salt and sand. He is wearing nothing but a length of fabric someone has wrapped around his waist.
And he has legs.
Where the tail should be, there are legs, long and pale and trembling, as though they are new to him. As though he has never used them before.
They are scraped raw, bleeding, and he keeps looking down at them with an expression of bewildered pain.
You know what he is.
You know what he has done.
You have scoured every book in the library about him, his people.
Lemurians do not simply grow legs.
The stories spoke of sea witches, of bargains made in the deep.
What did you pay, you think, staring at him. What did you sacrifice to come here?
"He washed up an hour ago," the captain of the guard is telling your uncle. "No identification, no clothing. He appears to be mute."
Mute.
Your stomach drops.
His voice, that beautiful voice that sang the cold out of your bones is gone.
The sea witch must have taken his voice, the thing that you have treasured the most, in exchange for legs.
"He was reaching for me when the guards arrived," Mei says softly. "As though he recognized me. As though he was trying to tell me something."
Your chest tightens so sharply you cannot breathe.
He thinks it was Mei.
The realization crashes over you like a wave.
He thinks Mei was the one he saved.
He came here for her.
Not you.
He does not remember.
But it makes a terrible kind of sense.
Mei was on the ship that night.
Mei is the crown princess, the King and Queen’s real daughter, the one people notice.
If he saw the royal vessel, if he knew the Princess of Linkon was aboard, of course he would assume it was Mei.
Not the quiet, unremarkable ward who should not have been on the ship at all, who was not even supposed to be near the water.
You should say something.
You should step forward and say, It was me.
You open your mouth.
And then he looks at Mei with those blue-pink eyes full of desperate relief and reaches for her hand.
Mei takes it.
You close your mouth.
You do not say anything.
You are eighteen years old, and your heart is breaking so quietly that no one even notices.
They bring him into the palace.
Your uncle is reluctant, but Mei insists.
"He is hurt and needs care. We cannot simply leave him on the beach."
So he is given a room in the guest quarters.
You watch from a distance as he learns to walk on legs that do not know how to hold him, stumbling, falling, catching himself on walls and doorframes with the frustrated grace of a creature built for water forced to navigate land.
He writes his name on parchment the first day they give him ink.
Rafayel.
The name settles into your chest like a stone.
You have spent three years loving someone whose name you did not know, and now that you have it, it makes everything worse.
He is real and present and walking the corridors of your home, and he does not know you exist.
That is not entirely true.
He knows you are the King's ward, Mei's younger cousin. When you are introduced, he bows politely, and when his eyes meet yours there is nothing.
No recognition, just the courteous blankness of a stranger who is forced to meet someone new.
You smile and curtsy and say, "Welcome to Linkon, Rafayel."
Your voice does not shake. You are proud of that.
He writes, Thank you, Your Highness. You are very kind.
Kind.
The word tastes like ash.
Rafayel becomes a fixture in the palace.
He is charming without his voice, expressive and warm, communicating through notes and gestures and a smile that makes the court murmur.
He paints.
Your uncle gives him a studio, and the canvases he produces are extraordinary.
Seascapes in colors so vivid they seem to move, portraits that capture the subjects better than any artist in Linkon could.
He paints Mei the most.
You try not to look at those paintings.
You fail.
Mei, for her part, is gentle with him.
She visits his studio, brings him tea, and sits with him while he works.
She treats him with the compassion she shows everyone, genuine and warm and without pretense.
She does not love him.
You can see that clearly, even if Rafayel cannot.
Mei loves Caleb.
You see it in the way her eyes follow him across the training yard, in the way her laughter changes pitch when he is nearby, in the way she touches the small apple-shaped pendant he gave her for her last birthday, a private gesture she does not know you have noticed.
Caleb loves her back.
You see it in the way he stands slightly too close at formal dinners, in the way his voice softens when he says her name, in the way he looks at her when he thinks no one is watching, with a devotion so naked it makes your chest ache.
But your uncle has been negotiating a political marriage for Mei.
A duke from the Eastern kingdom, an alliance that would secure Linkon's borders.
Caleb's rank, however elevated, is not enough.
A general is not a duke, and for a crown princess like Mei, love is not leverage.
And Rafayel sees none of this.
Rafayel sees only Mei, the woman he crossed an ocean for, gave up his voice for, sacrificed everything to find.
And you see only him.
You discover the truth about the sea witch's bargain by accident.
You are in the library late one night, unable to sleep, when you find a book about Lemurian folklore left open on a reading table.
The pages are marked with small notes in Rafayel's handwriting. He has been researching his own curse.
The passage he has marked reads:
The sea witch's bargain is thus: a voice for legs, the ocean for the land. The transformation is sustained by the bond formed in the water, the moment when a Lemurian's lifeforce intertwines with a human's. To break the bargain and restore what was taken, the Lemurian must receive a true love's kiss from the one with whom they bonded. If the kiss does not come before the third moon after landfall, the Lemurian will dissolve into seafoam, lost to both worlds forever.
Your hands shake so violently the book nearly slips from your grasp.
The one with whom they bonded.
That is you.
In the water, in the storm, when he held you and sang and your hand touched his face that was the bond.
His lifeforce intertwined with yours, not Mei's.
He needs your kiss to survive.
Not Mei's.
Yours.
And he does not know.
You sink into the nearest chair, your mind racing.
You could tell him.
You could go to his room right now and tell him.
But if you tell him, will he kiss you out of desperation or out of the bond?
Will you have to live knowing the only reason his lips touched yours was because he had no other choice?
You want him to choose you because he sees you, not because a curse demands it.
So you close the book, return it where you found it, and go back to your room and cry until dawn.
You do not say a word.
But you keep reading.
You return to the library every night after that.
When the palace sleeps, you are awake, pulling every text on Lemurian magic from the shelves, cross-referencing myths with histories with the scraps of writing from scholars who treated the sea folk as more than legend.
It takes you eleven days to find it.
The passage is in an old text, so old the pages are brittle and the ink has faded to brown.
It is written in an archaic dialect that takes you hours to translate, hunched over a dictionary by candlelight, your eyes burning, your hands stiff with cold.
There exists a second path to sever the sea witch's bond. If the bonded human willingly offers their heart to the deep, sacrificed in the place where the witch resides, the bond dissolves. The Lemurian is freed, their voice restored, their form their own to choose. The human perishes.
You read it three times.
Four.
Five.
The human perishes.
Your vision blurs.
You press your fist against your mouth to stop the sound that wants to come out, not a cry, something worse.
You could save him.
Not with a kiss he does not want to give you.
Not by humiliating yourself, by forcing a revelation that would make him look at you with guilt instead of love.
You could save him without him ever knowing it was you in the water at all.
He would get his voice back.
He would be free.
He could stay on land or return to the sea, whichever he chose.
He could love Mei or not love Mei on his own terms, without a curse dictating the shape of his life.
All it would cost is your heart.
All it would cost is you.
You close the book.
Your hands are steady now.
They should not be.
You should be shaking, screaming, falling apart.
But instead there is a strange, terrible calm settling over you, the calm of someone who has been drowning for three years and has finally stopped fighting the current.
This is how it was always going to end, you think.
He saved your life in the water.
Now you save his.
It is that simple.
The grief is not.
You have nineteen days until the third moon.
Nineteen days to find the sea witch.
Nineteen days to arrange your death quietly.
Nineteen days to say goodbye to everyone you love without anyone realizing that is what you are doing.
You begin with Mei.
Your cousin finds you in the garden the next morning, which is unusual, you are not a morning person, and the garden is Mei's domain, not yours.
She raises an eyebrow when she sees you sitting on the stone bench by the roses.
"You are up early."
"Could not sleep." You pat the bench beside you. "Sit with me?"
Mei sits, studying your face with the careful attention of an older sister who has always been able to read you better than you would like.
"What is wrong?"
"Nothing. I just… I wanted to tell you something."
You take her hands.
They are warm and familiar, and you hold them tightly, memorizing the shape of her fingers.
"You should be with Caleb."
Mei goes still.
"What?"
"I know you love him. I have known for years, and he loves you. Everyone can see it except Father, who refuses to look." You squeeze her hands. "Do not let the political marriage happen. Fight for what you want, Mei. You deserve to be happy."
Your cousin stares at you, her eyes filling with tears.
"Where is this coming from?"
"It is coming from someone who does not want you to waste the love you have." Your voice cracks, just barely. "Promise me. Promise me you will fight for him."
"I…" Mei blinks, the tears spilling over. "I promise. But you are frightening me. Why are you speaking like this?"
"I am not frightened. I am merely… clear, about some things." You smile, and it is the gentlest, most careful lie you have ever told. "I love you, Mei. More than anything. I need you to know that."
"I love you too." Mei pulls you into a tight hug. "You are being strange, and it worries me."
"I am always strange."
"True." She laughs, watery. "But this is a different kind of strange."
You hold her for a long time, breathing in the scent of her hair, memorizing it in the part of your memory that you will carry into the dark.
You spend the next week carefully and quietly putting your affairs in order.
You write letters and hide them in places they will eventually be found.
One for Mei in her favorite book, one for your Father and Mother in the book of fairytales they read to you as a child, one for Caleb folded into the scabbard of his sword.
You finish your watercolor paintings and leave them stacked neatly beneath the loose floorboard where you have always kept them.
Dozens of paintings of blue eyes and iridescent scales and the silhouette of a boy in a storm.
You request access to a small boat, telling the King that you want to paint seascapes from the water.
It is an unusual request, more than unusual, given your Father’s lifelong prohibition.
But you frame it carefully.
You are eighteen now.
Old enough to make your own peace with the ocean that took your parents.
Old enough, you say, with a smile that hides everything, to stop being afraid.
Your Father’s face is complicated when you ask.
He looks at you, truly looks, the way he does sometimes when the light catches your face at the angle that reminds him of his brother, and you see the war behind his eyes.
The guilt.
The fear.
The knowledge that he cannot keep you caged forever without becoming the thing he most fears, a man who loves someone so fiercely he destroys them.
So he grants the request.
He warns you to take guards.
You will not take guards, but you agree, because agreeing is easier than arguing.
You cannot give your plan away.
You cannot reveal that you are a dead girl walking through the last days of her life, smiling at everyone, eating meals she cannot taste, sleeping in a bed she will never return to.
It is the loneliest thing you have ever experienced.
And you have been lonely for a very long time.
On the twelfth day before the third moon, you visit Rafayel's studio.
You have avoided this room since he arrived.
The smell of paint and linseed oil, the sight of his hands moving across canvas, the particular way he tilts his head when he is concentrating.
All of it is too much.
Too close. Too real.
But you need to see him one last time.
Not from across a dinner table or the opposite end of a corridor.
Up close.
In the place where he is most himself.
He is painting when you enter.
A seascape, waves crashing against rocks under a stormy sky.
The colors are violent and beautiful, and you recognize the scene immediately.
It is the night of the shipwreck.
The night he saved you.
He looks up when you knock on the open door, and surprise flickers across his face.
You have never visited him here before.
He gestures you in, warm and welcoming, and reaches for his tablet.
Your Highness, this is a pleasant surprise.
"Please," you say. "No titles. Not today."
He looks at you curiously, but nods.
You walk around the studio, looking at his paintings.
Every one is extraordinary.
Raw and emotional and full of a longing so palpable you can almost taste it.
You stop at the storm painting, your throat tight.
"This is beautiful," you say. "The storm. It looks so real."
I painted it from memory. The night I saved her in the water.
Her.
Not you.
Her.
"The person you saved," you say carefully. "Do you remember much about that night?"
He is quiet for a moment, his stylus hovering over the tablet. Then he writes, slowly.
I remember the feel of her hand on my face. Cold. Trembling. I remember singing for her. I remember the way she looked at me.
You have to turn away.
You pretend to examine another painting, blinking hard, willing the tears back.
"That must have been a powerful moment," you manage.
It was the moment I knew I would find her. No matter what it cost.
No matter what it cost.
You turn back to him.
He is watching you with an expression you cannot decipher, not recognition, but something adjacent.
Curiosity, perhaps, or confusion.
"May I ask you something?" you say.
He nods.
"Was it worth it? Leaving and giving up everything you knew? For someone who might not… who might not feel the same way?"
He does not hesitate.
Yes. A thousand times yes. Even if she never loves me. Even if I dissolve into nothing. I would do it all again.
You smile at him.
It is the saddest, most genuine smile you have ever given anyone.
"She is lucky," you say. "The girl you saved. Even if she does not know it. She is the luckiest person in the world."
Something shifts in his expression.
Something almost like pain.
Are you all well, Your Highness?
"I am fine," you say, and you leave before he can see the tears fall.
You find the sea witch on the fifteenth day.
It is not the dramatic confrontation the stories describe.
There is no cave of bones, no garden of corals, no monstrous creature wreathed in smoke and malice.
The sea witch is a woman, ancient and weary, sitting on a rock at the edge of a tidal pool in a cove three hours south of the palace.
She is waiting for you.
You know this because she speaks before you say a word.
"The other one," she says, and her voice is like the sound of shells being ground by waves, musical and rough at the same time. "The one from the water. I was wondering when you would come."
"You knew about me."
"Of course I knew. When I made the bargain with the boy. I could feel the bond where it led, who it held. You, little princess, not the pretty older cousin." She tilts her head, studying you with eyes that are pale and depthless, like tide pools reflecting an empty sky. "He does not know, does he?"
"No."
"And you do not intend to tell him."
"No."
The witch is quiet for a moment.
Then she laughs not cruelly, but with a sadness that surprises you.
"You humans," she murmurs. "So fragile. So stubborn. He came to me begging for legs so he could find the girl from the water, and you come to me ready to die so he will never have to know she was you." She shakes her head. "Two sides of the same fool's coin."
"Will you do it?" Your voice does not shake. You are proud of that. "My heart for his freedom. That is the second path, I read it in the old texts."
"I can do it," the witch says. "But you need to understand what you are offering. Not merely your life, child. Your heart. The thing that bound you together in the water. When I take it, the bond dissolves. His voice returns. His legs become his own, no longer tethered to the curse. He is free."
"And I am dead."
"Yes." The witch's pale eyes hold yours. "But not immediately. You will have until the tide turns. A few hours, perhaps. Enough time to walk back to shore. Enough time to lie down somewhere familiar."
Somewhere familiar.
The beach below the cliffs.
The same beach where they found Rafayel, where your cousin's search party found you after the storm, three years ago.
The irony of it is so perfect it makes you want to laugh.
"There is one more thing," the witch says. "The wound, where I take the heart. No human eye will see it. The magic seals the flesh. To anyone who looks, you will seem untouched. Peaceful. As though you simply lay down on the sand and stopped breathing."
"But?"
"But a Lemurian will see it. Their eyes were made for magic, you see. If the boy looks at your body, he will see the wound. He will see what was taken." She pauses. "And he will know."
Your stomach drops.
"Know what?"
"That someone loved him enough to cut out their own heart so he could live."
The words hang in the salt air between you.
"Will he know it was me?"
"That depends," the witch says, "on whether he is paying attention."
You close your eyes.
The wind is cold off the water, and you can hear the sea moving beneath the rocks, and somewhere in the distance, a bird is calling out across the waves.
"Do it," you say.
The witch rises from her rock.
She is shorter than you expected.
She smells of brine and something older, something that has no name in any human language. Her hands, when she places them on your chest, are gentle and impossibly strong.
"You are brave," she says quietly. "Stupid, but brave."
"Is there a difference?"
"Not usually."
The pain is —
You expected agony.
What you get is something worse, a pulling, slow and unyielding, like a thread being drawn from a tapestry, and the tapestry is you, and the thread is every moment you have ever loved him.
The storm.
The singing.
The rock.
His eyes.
His hands.
The paintings you hid under the floorboard.
The three years of silence and longing and watching from the shadows.
The sea witch pulls it all out, and it takes the shape of your heart, and your heart takes the shape of a small, iridescent scale.
Blue.
The deep, shimmering blue of his tail, edged with the faintest blush of pink, shifting in the light like something caught between sea and sky.
The witch holds it up to the light.
It catches the sun like a jewel, like a tear, like the last note of a song that will never be sung again.
"Beautiful," she murmurs. "They always are, the hearts that love the hardest."
She closes her fist around it.
The scale dissolves into light, and the light sinks into the sea, and somewhere miles away, in a palace on a cliff a man who has been silent for weeks opens his mouth and makes a sound.
You feel it happen.
You feel the bond sever, like a rope cut with a blade and then you feel nothing at all where your heart used to be.
No pain.
No grief.
Just absence.
A hollow so vast and quiet it makes the ocean look small.
"The tide turns in four hours," the witch says. "You should go."
The walk back takes longer than the walk there.
Your legs are heavy.
Your body knows what has been taken from it, even if the wound is invisible, even if you look the same as you did this morning when you woke and dressed and walked out of the palace for the last time.
You are dying.
You are dying slowly and gently, the way a candle dies when the wax runs out. The flame is still there, still burning, but with nothing left to feed it.
You make it to the beach below the palace cliffs just as the sun begins to set.
The sand is warm from the day's sun.
You take off your shoes and walk barefoot to the water's edge, letting the waves lap at your feet.
The cold feels distant.
Everything feels distant now, as though you are watching yourself from very far away.
You sit down. Then you lie down, your hair fanning across the sand, your face turned toward the sea.
The sky above you is extraordinary, painted in shades of gold and blue and deep, burning orange, like one of Rafayel's canvases come to life.
You stare at it and think that this is the last beautiful thing you will ever see before you die.
You are not afraid.
You thought you would be.
You thought the end would come with terror, with regret, with the desperate, clawing need to live, but instead there is only a quiet, aching peace.
You have done the thing you came to do.
You have paid the price.
Rafayel is free.
You close your eyes.
The last thing you hear is the sound of the waves, and beneath them, so faint you might be imagining it, the echo of a song you heard once in a storm, when you were fifteen and drowning and a boy with blue eyes held you and promised you were safe.
You are safe. I will not let you drown.
Forgive me, you think. I could not keep you from drowning either, but I could keep you from disappearing. I hope that is enough.
I hope I was enough.
The tide turns.
The waves reach for you, gentle as his hands when he saved you from the storm.
You let them.
His voice comes back like a tide.
He is in his studio when it happens, standing before the storm painting, brush in hand, adding details from memory that grow sharper by the day instead of fading the way memories should.
One moment, there is nothing.
The silence that has been his prison for weeks, the maddening absence of sound in his throat.
The next moment, a gasp.
Rough. Broken.
Like air being forced through a pipe that has rusted shut.
Then a sound, not a word.
Something more primal, a noise, a mix of shock and relief and confusion.
“What —?”
His own voice, raw and not quite what it was, but his.
His voice, in his throat, in the air.
He drops the brush. His hand goes to his throat. He speaks again, testing.
"How —"
The curse is broken.
He can feel it.
The severing of something that has been wound tight around his chest since the day he crawled onto this beach.
The sea witch's magic is unraveling.
His legs no longer ache with the wrongness of transformation. His body feels, for the first time since leaving the water, as though it belongs to him.
But the bond…
The bond is gone.
He feels its absence like a phantom limb, the severed thread that once connected him to the person he saved in the storm, the invisible tether that has been pulling him toward Mei since the day he arrived.
Except… it was never pulling him toward Mei, was it?
He sees that now, in the sudden clarity of the curse's lifting, like a fog burning away to reveal a landscape he should have recognized all along.
The bond was never pointed at Mei.
It was pointed at the girl who stood in the shadows.
The one who walked the cliffs.
The one who came to his studio and asked if it was worth it, and smiled at him with such sadness that he could not sleep afterward, could not paint, could not do anything but stare at the ceiling and try to understand why your face kept replacing Mei's every time he closed his eyes.
The King's ward.
The quiet one.
It was you.
The realization arrives slowly.
The night of the storm.
The hand on his face.
Small. Cold. Trembling.
Not a woman's hand.
You were fifteen then, like he was.
Mei was eighteen.
He has been looking at the wrong person for weeks.
Painting the wrong portrait.
Writing love notes to the wrong woman.
When the right one has been there the entire time, watching from doorways and shadows, smiling your quiet smile, carrying a secret so heavy it should have crushed you.
He needs to find you.
Now.
He needs to tell you…
But wait.
If the curse is broken… If the bond is severed…
The book said the only ways to break it were a true love's kiss or…
Or
The blood drains from his face.
He runs.
He checks your chambers first.
Empty.
The bed is made, the curtains drawn, and there is a neatness to the space that feels final and deliberate.
Like someone tidying up before a long journey.
He opens your closet, pulls up the loose floorboard he has seen you glance at when you thought no one was looking.
Paintings.
Dozens of them.
Watercolors, small and delicate, layered carefully between sheets of parchment.
He pulls them out with shaking hands and lays them across the bed, and the breath leaves his body in a sound that is not quite a word and not quite a cry.
They are all of him.
Him in the water, tail and all, holding a girl against his chest while the storm rages.
Him singing on the rocks, his face lit by lightning, his eyes glowing blue with that otherworldly light that you have captured perfectly.
Him from the back, looking out at the sea, the line of his shoulders rendered with an intimacy that speaks of someone who has memorized every angle.
Him sleeping in a chair in the studio, when did you see that?
How many times did you stand in his doorway, watching, while he dreamed?
The earliest paintings are crude, the work of a fifteen-year-old with more passion than technique. But they grow more skilled as the years progress, and the most recent ones, painted since his arrival at the palace, are heartbreaking in their accuracy.
You have captured the exact shade of his eyes, the blue, the thread of pink.
The exact curve of his mouth when he smiles.
The exact expression he makes when he looks at Mei.
There is one painting at the bottom of the stack that breaks him.
It is a self-portrait.
You have painted yourself from behind, standing on the cliffs, looking out at the sea.
You are alone and the wind is pulling at your hair, and the sea stretches out before you, vast and empty and hungry. And in the water below the cliffs, barely visible, a flash of iridescent blue, a tail, a shadow, a memory.
You titled it, in small, careful letters at the bottom corner:
Waiting.
He gathers the paintings against his chest.
He is shaking so hard they rattle against each other.
He needs to find you.
He needs to —
Mei appears in the doorway.
"Where is she?" His voice is raw, cracked, barely functional.
It does not matter. The words work.
"Rafayel? Your voice — you can speak? How —" She stops, seeing his face. Seeing the paintings. "What are those?"
“Where is your cousin?" He repeats, desperately this time, ignoring her question.
"I do not know. She left this morning. She said she was going to paint by the water —"
He is past Mei before she finishes the sentence.
He hears her calling after him, hears Caleb's voice too, the general must have been nearby, but he does not stop.
He cannot stop.
He runs through the palace and down the stairs to the beach, and his legs carry him perfectly for the first time since he crawled out of the sea.
He does not stumble. He does not fall.
The curse is broken and his body is his own, and the irony of it is that he is finally, truly free, and the freedom that was bought with your life makes him want to scream.
He reaches the beach.
The guards are already there.
They found you at the water's edge.
You are lying on the sand, your hair spread around you like seaweed, your face turned toward the sea.
You look peaceful.
You look as though you are just sleeping.
There is no wound, no blood, no sign of what happened.
The guards are confused.
They do not know and do not see.
But Rafayel can.
His eyes, Lemurian eyes, made for magic, made for the deep, see what human eyes cannot.
The wound.
Not a cut, not a tear.
A hollow in your chest where your heart should be, glowing faintly with the residue of sea witch’s magic.
And in the center of the hollow, where your heart was taken, a single scale.
Small and iridescent.
The deep, shimmering blue of his tail edged with the faintest blush of pink, catching the fading light like a jewel.
It is all that is left of your heart. The part of you that loved him, bonded to him, transformed by magic into the only shape it knew how to take, his own scales.
His.
He drops to his knees beside you.
His hands find your face, cold now, so cold, and he cradles it the way you must have cradled his once, on a rock in the middle of a storm, when you were both fifteen and he sang the cold from your bones.
The sound that comes from him is not human.
It is Lemurian.
A keen, a wail, a sound that comes from the deepest part of the ocean where the water is black and the pressure would crush anything that did not belong there.
It is a sound of grief so deep that it makes the waves pull back from the shore, as if the sea itself is flinching.
Mei arrives.
Then Caleb, running, his hand on his sword as if he can fight whatever did this.
Then the King, the Queen, servants, guards, all of them pouring onto the beach like a wave, and the sound they make when they see you is nothing compared to the sound still tearing itself from Rafayel's throat.
"What happened to her?" Caleb's voice is steel. He is kneeling on the other side of your body, his hand on your shoulder, his face carved from granite. "There is no wound. There is nothing. How —"
"There is a wound," he says, and his voice breaks on every syllable. "You cannot see it. Only I can."
He looks at Mei.
His vision is blurred with tears, but he can see her clearly enough.
Her shattered expression, the way she is gripping Caleb's arm so hard her knuckles are white, the way she is looking at your body with an expression of incomprehensible horror.
"It was her," he says. "In the water. The night of the storm. It was never you, Mei. It was her. She was the one I saved. She was the one I bonded to. She was the one I loved. She has known the entire time."
Mei's face crumbles.
"What?"
"The curse. The sea witch's bargain. A kiss from the bonded one, or —" He chokes on the words. "Or the bonded one's heart given willingly. She found the sea witch. She traded her heart to break my curse. And she never… she never said a word. She never told me it was her. She let me believe… she let me chase after you while she…"
He cannot finish.
He presses his forehead against yours, cold against cold, the living against the dead, and he cries.
The King makes a sound.
It is a small, quiet sound.
The grief of a Father losing his child.
He had made a promise to protect you from the very thing that killed your birth parents.
He kept you from the water your entire life, and the water took you anyway.
Not by storm.
Not by shipwreck.
By love.
The Queen catches him when his knees buckle.
Mei is on her knees in the sand, sobbing, and Caleb has his arms around her.
Rafayel lifts his head.
His hand moves to the hollow in your chest, the wound only he can see, and he touches the scale.
The blue scale that is all that remains of your heart.
It is warm.
Against the cold of your body, against the cold of the sand and the sea and the dying light, the scale is warm.
He picks it up with trembling fingers.
It is small enough to fit in his palm, light as a feather, luminous as a star.
The color shifts as he holds it, blue to pink, pink to blue, and it seems to pulse, faintly, like the echo of a heartbeat.
Your heartbeat.
He closes his fist around it and brings it to his lips.
"I would have chosen you," he whispers, "If I had known. I would have chosen you."
But you cannot hear him.
Not anymore.
The sea witch was right.
The hearts that love the hardest are always the most beautiful.
And the most easily broken.
They bury you on the cliff above the sea.
Not in the royal crypts beneath the palace, where the dead of the royal family are laid in marble and forgotten.
On the cliff.
In the open air, where the wind smells of salt and the waves can be heard crashing against the rocks below, ceaseless and eternal and indifferent.
Rafayel insists, and Mei agrees with him.
Your uncle, who has been hollowed out by grief into a shell of the stern king he used to be, does not argue.
He stands at the edge of the cliff and stares at the sea with the expression of a man who has spent fifteen years building a wall against the tide and has learned, at last, that the tide does not care.
It will take and take and take.
The grave is marked with a simple stone.
No title.
No epitaph.
Just the view of the ocean, stretching out to the horizon, the same view you loved, the same view you stood and stared at for three years, waiting for something that was already there.
Mei stands at the grave for a long time after the ceremony. Caleb stands beside her, his hand in her.
The two of them are finally together because you pushed Mei toward him in the garden, because you wrote it in the letter she found in her book.
Let yourself love him. Do not be like me, do not be afraid.
She found the letter the morning after they found your body.
She read it and screamed so loudly the servants thought someone else had died.
Caleb holds her and lets her cry into his chest.
"She knew," he says. "When she came to me last week and asked me to look after you. She knew she was not coming back."
Mei shakes her head, tears streaming.
"She told me to fight for you. That was her farewell. And I did not… I did not even realize…"
"You could not have known."
"I should have. She was my sister," Mei's voice breaks."I should have seen it."
But no one saw it.
You, who spent your entire life being protected but overlooked, used that invisibility one last time, to do the one thing no one could stop because no one was watching.
Rafayel does not attend the funeral.
He is on the beach.
The same beach where they found him.
The same beach where they found you.
He is sitting in the sand at the water's edge, the blue scale in his palm, and he is talking to the sea.
Not singing.
His voice is back but no longer the way it was before the curse.
It is rougher and thinner now.
The sea witch gave him his voice but kept its beauty, a final cruelty or perhaps a mercy.
The most beautiful parts of his voice are gone, just as the most beautiful part of your heart is gone, and perhaps that is the balance the witch intended all along.
He talks to the sea because he cannot talk to you.
"I remember clearly now," he says, his voice cracking. "The storm. Finding you half-drowned. I remember how I brought you to the surface. Your face. I remember the exact feeling of your hand on my cheek."
The waves lap at his feet.
"I do not understand how I forgot, how I confused you with her. You do not look anything alike. You do not feel anything alike." He laughs bitterly. "The sea witch's magic. It must have clouded my memory, made me see what I expected to see."
He opens his fist and looks at the scale.
It catches the light, pulsing softly.
"You painted me," he whispers. "Dozens of paintings. Three years of paintings.You loved me for three years and you never said a word, and when I arrived at your palace looking for the wrong woman, you just…stepped aside. You watched me court her. You watched me write her love letters and paint her portrait and make a fool of myself, and you said nothing because you did not want me to kiss you out of survival and desperation."
His voice breaks completely. He bows his head, pressing the scale against his forehead.
"You brave girl. I would have kissed you and meant it. If you had told me… if I had known.. I would have looked at your face and known it was you, and everything after that would have been different, you would have been alive. The bond was pulling me toward you the entire time. Every time I felt confused, every time I looked at Mei and something felt wrong, that was you. The bond, trying to show me what the sea witch’s curse was hiding."
He lifts his head.
"I would have chosen you," he says to the sea. "I need you to know that. Wherever you are, whatever comes after. I would have chosen you."
The sea does not answer.
The sea never answers.
END.
༄ tag list: @seraphineash, @loreleis-world, @kingraspberry12-blog
Roommate Zayne, who agrees to let you move in, because you promise to stay out of his hair so he can complete his final year of med school without "distractions", but he'll soon figure out you're the best kind of distraction.
Roommate Zayne, who, despite insisting you two would practically never cross paths, entertains late-night small talk where you rant about your college courses, and he can think about someone else's problems for once. Also, he knows the social interaction is healthy for him.
Roommate Zayne, who grows secretly kind of fond of you, because you're considerate enough to grab an extra sweet any time you go to that bakery he likes but never gets to go to anymore. He only gets home well after it's closed, so it's a pleasant surprise when a dessert is sitting on the kitchen counter waiting for him.
Roommate Zayne, who might be even fonder of a different kind of treat, one where you trudge into the living room after hearing him enter late at night, and all you're wearing is one of his t-shirts and some cotton underwear that's barely peaking out, but instead of telling you any of that, he says he expects his shirt returned to him cleaned, a little too casually for you to take the demand as a serious concern.
Roommate Zayne, who you ask about literally anything, no matter how embarrassing, because why should this future doctor get flustered when you start to ask him questions like "how do you know when you've had an orgasm?" And he can only tell you with the straightest face he can muster that if you have to ask, you haven't had one.
Roommate Zayne, who has, in fact, heard you fumbling around with your vibrator in your room through the thin walls of your shared apartment many times, but tries his best to ignore his own urges, ignores the thought that he could make those failed attempts at pleasuring yourself stop being failed attempts.
Roommate Zayne, who can't take it anymore, and in a combination of his own pent-up frustration from his med school horrors, thinking your inability to finish is bordering on pitiful, and a strained, furious tent in his pants, makes the hard decision to knock on your door.
You wince when you hear the light tapping through your shut door, setting the vibrator aside on your nightstand. "What, Zayne?" you call out through the door in frustrated grumbling.
"Could I come in?" he asks, lowly, a little sheepishly, but all the same, quite resolved.
You perplex from beneath your bed sheets. It's 2am, and he never asks to enter your spaces. "Um... I don't think it's a good time for that!"
"I beg to differ," he retorts. "It could be a really good time... if you want it."
Roommate Zayne, who is painstakingly slow with you and a little blunt when he tells you you're too impatient for your own good, as he runs a languid hand up your thigh, and his eyes transfix on yours as his fingers slip in your wet folds. When your head dips back, flushing red in embarrassment, he tells you to look at him without a hint of impatience, just firm and quiet, and of course, you listen to him, along with his every instruction.
Roommate Zayne was right. You never think you have an orgasm; you just have an orgasm... or four, as his slender, precise digits plunge into you and hit that sweet spot so effortlessly you see stars you've never seen before, your body erupts in waves of hot bliss as you cum on his fingers until you're tired enough to fall asleep in his arms.
Roommate Zayne, who realizes making you cum is the best he's felt in weeks. Maybe it's because it's the one thing he's certain he can do right. At school, he's fucking up again and again, but with you, you spill out on his fingers, his tongue, his cock, and you literally say thank you when you finish. He should be thanking you, really.
Roommate Zayne, who refuses to admit the two of you are in a bit of a situationship now, because he thinks he's above such things. That is, until he's above you, telling you to say his name as he pounds inside you, cradling your head against his shoulder with one hand and pulling you flush with the rest of his body, pressed firmly into the small of your back with the other. He ruts into you like an animal in heat. He fucks you so hard that he's creating a dent in the wall as the headboard bangs into it. You joke that he's trying to dig a hole from your room to his. He promises he'll pay for the damages when you move out.
Roommate Zayne, who tests your patience, because how can he act like everything's normal between you two on a day-to-day basis when you two are running through condoms like you're trying to set a world record in the night?
Roommate Zayne, who is aware enough of his feelings to know he likes you, mindblowing sex aside, but is too overwhelmed with med school to even think to do something about it, and instead of spending those secret nights with you, he watches you walk out the door in stunning dresses as he gets home from a late night of studying, but not before your eyes meet when you both turn back around to catch the sight of one another several paces after passing.
Roommate Zayne, who starts to suspect you're not serious about dating when he realizes you've been on over a dozen first dates, but never a second with anyone. He doesn't say anything about it, though, enjoying the prospect of you going through the effort for his attention.
Roommate Zayne, who attentively straightens himself out on the couch when you walk in with a shopping bag and tell him you need an opinion on what to wear for your next date. When you pull two lingerie sets from your bag, he sees through your game.
"I'm afraid I can't quite see the full picture with you just holding it up like that," he shrugs. "You should try them on for me."
Your breath hitches slightly in your lungs when you see the way his emerald, wanting eyes trace down your figure. Still, you compose yourself. "Alright," you respond quietly, before swiveling on your heel and taking a couple of steps toward your room that are cut short by Zayne's voice.
"No need to go all the way back there. Just change here," he says casually, his gaze still pinned on you, bearing into you with that impenetrable stare and that low tone with the slight rasp.
You drop the bag from your hand and begin tearing off your clothes in the middle of the living room while he watches intently, knowing you're always helpless to refuse his suggestions, shimmying out of your jeans and sliding your arms out of their sleeves before lifting it off your chest. Your undergarments fall in line before you dig back into the shopping back, face red hot as your eyes meet back at his, pulling out the two sets. "Which one do you want me to try on first?" you ask.
He smiles that crooked, subtly devious smile. "Whichever one you want to show me first, I suppose."
Without a second thought, you're wriggling into navy blue lace, bottom lip stuck between your upper row of teeth as you do, because what's the point in even trying these on when you won't be able to return them. You're dripping between your thighs. The tag is useless now. "What do you think?" you ask, legs smooshing together as you meet his keen gaze again.
For a moment, his eyes simply pervade into you attentively, trailing up and down your body eagerly before meeting back with your gaze. He stands up from the couch with no sense of urgency but every ounce of intention as he takes deliberate steps to close the distance between you until he's hunched over you. "I think you know my tastes quite well, and that you're not going on any date tonight," he says firmly. "In fact, you're not going on any more dates ever again, so you can drop your little charade. How does that sound?"
"... Is that a confession?" you ask quietly beneath him.
"It's a promise," he answers with zero hesitation.
Roommate Zayne, who you know, saw right through you and fell victim to your antics anyway, hoisting you into his arms and tossing you onto your bed so he can remind you exactly why no one can replace him, making you cum for him like it's the easiest thing he's ever done, again and again.
A/N: I know, I know, I'm awesome for pitching a bunch of ideas just to write something else completely and work on none of my unfinished projects. Whoops.
after being taken from your village, you happen to fall into the hands of the autarch of xuanyu. you're frightened, hearing stories from your maids about how cruel of a man he is. lucky for you though, the autarch believes in love at first sight,
wc: 8.2k (i got carried away)
warnings: nsfw. mentions of kidnapping, non-canon compliance, spoilers for his card (shared lanterns), misogynistic ideals, slight angst, luke and kieran mention, drinking, sylus shenanigans, oral (f!receiving), nipple play, fingering, piv, unprotected sex (please use a condom), biting, overstimulation, size kink, overuse of "my wife" and "my beloved"
izaya's notes: haiii i finally finished this. sylus's card has been giving me insane brainrot. expect another fic about him as the autarch LOL. it's such a fun dynamic and u can do alot w it!! also do we like the new theme and layout? #lmk anyways !!! enjoy <3
You hadn’t expected your marriage to be a loving one. Hailing from another nation, kidnapped and taken across the border when your village was conquered, you’d slowly accepted your fate. You knew eventually your owners were going to sell you off, someway somehow. They couldn’t kill you. You were a high-ranking official’s daughter. You were too valuable to be killed or physically harmed.
So, the day of your wedding has arrived. The Autarch of Xuanyu, they call him. One who is rumoured to bring men to their knees, quivering, just at the sound of his name. Allegedly, he is your husband-to-be. You have yet to meet him. Some say he’s handsome, others harbor wildly different views. The stories the maids whisper around this foreign palace make your stomach curl into knots.
“I’ve heard some other servant girls saying that he’s rude and cruel. Apparently, he killed an entire village overnight!” Your lady-in-waiting exclaimed as she ran a hair through your comb. You kept your head low, quiet as usual.
It’s hard to understand them from time to time. The language they speak is different, the food is different— Everything is different here. You rise from your seat allowing them to dress you. A soft sigh escapes your lips, face neutral. What could you do?
Your father traded you in exchange for his life, allowing these foreign soldiers to kidnap you and take you back to their land. It was out of your hands now. You can only hope and pray that your husband was at least empathetic with your situation.
“My lady?” A rough voice from outside called out. One of them maids ushers towards the door, swinging it open. Two guards stand outside your door, eerily similar faces and builds. They bow slightly before speaking,
“His Highness sends a gift. He hopes you will accept it.” The one on the right pulls out a slim box from his robe, holding it in the palm of his hands. You retrieve it from him, your fingers gliding over the wooden box. You glance up at them, then your ladies-in-waiting. They smile at you softly, encouraging you to open it.
You open the box, sliding the top open. Wrapped in a silk cloth is a beautiful hairpin. Datura flowers and vines are wrapped around the end, dangling with rubies. It’s beautiful. And definitely expensive.
This sovereign definitely has money. You’re somewhat comforted by the fact that you will live at least comfortably. You look up at your ladies-in-waiting. One of them squeals with excitement, standing beside you. Her eyes twinkle with joy as she admires the hairpin,
“My Lady! This is wonderful! His Highness has sent you a hairpin!” You don’t understand what the excitement is about. It is a hairpin. Albeit, it’s beautiful. There’s no denying that, but why are they all squealing and giggling.
You place it back in the box, carefully wrapping it back into the silk cloth. You bow your head gently towards the two guards.
“Please relay my gratitude to His Highness. It is beautiful.” You speak, soft and elegant. The two guards leave, your ladies and you standing in the center of the room. The oldest lady who is cleaning out your dresser speaks,
“Perhaps he isn’t as horrible as the men of the nation rumor him to be.” She lightly glares at the two youngest who were whispering earlier. She places her hand on your shoulder, smiling. Despite knowing you for a short time, she has been nothing but kind.
“What does this mean though?” You ask, looking around as they all look at you surprised. Then, they all smile knowingly. A few giggle, the oldest lady sighing. Nobody answers your question, ushering you out of your clothes.
They help you lotion yourself, rubbing a scented oil on your skin while another lights a multitude of incense. You wonder what he truly is like. A tyrant, you’ve heard. Harsh, irritable, cruel— These words coil in your stomach. It’s not as if you can run away now.
Perhaps it is better to be the wife of a tyrant than to be on the streets, just waiting for some unruly man to harm you once more….
The two of you sit across from one another, a round table between your bodies. You keep your gaze on your lap, the red veil covering your view of him. You’ve yet to get a good look at him. His piercing gaze frightening you enough.
He holds a porcelain cup in his hand, eyeing the cold cup resting in front of you. He reaches over, pouring the cold contents of your cup into his own. He proceeds to pour you a fresh one, hot and steaming.
“It gets cold in this area at night. It is custom to drink hot tea before you go to sleep.” He speaks casually, his voice deep and rumbling in his chest. He looks at you, resting his elbow on his raised knee. “You can remove your veil if you’d like. I can help if you so desire.”
There’s a playful tone to his words, but your guard is still up. You gently remove your veil, still looking down at you. He does not chide you. He nudges the tea cup closer, leaning over the table.
“Drink.” He orders, tone stern. You finally return his gaze, head raising. Your eyes widen slightly. The ladies at the pavilion did not describe just how famous the Autarch of Xuanyu truly is. His shoulders are broad even under his robes, sharp features, beautiful eyes.
His eyes. You feel compelled to compliment him, but keep shut. You finally take the teacup into your hand, sniffing it before drinking. Something with ginger. You aren’t too knowledgeable…
You set it back down as he clears his throat. He beckons you to sit comfortably. You finally rest your stiff posture, getting comfortable on the floor.
“I wanted to ask you, Your Highness.” You finally speak up. He interrupts you before you can finish.
“Sylus.” He states. You flash him a confused face. “My name is Sylus. You are my wife. You are under no obligation to call me by my title. We are of equal standing. There is no need to address me so formally.” You blink owlishly at him. Sylus chuckles, drinking the last bit of his cold tea. “Apologies. Continue.” He nods.
“Why did you pay to marry me? If it is for political power, I regret to inform you that my father was the one who gave me away. I am of no use.” You softly sigh, preparing for him to become angry.
“I am aware.” He replies, watching your every move. Again, you are bewildered. He is an odd man.
“Then why…?” You mumble, quickly stopping.
“Speak freely in my presence. You are my wife. You have that authority.” He narrows his eyes at you as if he is trying to convince you. You nod in reply. “I simply felt as if I should. There is no other reason.”
You can’t help but think there is more to it, but you keep silent. You nod in reply, not digging deeper.
“Then, are there any rules you have for me?” You bow your head once more. He sits straighter, reaching forward to tip your head up.
“A few. One, do not bow your head at me. We are of equal stations. I am your husband, you, my wife. It is unnecessary.” He leans back, eyes still on your form. He raises two fingers. “Secondly, I would like to have one meal with you every day. We are married. It would be nice to get to know one another, yes?”
You nod in return, pouring him more tea.
“This isn’t a rule, but you are free to live in whatever way suits you. If you would like to find a job somewhere, I do not mind. Though, you are free to spend my pension with no restrictions. But if you wish to, I will not stop you. Even if you stay in my home and do nothing but lounge about, it does not bother me.” He breathes in, voice low, almost whispering.
“All I ask is that you eat a meal with me. That is all. Whichever meal of your choice, any food of your choice. I will make time for you. You are allowed to call on me no matter what. I am your husband, I will be there.” That strikes you in the chest. It is surprising, seeing how… polite he is compared the stories you have heard. But you’re smarter than that, than to blindly believe the word of a man. But you nod, you do not object.
“I thank you, Your Highness.” You raise your arms to bow your head, but he grabs a hold of your forearms. His grip isn’t tight, but there’s enough pressure to capture your attention. He lowers your arms, your eyes gazing into his. His face looks pained, almost uncomfortable.
“Sylus. And do not bow to me. Lest you want me to bow to you?” His eyebrows perk up, mischief swirling in his eyes. You widen your eyes, shaking your head. The corners of his lips curl upwards as he stands on his feet.
“Good. Then I shall go to my chambers.” He hums. You stumble to your feet.
“Wait. Do you not…” Your words falter, seeing his smirk form as he looks over his shoulder.
“Would you like to?” He asks, brows raised. Amused to the fullest degree. Your cheeks flush, irritated. He is far too mischievous for an official. You shake your head, clearing your throat.
“Goodnight then, my dear.” You nod in reply, eyeing the room around you as you try to calm your racing heart.
The Autarch of Xuanyu is not a picky eater. He doesn’t have a penchant for sweets, but he eats whatever you choose. Oftentime, the skillful merchant takes you out to eat, walk around the city. People stare, awfully so.
A beautiful girl with a man like him… It is peculiar. What’s even more peculiar to Sylus is that you do not wear any other hairpin aside from the one he gifted you on your wedding night. As the carriage drives into the city, he leans down to whisper in your ear.
“My dear.” His shoulder rubs against yours. You peel your eyes away from the scenery and look up at him. Your eyebrows raise softly. “Do you not like any of your other jewelry?” He asks, noting the simplicity of your outfits. You typically hone the same jewelry. Your hairstyles change, thanks to your ladies-in-waiting, but your jewelry does not alter.
“I do not have any others, Sylus.” You reply, plainly. He’s taken aback. You speak as if that is normal, as if that suits his wife. Puzzled he leans down,
“You do not have any others?” He parrots, voice tilting in confusion. You nod. “My dear,” He sighs, exasperated. He pinches the bridge of his nose, huffing a laugh. “If you needed— or wanted more— I’d be willing to buy it for you. I have told you before, no? My pension is yours to spend.”
You keep your eyes on your lap, twisting your fingers nervously. The carriage comes to a stop, followed by Sylus stepping out. He holds open the door with one hand, the other reaching out for you.
“Come. Let us eat. We will discuss this later.” You take it hand, carefully exiting the carriage.
Perhaps you’ve become a bit spoiled with the Autarch. He isn’t anything like the rumors. Sure, perhaps you’ve overheard a few conversations while passing by his office room that you most definitely shouldn’t have. He’s straightforward, blunt about his wants and offers. When insulted, he retaliates.
With you though, he’s kind and warm. He holds an arm out for you whenever you go, he gives in to any of your desires, nor does he restrict you in any matter. You’re free to spend as much money as you would like. You may go anywhere, converse with anyone.
Being the Autarch’s wife allows the world to become your oyster.
He’s attentive and dutiful as well. Despite being married for over six months, he has not pressured you about fulfilling your marital duties. In fact, he defends you. When your father came to visit you, he remarked that you were not yet pregnant. He scolded you, telling you that you were letting a grand opportunity slip from your fingers because of your stubbornness. Your comfort.
You mentioned this conversation to Sylus. Albiet, it was after a very uncomfortable and sudden attempt to fulfill your ‘duties’ as a wife. Nothing had happened. But Sylus wasn’t pleased. And that’s saying it lightly.
He was furious, demanding your father to explain himself. You are his wife, no longer that man’s daughter. Sure, he cannot erase the blood connection you have, but your father severed any ties he had with you when he sold you off.
You’re one of the lucky ones, to say the least. Hearing the stories of other women during functions or balls certainly isn’t helping either. You do not think Sylus would be a beast, nor force you into fulfilling your duties, but he is a man after all. He too has desires. Perhaps he may need them fulfilled…
“Sweetheart,” Sylus calls out to you, noticing you’ve spaced out. You blink up at him, feeling his fingers brush your bangs out of the way. He smiles, ushering you into the restaurant. He doesn’t smile at others, reserving it only for you. The staff are slightly comforted by the fact that the Autrach’s lady is with him. He tends to be more harmonious with you around.
He isn’t cruel to them, more destructive. But he pays handsomely for his misbehaviour, so the boss doesn’t dare complain. You take a sit across from Sylus, allowing him to serve you a cup of tea. You’ve noticed he quite likes the tea they serve here, opting to drink multiple cups.
“What were you thinking about?” He asks, resting his chin in his palm. He’s teasing you, his lips curled up. You chuckle, breathing out.
“Nothing of importance.” You reply, raising the cup to your lips. You don’t dare bring up the conversation of his needs in public. But you cannot help but wonder: Has he ever thought of it?
You don’t think you would mind. It’s not as if you are in love with him. You like him, you’ll admit. He is kind, nurturing, everything you have longed for after dealing with a multitude of arrogant, abusive men. He is a breath of fresh air.
But if the ladies at the balls and functions are correct, then you cannot abstain from your duties forever. It must happen eventually. Whether you like it or not. You're uneasy for the remainder of lunch. If Sylus notices, he doesn't say so. But you know it will come up eventually.
The market is bustling as usual. Even more so when the locals are aware that the Autrach is here. You've learned that people are more partial to speaking to you than him. You're kinder, softer. Sylus is well… Himself.
You stop at multiple stands, admiring the handwork and trinkets that are on display. You find a few pieces of jewelry you like. Paid by Sylus, of course. You look back to see him looking around at the people. You take a gander as well. There are many beautiful girls in sight. Your stomach churns once again. This time though, you feel like you may puke.
For your image's sake, you request to go back home. Sylus does not question you, but his hand is firm on your lower back. The ride back isn't peaceful by any means. Sylus allows you to lean on him, but that doesn't help you either. You whimper into your own palms, sick with worry.
It's a blur, getting back to his estate. When you come to consciousness, one of your ladies-in-waiting is pressing a cold towel to your forehead. She quivers because behind her is your husband, arms crossed and brows furrowed. You blearily blink as you open your eyes, groaning. Everything hurts, your head, your stomach, and especially your throat. You cough, violently sitting up. Your lady-in-waiting gasps, rubbing your back.
"Your Highness!" She comforts you. She's nudged aside by Sylus who kneels by your bedside. She brings a cup of warm water to your lips. You swallow down the water, the ache in your throat easing slightly. He pulls it away from you, silently placing it on the table.
Soon, a doctor comes into the room. You can't hear his conversation with Sylus, but his body language only frightens you further. You weakly reach out your arm to him, tugging on the sleeve of his robe. You feel horrible. You whimper a sob, his head turning around swiftly. He clutches your hand in his, smoothing a hand over your sweaty head.
It's summer, there's no reason you should be catching a cold. His face is the epitome of worry. You know the doctor's still talking, but you keep your eyes on Sylus's gaze. His beautiful eyes. He presses a kiss to your knuckles, rubbing your cheek.
"I don't understand." He states, speaking to the doctor. The doctor cowers behind Sylus, eyes on his sock-clad feet.
"Perhaps Her Highness isn't adjusting well to a new environment. Stress can do unimaginable things to the body, Your Highness. Ample rest will do her well." He writes a prescription and hands it to the lady in the corner of the room. She nods as the doctor turns back to Sylus who is still looking at you.
"She will recover, Your Highness." He bows before exiting the room. The lady also takes an initiative to go retrieve your prescription, leaving Sylus and you alone in the room. He's perplexed. What could you possibly be stressed about? He's provided everything you have asked for. Is there something he is missing? Is he lacking in a department?
"My dear," He whispers, thumb brushing over your forehead. Your eyes flutter shut. The corners of your eyes burn the longer you try to keep them open. Sylus shushes you softly, rubbing over your eyebrow. "Rest. We will speak later."
You do not get the opportunity to speak to him later. In fact, you do not see your husband until winter. Monthly, you receive a letter from him. He's stuck in a neighboring nation, having to stay until the end of the summer festival. However, the date for his return keeps getting pushed back by unseen circumstances. He still sends money weekly though, handed to you through one of the guards you met on your wedding day. Occasionally, he sends you presents. Custom-made hairpins, necklaces, earrings-- You name it, he has bought it. He has also sent a tailor to your home, requesting that you get some new clothes for yourself.
You sit in the house all day, replying to his letters with simple replies. You do not have much to say in return. He ends every letter with blessings and the same message,
"I truly hope you are resting well, my dear. When I return home, let us sit down and talk. I am still concerned about you. If there is anything you wish for, please voice it. Even if it is a complaint. I will do better. Take care, my dear."
You are still riddled with worry. Your father's words still haunt you after multiple months. How can you comfort yourself when every story you have heard has ended the same? You've heard it happen again and again. Perhaps you just need to swallow your pride and do as you are told. You cannot run away from your fate.
If it is meant to happen, it will.
Despite all your anxieties, you still miss Sylus. He made you grow accustomed to eating together once a day. It is painful to see only one plate, one teacup set at the table. It hurts to see that his bedchamber no longer has his scent. You long to hear him call you "my dear" once more. You long to feel his ruffle your hair when you make him smile, or when you pout at his jokes.
Despite everything, you do love spending time with him. You love being with him. You've come to love Sylus. Sylus, who despite everything, is the complete opposite of the rumors that caused you to have nightmares. You do not live in fear of the man who sleeps down the hall from you. You are willing to let your guard down. You, for the first time, are willing to love. You want to love, but you do not have anything to offer. And that is the most painful part of it all.
How can you love this man when you are not ready to love him in the way every man wants? However, winter must pass. Spring will always bloom.
New Year's has arrived in the time Sylus has been away. In his latest letter, he writes:
"My dear, I'm pleased to say I am going to depart tonight. I apologize it has taken me this long to return. I long to return home to you. How have you been? What is different this time of year? The daturas in the garden should be blooming around this time. Ask Luke and Kieran to take you out to the market, fetch yourself any sweets you enjoy. You have been through a rough year. I hope that this year will be better for us both. I also hope that you have fun at the lantern festival this year. I had wanted to be the first person to take you, but it seems the stars have not aligned for us, have they, my dear? Enjoy your time with your ladies. Luke and Kieran will guide you to a terrace I had reserved for us. I hope that you will enjoy the view."
With the letter is a red packet, stuffed with cash. Your eyes bulge at the sheer weight of it. You glance back at Kieran and Luke who bow, smiling softly. You are bummed though. You had wished that he would return before the end of the year. However, you are the wife of a merchant. This is simply part of it, is it not?
You are ushered by your ladies-in-waiting to get dressed. The lantern festival is tonight. Despite Sylus's absence, you are still attending the festival nonetheless. Fan in hand, you walk down the streets, trying to follow Luke and Kieran's confusing directions. If you're being honest, you're partially irritated. Why couldn't they just take you?
You grumble, going down a path of taverns. It is beautiful out tonight. The wind is blowing softly, the glow of the night lights are gorgeous. Not to mention how alive the city is tonight. As you scoot between people, murmuring apologies, you spot a flash of white in the corner of your eye. You do not know what has compelled you to look up, but you do. You're glad you did.
Returning your gaze is a certain white-haired man. Someone you are intimately familiar with. Your eyes widen as he smiles, sipping on his drink. But your irritation slowly seeps back in. He is gone for months and shows up in the most casual way possible. You shoot him a glare, hiding your face behind your fan. You see him chuckle before you turn your head and keep walking.
But Sylus has never let you stray far from him. Somehow, he manages to get a ribbon tied around you. You're flung into the air, a loud scream escaping your lips. You squeeze your eyes, heart racing. He also has never let you fall. Sylus takes a hold of you, pressing you to his chest before seating you on the railing.
You peek up from his body, your fan still hiding your face. His hair has grown longer, his build stronger. Your cheeks flush being so close to him as your eyes dart away.
"Husbands don't typically kidnap their wives off the street, you know?" You mumble, pouting. Sylus rumbles a laugh, turning himself to stand beside you. He leans on the railing, tucking your hair behind your ear.
"I missed you too, kitten." He snickers, tapping at the car ears on your head. Your eyes widen as you smack his hand away.
"That was… I didn't ask for such a hairstyle!" He's already teasing you despite not seeing you for over six months. You huff, swinging your legs. Sylus smiles beside you, resting his head on your shoulder. He presses his nose into your skin, inhaling your scent. You stiffen, allowing him to touch you as he pleases. Sylus hums into your skin.
"Truly, I have missed you, sweetheart." His eyes flutter shut, melting into your side. He pulls away, guiding you to the small table and chair set on the balcony. From here, the view is amazing. You can see the entire city and its beautiful lights. Your eyes dilate with wonder, the lights glowing on your face.
Sylus takes a seat across from you, pouring the clear liquid into the cup he was previously drinking from. He smiles, standing. He stands between your legs, placing the rim of the cup at your lips.
"We never did have a drink together, did we?" His eyes glow with sincerity. The bags under his eyes are deeper as well. You lean forward, sipping from the cup. Being so close to him after being apart for so long, you take initiative to press forward. His brows raise, but Sylus does not back away from your touch. Your arms loop around his neck, pulling him down. He kneels by your feet, tilting his head up to yours.
You finally press your lips over his, sighing into him. He opens his mouth, allowing some of the alcohol to slip into his own mouth. It burns down both your throats, but you do not mind it. You want to kiss him, want him to understand how deeply you have missed him.
It is private up here, there's no need to worry about onlookers or gossipers. However, you're sure someone will say something about your indecency. Sylus, always thinking ahead, pulls away. His eyes flutter open, gaze dragging up from your lap to your eyes. You've looked away from him, your face red. He chuckles, taking your hand in his. He presses a kiss to your knuckles, whispering.
"I have missed you terribly, my dear." He presses another kiss to your wrist, inhaling your scent. "However, I am still worried. You never elaborated on your worries. Let us air your grievances, release your heart of your stress and worries before the New Year, hm?" He tilts his head to the side, nuzzling into your palm as it cups his cheek. You inhale deeply, voice shaky. He comforts you, rubbing your hands with his.
"I was afraid you would…" You take a moment, pausing to articulate yourself properly. Sylus is patient, giving you the floor. "I was afraid you would become impatient with me one day. Come to resent me for failing to perform my duties as a wife." You keep your eyes glued to his hands rubbing yours. He doesn't speak, allowing you ample time to speak your mind. "If you wished to fulfill your needs with another woman, I would permit it. It isn't as if I could stop you."
Finally, Sylus intervenes.
"What?" He replies, brows tugged down in confusion. "My dear." He shifts on his knees, fully kneeling on his knees. He dips his head down, trying to catch your gaze. He pushes up your chin, eyes swirling with compassion. "Why would you think such a thing? Have I said anything to warrant such a thought? If so, I sincerely apologize."
Sylus takes your hands and places them on his heart, allowing you to feel the way his heart is racing beneath his chest. Your eyes well with tears. If your ears were real, Sylus is certain they would be tilted down.
"My father…." Sylus groans at the mention of his name. "And the stories I've heard from ladies. It is a normal thing to desire one's partner. I just-- I just was never ready. And I do not know when I will be."
Sylus sighs, chuckling softly. He cups your face, pressing a kiss to your cheek and forehead. He looks at you as if you've hung the moon and stars, lips turned into a soft smile.
"You do not ever have to be ready. You do not owe me a thing. You only need to accept my love. I have loved you from the moment I saw you in town. You never needed to prove a thing to me." You stared at him, bewildered. Sylus chuckles at your realization. "You haggled with me." He snickered, shaking his head. "You called me a low-life for having such a high price on sweets. When I saw you again when I returned to Xuanyu, seeing you in such a state, I did what I could to help you." He clears his throat, ears reddening.
"Is that why you…" You say under your breath, only for Sylus's ears to hear. He grins, nodding.
"Yes. You have never needed to prove yourself to me. I have loved you since I saw you." Love at first sight. That was not what you were expecting. He brushes your bangs away from your face. "Do not allow people, let alone a man like your father, to get into your head like this. Drive you sick with worry." He bumps his head against yours, wincing softly. Sylus chuckles, kissing you once more.
He finally stands to sit across from you. You turn your body, finally noticing the lantern on the table. You take a hold of it, revealing a paint brush and dish behind it. As you twirl it around, a painting of a cat is illustrated on.
"I drew it." Sylus says, amused. He pours another drink, swallowing it down cleanly. You frown, looking at him. You narrow your eyes. As you point to your head you speak,
"This was your doing." You state plainly, not even questioning his involvement. He laughs across from you, his shoulders and body shaking.
"Yes. And I think it suits you quite well, kitten." He jokes, pouring another cup. This time, he pushes it in your direction. "Drink. Then I will take you somewhere else to see the lights. We may light ours as well."
You take the cup in your hands, copying his movements. You regret it instantly, sputtering a cough. Sylus chuckles, using his sleeve to wipe the liquid that drips down your mouth. You clear your throat, glaring at him.
"You drank it like it was water… It wasn't that bad earlier." You huff, placing the cup back down. Sylus stands, watching as you draw your arms out. He tilts his head, admiring you softly before scooping you into his arms.
"Distance truly makes the heart grow fonder. Wouldn't you agree?" You nod against his shoulder, looping your arms around his neck. He holds you with one arm, allowing you to rest on the bend of his arm. His hand splays over your thigh, squeezing it slightly before standing on the railing. "I hope you aren't afraid of heights."
In a flash, he jumps off the railing. You grip onto him, afraid he may lead you to your death. However, you begin to feel light, as if you're floating in the air. Sylus drifts around the tavern, bringing you to the rooftop. You stand on the ridge, gripping his hands for dear life. You whimper softly. legs trembling at the sheer height. You look at Sylus, brows knit with worry. He grins, chuckling.
"It's alright. I won't let you fall, my dear." He flashes you a toothy grin seeing you tremble softly. In his other hand, he holds the lantern with his free hand stretched out. "Come, we may light it together." You're quick to pull into his embrace, arms wound around his waist. You press your cheek into the side of his chest and bring your hand under the lantern. His hand cups yours, encapsulating you.
The lantern softly lights up, a golden-orange hue shimmering over your faces. You gasp, giggling as you watch it float. Behind it are hundreds, if not thousands, of other lanterns. They float in the night sky, flying high. You watch in awe as the sky is practically lit up. Your eyes travel to Sylus's face, who is already looking at you.
"To a better year." He softly whispers, leaning down. His nose brushes against yours as his lips graze your forehead. He presses a kiss to your temple, eyes fluttering shut. You squeeze your arm around him, cheerfully smiling.
It takes you a while to get comfortable to Sylus's touches. He starts small, kissing your knuckles and cheeks. He allows you ample time to back away, to let the hesitation slip in. It never does though. You're certain in him. The Autrach is clingy though, always having an arm around you. The sheer weight of him is something you may get used to. Nor the heat that radiates off his body.
His touches are never rough though, soft and patient. He's quick to pick up on your cues. A hand on his chest as you stand on your toes means you want a kiss. You stare at his face long enough, perhaps you also want a kiss. You simply exist in his presence? A kiss!
The kisses never lead to anything much. The furthest you've gone is sitting on his lap. It's become your new home, your throne.
His kisses aren't rushed, even if he is leaving for the day. Soft and mellow. His hands aren't either. They're gentle, thumbs brushing against your ribs over your robes. They're big enough to cover most of your waist. You do enjoy looking at them. Your mind wanders from time to time. Even staring at him tends to have your mind wandering.
The first time you go further with the Autrach is on a late evening. You had just been invited by a high ranking official for dinner. The dinner was also a business meeting, the official requesting something from Sylus. The two of you stumble into your shared bedroom, fingers through each other's hair. For the first time, Sylus's kisses are rushed. As if he cannot get enough.
Your back hits the wall, Sylus's legs sliding between yours. It rides up your dress, a moan pulled out of your lips. That was the first crack in his resolve: your noises. Next is your touch. Your hands drag down his chest, nails curling into his shoulders as you try to push yourself up. The final is you saying his name:
"Sylus," You breathe out, hands clutching onto his robes as you tug him lower. He practically melts into your touch, humming into your mouth. Sylus's hands reach under your outer robes, tugging on the belt around your waist. It falls by your feet with a thump, his fingers massaging your waist and hips. You moan into him again, his tongue gliding between your lips. Your hands pull off his robes. It pools by his feet before he pulls you closer.
Sylus takes a few steps back, the back of his calves.hitting the bed. He pulls you down with him, bunching your clothing around your hips when you kneel around his hips. Sylus lays below you as you crawl over him. He takes a moment to admire you. Lips swollen, eyes dilated as you pant. You're so beautiful he might die right then and there.
"My beloved." He calls out to you, cupping your cheek. You rub your cheek into his hand, humming. He huffs a laugh, drawing you closer. Your entire weight on his body, Sylus keeps one hand over your ass, the other tangled in your hair.
You sigh into him, kissing him once more. Sylus’s hand kneads your ass, breathing out your name. He manages to roll you under him, pinning down your hips so you can’t run away. You lock your ankles around his tailbone, rubbing yourself over him.
It’s maddening, the pure spikes of pleasure you get from simply rubbing on him. Sylus encourages this, hands around your hips as he grinds you harder onto him. He mutters soft praises, kissing down your neck. He manages to tug off your final layer of clothing, leaving you in your undergarments. You shy away under his gaze, looking at the curtains that canopy your shared bed.
“You’re beautiful, my beloved.” Sylus praises, nipping the junction where your neck and shoulders meet. You gasp softly, smacking him on the shoulder. He had a knack for biting.
“Stop that, you dog!” You hiss as Sylus laps at your wound. He lifts his head up with teasing eyes.
“Woof.” You roll your eyes, allowing your head to smack against the bed. You groan as his teeth bite down on more of your exposed skin. It feels nice though, especially when he laps and sucks at it. He brings a hand up from your hips, massaging your breast.
He uses the sides of his fingers to pinch and roll your nipples softly, allowing you to get used to the sensation. You’re awfully sensitive though, writhing under the smallest of touches. Sylus keeps his eyes on your expressions, watching for any sign of discomfort.
Your eyes are squeezing shut, brows knitted, but the wanton moans escaping your lips hint that you’re enjoying yourself. Sylus snickers, leaning down to once again nip at your skin. He laps at your sensitive nipples, blowing cold air over them. Your back arches into him, hands smacking at his bare shoulders.
He laughs, finally committing. His lips wrap around your nipples, suckling at the sensitive peaks as they fully harden in his mouth. His hand reaches out, intertwining his fingers with yours. You dig your nails into his knuckles, back bowing harshly the more he sucks.
Sylus pulls away, spoiling your other breast with the same attention. His free hand slides down your torso, followed by his lips. He kisses down your stomach and ribs, reaching your undergarments. He tugs them down with his teeth, letting them pool at your ankles and inevitably slide off.
He slides off the bed, kneeling by the edge. Sylus wraps his hands around your ankles, tugging you off the edge. Your ass hangs over the edge, putting pressure on your tailbone, but Sylus alleviates it by having a hand under you. Your legs dangle over his broad shoulders, a field of white hair between your legs.
His eyes darken, pulling apart your lower lips with his fingers. You’re swollen and dripping, body tensing the longer he looks. You whine from above,
“Sylus,” You cry out, nudging him with your foot. “Stop staring, it’s embarrassing…” It isn’t the first time he’s seen you bare. There’s been a handful of times the Autrach has snuck his way under your robes and lapped at your cunt. He’s gotten a face full many times, but this time it’s different.
He’s seeing you in the light, in a space where he can truly hear you whine and cry out for him. He hums, still staring.
“I know, kitten. But you’re so beautiful. How could I not?” He smirks from between your legs, watching as your head hits the pillow again with a scoff. He’s always been one for flattery, showering you with praises and flowery words.
He doesn’t waste anymore time, gliding a finger up and down your slit until you’re bucking your hips. Sylus concedes, gently sliding his finger into your heat. Your walls clench around his intruding finger that goes straight to your sweet spot. Having mapped out your body, Sylus knows where to prods and poke, what to tease and lick. He’s thrilled watching you react to his ministrations.
His finger curls into your cunt, pulling a pitchy moan from you. You inhale, his thumb coming down to press on your clit. He watches as your walls constrict around his finger, soaking his digit. Your slick smears around your inner thighs, down to the base of Sylus’s palm.
He adds another finger, your cunt spasming at the stretch. You whine, narrowing your eyes at him. He doesn’t return your gaze, but chuckles.
“I need to make sure you’re stretched out, my beloved. Or else it will hurt.” Your huff is cut short when his thumb starts circling your clit, smearing your slick over it. It heightens your sensitivity, hips bucking into his palm. Your moans never stop, a mantra of Sylus’s name the closer you get to your peak.
“I know, beloved. It feels good, hm?” Sylus grins, admiring your face from where he’s kneeling under you. He stands, his fingers still fucking your cunt to see your face. He uses his free hand to squeeze your cheeks, allowing you to scoot higher on the bed to support your back. “I want to see your face.” He whispers, hovering over you.
Your legs lock around his hips loosely, slowly nodding. You enjoy his attention, being pinned under his gaze. It’s exhilarating, heart ramming against your chest. It leaves you breathless and flustered. His gaze is so sharp, so strong and mind-numbing. You want to succumb to all your desires, blurt out every want and feeling you have to him when he looks at you like that.
Your stomach begins to tighten, breathing in heavier. Sylus watches your face contort, lips forming into an o-shape as your back arches forward. Your hips stutter, hands clawing at Sylus's back.
"Sylus," You moan out, head rolling back against the sheets and you writhe. He hums in return, too enamoured with the sight of you about to cum. You grip his wrist, nails digging into his skin, but Sylus does not stop. He presses harder, keeping the same rhythm. He ups the intensity, rolling your clit side to side. You finally succumb to your desires, a hot gush of slick flooding Sylus's fingers and wrist as you cum on his hand. You cry out far louder than intended, his name on the tip of your tongue as you press your forehead to his shoulder.
"My beloved." Sylus purrs, kissing your cheeks and swollen lips. You whimper against his lips, curling into him as you come down from your high. "So beautiful. All for me. My beautiful wife." He presses a flurry of kisses over your skin, lapping at the sweat the drips down your neck.
Sylus is able to pull multiple orgasms out of you, not once tugging down his pants. Boneless and hazed, you reach out for Sylus who's lapping at your cunt as if his life depends on it. You push on your elbows, tugging at his strands. He lets you pull his head back, guide him over your body. You slot yourself into his arms, pinning him under you. He's pliant to your touch, allowing you to move him however he pleases.
As you mount his hips, your greedy fingers tug at the string keeping them around his hips. You roughly pull the fabric down, unintentionally soaking Sylus's thigh. He feels your heat soak through his pants, sending his head reeling. He's been holding onto a thread of patience the entire time, prioritizing your comfort over his own pleasure.
You dip your hand down, gently holding his cock in your hand at the base. Sylus sighs, relieved at your hand wrapped around him. Your hands are softer, much warmer than his palm. He shudders as you pump him once or twice. You mutter his name, throat hoarse.
"Yes, dear?" He groans, hands settling on your bare hips. You're quiet, staring at his cock as it throbs in your hand.
"I don't think it will fit…" Your voice trembles slightly, dragging your eyes up his well-toned torso to his face. Sylus's brows crease before he chuckles. He leans up, pressing a kiss on your lips.
"It will, trust me." You crawl backwards, laying flat as Sylus crawls over you once more. He presses kisses to your skin, soothing your tense body. His hand kneads your hip as he whispers, low and soft, "We'll take it slow."
It comforts you slightly. You look away when he brings your sore thighs up to rest on his shoulder. Your ankle dangles over his frame, Sylus's free hand coming down to align himself with your entrance. He slides the tip of his cock over your swollen lips, moaning as your heat envelops him.
"Sweetie," Sylus calls out. You turn to look at him, his eyes warm. He smiles, tilting his head down to kiss you once more. "Slow. We take it slow." You nod in return, eyes glued to his cock between your thighs. You watch as his hips push forward, the tip disappearing past your entrance. The stretch is there, but it isn't intense. Sylus groans, your wet walls instantly clenching down on him. He sputters, gasping.
"Beloved." He squeezes your hip, strained. "Relax, relax." He runs a hand up and down your side, feeling your body melt into the mattress. Your cunt gently relaxes, allowing him to push in deeper. Sylus sighs in relief, his cock sinking deeper into you. You pulse around him, eyes on his face. His eyebrows are creased together, the tips of his ears flushed red.
It feels like an eternity before Sylus fully pushes himself inside of you. By then, you're chest to chest as Sylus shallowly grinds himself into your cunt. You clench and gush around him, moaning out his name into his lips. Your nails track marks down his arms and back, certain they will bruise by morning. But that's neither here nor there.
You have your fair share of marks as well. Sylus's bites litter your body. One you're sure you ladies-in-waiting will giggle about as they help you bathe tomorrow. But again, that's neither here nor there. You indulge in the long awaited moment with your lover. Your husband.
"My wife." Sylus groans, kissing you once more before he retracts his hips. He pushes back in, the two of you moaning in unison. It's beautiful, how in tune the two of you are. Sylus pulls away from your lips, whispering against your skin. "Do you know how irresistible you look when you succumb to your desires?" He looks ravenous, his tongue darting out to lick his lips.
You flush, kissing him once more, hands cupping his cheeks. Sylus nuzzles into your palm, gently biting down on the meat of your palm.
"I want to devour you, one bite at a time." He leans closer, noses brushing. "May I? Please, my beloved. I want nothing more than to have you. Be one with you. Will you allow me that?" He's borderline needy, pleading against your lips. He's giving you one last opportunity to back out, despite everything that has transpired in your shared bed tonight.
You know if you said no Sylus would back off. But you do not want to. You want him to devour you, consume you until you become one-- Body and soul. You nod,
"Yes, my husband. Please," You pant against his lips. Sylus's patience has snapped, his hips fucking into you. The tip of his cock abuses your sweet spot, your stomach feels sore as it clenches around him. Your chest pushes into his, nails scarring down his back. Sylus groans at the pain, but it only makes his orgasm grow faster.
You're not too far behind him, blubbering and babbling against his lips. His thrust grows sloppy, but with your legs locked around him, he opts to keep grinding his cock into you. You mewl, keeling when his pelvis rubs against your clit. You're long gone, cumming on Sylus's cock with a shout. You screech, throat aching as you sob into him, pussy spasming around his cock.
Sylus cranes his neck back to look at your face as you cum. He doesn't mind the neck pain he'll deal with tomorrow as the sight of your face is the sole reason he cums instantly. It's a quick rush of heat inside of you, spilling out between your inner thighs. Sylus's body gives out, his entire weight pressing down on you. He noses your neck, inhaling your scent as he mutters praises.
"My beloved wife. Beautiful, soft. Thank you, my love. Thank you." He's babbling, pussydrunk. "I love you." Sylus weakly pushes himself up on his elbows to kiss your lips once more. "Thank you. I love you, my wife. My beloved."
Zayne frowns at you, gaze flicking between your face and the photo album you're holding, currently open to a page of him as a baby.
"I believe I was an average size at this age." He notes, flipping to the next page. Sure enough, there's another picture of his chubby cheeked toddler face smiling toothily at the camera. Immediately, you coo.
"You were such a fat baby! I could just eat you up." As if to satisfy said urge, you squeeze his hand tightly, eagerly flipping to the next page.
This photo is one of his earliest, only a few months old in his crib. He can admit that he does look quite chubby in this one. Apparently, he was a large baby. You make an odd noise, practically squealing as you suddenly grab his face, squeezing his no-longer-chubby cheeks.
"Look how cute you were! I hope our babies are this cute." You sigh, pulling away from him to once again admire the photos.
Zayne however, is thinking at a mile a minute.
You had said "our" babies. Did you want children with him? Of course, he knew the two of you were in a moderately serious relationship and having children was likely going to be a topic of conversation eventually but still...
"I hope they look like you." He murmurs, leaning closer to smell your sweet perfume. You smile softly, mirroring his actions to rest closer to him.
"For the sake of their cheeks, that would probably be best."
˙⋆✮ cw: fem!reader, non-mc reader, arranged marriage, prince!zayne, physician!reader, angst, unrequited love, hurt no comfort, one-sided pining, medical themes, regret, no happy ending, unbeta'd, unedited
LaDS Masterlist
ancient china inspired au where zayne is the second prince and non-mc reader is the fifth daughter of a noble house, brought together through an arranged marriage that neither had one wanted but one of you has been silently in love since the beginning.
you met zayne when you're fifteen, in the imperial medicine academy where your parents had sent you because they think you are unmarriageable. you're not pretty enough, not graceful enough, not talented enough in any of the refined arts. you are the youngest child and the youngest daughter, your four older sisters already made powerful matches while you remain the family's disappointment.
meanwhile, zayne is eighteen, the emperor's second son who prefers medicine than politics. they call him the ice prince at court because while he is brilliant, handsome, and smart, he is cold and only dedicated to studying medicine and research.
on the very first day of your studies in the medicine hall, he finds you reading a medical text too advanced for your age and upside down. he doesn't mock you, instead, he patiently corrects you, explains the concepts, and offer to teach you property if you are serious about learning.
you were.
and you fall in love with him that day. completely and hopelessly in love with a prince who only sees you as a promising student.
for five years, you study under him. he's a patient teacher despite being strict and demanding, and you absorb everything that the teaches you because you feel that you are finally good at something. finally, someone treats you like you matter, unlike your manor where you are only an afterthought for being the youngest child. under his tutelage, you become one of the youngest full physicians in the imperial medicine academy's history, brilliant in your own right, but you mostly thank zayne for his patience with teaching you.
but zayne has never seen you as anything more than a colleague, a protégé, a student.
because zayne is in love with mei, a commoner herbalist from the outer city. she's everything you are not, vibrant, confident, beautiful, and naturally talented. you watch him fall for her over the years, watch the way his eyes would soften when she laughs, watch him find excuses to be near her, watch him fall into conversation easily with her.
everyone in the court knows.
everyone except the emperor, who chooses not to see it.
when you're twenty, the emperor issues a decree. zayne will marry. someone suitable, someone with noble blood, someone who understands and would not disrupt his work with the medical academy and the bureau.
someone like you.
your family is ecstatic. you, the forgotten fifth daughter, the unremarkable child, will become a princess to a second prince. its the greatest honor they could imagine.
but you know where zayne's heart lies. he is devastated and tells you that he didn't want this marriage. you confess that you know he loves mei and you've always known this, but you both know you can't refuse the emperor's decree. the wedding proceeds and you both follow your duty and consummate the wedding night.
life as zayne's wife settles into a routine. you are colleagues who happened to be married. he's never unkind but he never touches you except when protocol demands it or when you are both in front of the court and the emperor. you continue your studies and medical research, treat patients, and slowly die inside from loving someone who will never love you back.
then the plague comes.
it spreads through the port district first. a fever that burns, lesions that weep, a cough that brings up blood. nothing helps. people died by the hundreds by the first two months. the imperial medical academy and bureau becomes a battlefield.
when mei contracts the illness, zayne falls apart. you watch him destroy himself trying to save her, trying every possible treatment, standing vigil outside the room she is quarantined in. it breaks your heart.
then some of your colleagues whisper about experimental trials. someone needs to be infected intentionally, given controlled doses of different treatments. everyone is desperate and its the only way they can think of to find a cure.
you don't even hesitate and volunteer.
when the head physician asks why you did it, you only say that you all need the data and you are not essential to anyone. he wants to disagree but then you made him promise not to tell zayne until you have results that are worth showing.
they inject you with infected blood. within eighteen hours, the fever begins. you document everything meticulously in your research journal. every symptom, every treatment, every response of your body, every observation. the disease ravages your body while you clinically record your own death.
on day four, zayne discovers what you have done. he's furious, terrified, and desperate. his voice is sharp with barely controlled panic when he asks you why you have done it through the partition meant to separate you from the non infected people. you answer him that the bureau needed a human trial and someone had to volunteer.
when he tells you that you have sacrificed yourself without telling him with anger in his voice, you asked him if he would have let you proceed. the answer is written in silence, of course he would have stopped you, you were his wife. you smile sadly and responded that you are a physician first and foremost and he was the one who taught you that.
over the next few days, he tries everything to save you. new compound formulas, more intensive treatments, experimental combinations. he stands outside the partition and talks to you about research, about cases, anything except what's happening between you.
on day seven, delirious with fever, you finally confessed to him that you have loved him since you were fifteen. since you got engaged, even knowing that he wished you were mei. that you have loved him during the wedding night and any nights that he had done his duty even when he was thinking of her. that you have loved him every single day of your marriage, even knowing that he could never love you back.
silence followed the confession. through the haze of your fever, you see his silhouette go completely silent against the partition. when he finally speaks, his voice sounds broken. you laughed sadly and told him its' fine, that you never expected anything different anyway. that you just wanted him to know before you die. that you wanted him to know that someone loved him that much even if its just you.
he repeats your words "just you" as if they have wounded him. but you don't hear it, you are already slipping away.
compound e shows promise. the lesions begin healing first, then the fever breaks in other patients. it's working. the experimental research you are sacrificing your life for will save hundreds of lives.
but its too late for you. the internal damage is too sever. your organs are failing one by one. your body is shutting down.
your final entry, written in characters and barely legible and shaking across the page "zayne. not your fault. never your fault. be happy. that's all I ever wanted. for you to be happy. even if not with me."
you die on day twenty four, in the hour of the dog. zayne is sitting outside your partition, reading your journal entries aloud, discussing treatment modifications for future patients. he doesn't even realize you are dying until he looks up and sees your chest has stopped rising. that you have stopped breathing.
that you are gone.
three days later, he finally forces himself to read your journal completely. that's when he finally sees everything he missed. the small notes scattered throughout your clinical observations.
hour 12: wondering if zayne has noticed i'm not home. probably not.
hour 87: can hear him shouting at the other physicians about mei's treatment. he sounds so desperate. hope the experiment helps save her.
hour 156: told him I loved him. shouldn't have. whats the point. but wanted him to know that someone loved him so much.
hour 234: thinking about the first day we met. i was so stupid, reading text upside down. he was so patient with me. kind. no one else has ever been that kind.
the journal falls from his hands as realization grips him.
you had loved him since you were fifteen. through several years of studying together, through the arranged marriage, through the years of being treated like a convenient background character in his life. you had loved him while he was so busy looking at another woman that he never actually saw you.
his self-sacrificing and brilliant wife who thought she was disposable.
he had been given the most precious gift. someone who had loved him unconditionally. who had supported his work. who had never demanded more than he could give. and he had thrown it away because he was chasing someone else. he was so busy at looking at what he couldn't have that he never saw what was in front of him.
you were right there. kind, understanding, dedicated. and he never saw you. not really. not the way he should have.
your research had saved mei. your research had saved hundreds, no, thousands of others. the compound that worked became the standard treatment dropping the plague mortality rate from seventy percent to fifteen percent.
everyone lived because of you.
everyone except you.
now you are gone, and zayne finally sees you, but it is too late.
END.
˙⋆✮ a/n: i badly needed a short break from writing the part two for caleb's westworld au so here we are. i'm sorry zayne, i know i promised a ned stark x catelyn tully inspired au for you with a a happy ending but you showed up at the cafe today so T_T
summary: your new husband thought it appropriate to abandon his wife the very next day, leaving only a note and his wedding ring. if he didn’t want to see his wife, then you would give him someone else to see
wc: 12.3k
warnings: historically inaccurate again, nsfw, dry humping, oral (m rec.), piv, zayne sucks at first but he gets better, they’re medics so brief descriptions of injuries
an: if you noticed the continuity errors shh no you didn't. this is part of a set of three (Sylus, Caleb, and Zayne) set in the same world, but can be read standalone
You woke to find the bed cold, the other half empty, as if no one had been sleeping there at all. You certainly didn't love the man who was supposed to be there. After all, you had been married for less than twenty four hours and had only met him three times in total: during the announcement, during a formal dinner with your parents, and then at the Li family’s home in front of the elders to exchange vows. But although you didn't love him, you at least expected him to still be there when you woke up.
You sat upright, the sheet pooling around your waist as you took in the still silence of what should have been your marital bedroom. Your husband, Zayne Li—Doctor Li, was known for his immense intellect and skill, but also for being a cold and detached man. You had hoped that wouldn't extend to you, yet there you were, a new bride alone in bed. Seems even in marriage he was as steely as the tools he wielded.
Even before you had fallen asleep, he had hesitated to lie beside you, and, when he did, he’d kept his back turned to you, his body situated as close to the edge as possible without falling off.
You sighed heavily, throwing off the covers and rising from the soft bedding. You pulled on a robe to protect yourself from the chilly morning air. As you did so, you noticed his nightstand barren when it hadn't been the night before. His conscription notice. It was gone. Your pulse thundered in your chest as you hurried over to his wardrobe, throwing open the doors to find that most of his clothing was now gone, save for the elaborate ceremonial robes he’d worn only yesterday.
You glanced around the room once more. A glint on your own bedside table caught your eye. How you had missed it, you didn't know. But it didn't matter now, since all you felt was white hot rage coursing through your veins as you stared at the simple silver wedding band lying there, the tangible symbol of your unity as husband and wife reduced to a paperweight for the neatly folded note beneath it.
With a shaking hand, you pulled the note out from under it, allowing the ring to slide against the paper and clink back onto the wooden surface of your bedside table. You gingerly unfolded the note, resisting every urge to rip it to shreds without even reading it. His handwriting was almost clinical in its precision, as if he was practicing calligraphy and not whatever this was.
Y/n
I have volunteered my expertise to the imperial army as a medic, effective immediately. Do not attempt to contact or follow me. I leave my home in your hands and I apologize for my sudden departure.
Z. Li
You crumpled up the note in your fist, seething. How could he humiliate you like this? And with such an impersonal note, too. It was an insult. A rejection. This was not how husbands spoke to their wives. He had packed his bags, removed his ring, and left you without so much as waking you to bid you farewell, effectively abandoning you on the first day of what was intended to be the rest of your lives together.
You wouldn't stand for it. You would not be treated like a forgotten relic, pushed aside to collect dust. He would see. You would make him see. His wife was not just some feeble woman that he could walk all over.
You moved quickly in your anger, sifting through all the clothes you had that could help you pass as a man. Out of sheer spite, you used one of Zayne’s shirts to form a cloth strip to bind your chest. It was work, but your effort was rewarded when you took in your appearance in the mirror. You looked like a man. An effeminate one, but a man nonetheless. No longer were you the refined young woman you had been raised to be.
This foolish plan may have very well gotten you killed, but it had to be better than whatever fate Zayne had tried to condemn you to. If he didn't want to see his wife, then you would give him someone else to see.
The travel was brutal on your body, the terrain and weather unforgiving. You were accustomed to the sedentary, indoor life of a well-bred noble, not one that involved traversing jagged terrain and sleeping in public inns. At the very least, it served as study material of sorts for your disguise. You were able to listen and observe those around you, and the grime of travel that was beginning to coat your face only helped conceal you further.
Whenever you began to flag, you pulled out the silver ring that Zayne hadn't even deemed worthy of bringing with him. The anger fueled you to keep going. Additionally, you had briefly made acquaintances with an older man traveling alone. He had taken it upon himself to instruct you when you nearly killed both of you by misidentifying a toxic fruit as an edible one. Certainly not your proudest moment, but he had been patient with you, teaching you everything he could about herbal medicine. You dutifully wrote all of it down, reading through the notes as often as possible to ensure they were committed to memory.
Of course, the day eventually came when you had to part ways. All for the best, though. You weren't far now from Zayne’s posting. After countless days of travel, you had finally reached the camp. It was more of a fortress than a camp really, what with the high, imposing walls surrounding it. You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. Your name was Zhi. You came from a small village in the West, and you were looking to become an apprentice in the medical sect. You checked your pack to make sure you had your forged papers before approaching the gate with as much false confidence as you could muster.
“Name?” Demanded the armored man stationed at the gate. “Zhi,” you answered, keeping your tone level and ensuring you kept it low enough to not arouse suspicion. You willed your hands to not shake as you provided him with your forged papers. “I’m seeking an apprenticeship position to become a medic.”
Your papers must have been good enough, since he handed them back to you without comment. He squinted as he looked you up and down. “Are you sure? The medics here see blood and gore day in and day out. You look like a strong wind would snap you in half.”
“I’ll manage. I’m not as physically imposing as the other men here, but I’m dedicated and efficient.”
The man didn't seem convinced, but directed you in anyway. “The man you need to talk to is Dr. Li. He’s in the medical tent; you can’t miss it. He’s a serious sonofabitch. Never smiles and doesn't tolerate slowness.”
It seemed that was all he had to say, so you continued on inside, looking all around you for a tent that stood out from the rest. And he was right. You really couldn't miss it. You joined a queue of what looked to be about ten or so young men, commoners, if their clothes were a reliable indicator.
It didn't take long to see Zayne, his back to you once more, only this time he was tending to the wounds of a soldier on a bloodied cot. You guessed you and the other boys were waiting on him to finish. He seemed so comfortable amidst the groans of pain and blood, completely in his element. It would be admirable if only he hadn't considered this preferable to a comfortable morning in bed with his wife. You watched the way he stitched the wound shut, his hands deft and precise, making no unnecessary movements.
Upon finishing, he turned to survey the group of hopefuls wishing to be taught his trade. “Apprentices,” he began, voice clear and sure. “Look around. We deal with everything from lacerations, to stabbings, to broken bones. If you are squeamish, I ask that you reconsider your goals here and leave now.”
Three of the potential candidates backed out of the tent, looking like they were going to be sick. “You.” He pointed to one of the young men. “Come here.”
He tested each and every one of you individually on your knowledge of first aid and the practical skills needed to apply it. One after the other, they were dismissed for reasons such as incompetence or visible nausea. You worried you might get sent back home before even getting the chance to prove what you had set out to do.
When he got to you, there wasn't so much as a flicker of recognition on his face. He directed your attention to one of the cots. “When he got here, he had sustained substantial injuries and was bleeding heavily here, here, and here. What would you have prioritized?”
“His abdomen, sir. The limbs can be tied with a tourniquet, but the abdomen needs to be addressed immediately. Of course, it would depend on the severity of the wounds themselves, but, assuming they were equally bad, then that is my answer.”
“If his wounds were infected, how would you treat them?”
“Application of an herbal poultice.” You went on to describe exactly which plants and in which amounts, how often they were to be reapplied, and how to bandage it.
“This man here,” he said, walking over to where another medic was busy suturing a soldier wincing in pain. “He’ll finish this,” Zayne told him, nodding his head in your direction.
You took the needle from the medic, relying on your experience with sewing cloth to help. It was certainly different, but your pride couldn't take another hit. You could not be sent back home. You had already been rejected as his wife, and you would not be rejected as his apprentice.
Zayne observed you quietly, his intimidating presence looming over you. Once you had finished, you looked to him, waiting for any sort of feedback. “Satisfactory, if not a little sloppy. You’ll start with a probationary period under my tutelage.”
Impersonal, as you expected, but all that mattered was that you got to stay. You would prove to both him and yourself that you were worth more than a cast-aside wedding ring and empty vows.
-❆-
It was brutal work. You’d been warned, but nothing could have prepared you for the relentless onslaught of neverending injuries that needed tending. Day in and day out, you were suturing and packing wounds, applying salves, running errands, and gathering more supplies for Dr. Li. He was as emotionally distant as he was during the apprentice evaluations, only ever giving short commands, his words clipped and to the point, wasting no time.
What you had learned from the old man was just a drop in the bucket compared to what you had learned from Zayne so far. He was terrifying in his own way, his every movement swift and precise, his quick analysis of injuries allowing him to make judgement calls on a dime, treating his patients as quickly as possible. You may not have respected him as a husband, but you couldn't deny that he was a master of his trade, perfectly at home in the field hospital. There were even jokes among the soldiers that he was born with an innate knowledge of herbs.
You were stripping two of the cots of their bloody linens when Zayne shouted for you. “Zhi! Take care of the captain’s laceration. I’ll handle the other one.” You dropped what you were doing, rushing to the man’s side. There was a deep cut down the length of his forearm, but nothing life threatening, unlike the man who had been brought in with him.
You got to work quickly, ensuring that both the skin and the needle were clean before beginning the process of sewing flesh back together. You were proud of how much you had improved, now able to work almost as quickly as Zayne himself, though you doubted you’d ever reach his level of skill. He was a prodigy, after all.
The man, who had introduced himself as Caleb, made small talk as you worked, mostly to distract himself from the stinging pain. “You're very efficient with a needle,” he remarked, watching the way your nimble fingers adeptly guided the little tool.
“I should hope so, considering how much grief Dr. Li has put me through.”
Caleb snorted, looking over to where Dr. Li was busy with his own patient, yelling out orders to the more experienced assistants. “Yeah, I can believe it.”
He continued to watch you work, fascinated by how gentle your hands were, considering your chosen line of work. More gentle than any man’s hand typically was. His eyes narrowed as he focused more on your actual hands than what you were doing with them. Far more delicate than what would be expected of the peasant boy you had introduced yourself as. With growing suspicion, he turned his gaze to your face. You only spared him a brief, confused glance before refocusing on the task at hand.
You were hiding it well, but Caleb had always been the observant type. He had initially assumed you were just a somewhat feminine man, but no. You weren't a man at all—he was sure of it. He didn't know your reasons or motivations for being there, but they must have been serious if you were risking imperial punishment. He didn't personally care, though. After all, a good medic is a good medic, and they sure needed all the help they could get, but the higher ups might very well kill you if you're ever discovered.
There was a part of him that was mildly concerned someone else would figure it out and actually turn you in, but another part of him found great amusement in the fact that the perfect Dr. Li hadn't even noticed despite working with you all day. When you finished tying off the thread, you dutifully wrapped his arm tightly with clean bandages, instructing him to change them as needed. Taking this as a dismissal, he stood from the cot, almost laughing at the height difference between the two of you that solidified what he already believed to be true. Dr. Li really was oblivious to anything that wasn't medicine.
You continued to see Caleb periodically, sometimes with one of the other captains, a formidable man named Sylus who had very quickly moved up the ranks and was still making a name for himself. Rumor had it there had been some . . . odd noises from his tent one night, before his battalion had joined the camp you were working at.
You didn't understand why, but Caleb seemed to always make it a point to acknowledge you. It was odd being observed so much, but you brushed it off, assuming he was just grateful for your help.
Though the conversations you had with Caleb were only brief exchanges whenever you happened to see each other, Zayne was quick to chastise you for it. “This is a field hospital, not a teahouse. You have work to do. Don’t waste your time on frivolous matters.”
Truly spoken like a man who didn't care for personal feelings, always pushing them aside in favor of his work. At that point, you weren't sure if he was even capable of emotion extending past the professionalism he exhibited. Despite all the effort you had put in and your vast improvement in, well, everything, Zayne never deigned to give you so much as the slightest bit of encouragement. The closest you ever got was a simple “Good.”
You still had no idea who Zayne actually was—you only knew him as Dr. Li.
Your chance finally came late one night when you were tasked with helping him organize his field notes and logs of injuries and the treatments he found most suitable. You knew he was meticulous, but the sheer amount of scrolls and paper he had filled with ink was more than you would have ever imagined one man capable of composing.
It was beyond tedious, but obviously long overdue, the scattered documents completely covering every inch of the table he used as a desk. He handed you a large stack, instructing you to organize by date and injury, such as laceration, arrow, burn, etc. You were thumbing through them when you mustered up the courage to break the silence that was previously filled with nothing but the sound of rustling papers and small, periodic sighs.
“Dr. Li, where do you practice when you're not with the army as a medic?”
He answered without even looking up at you. “A moderately sized city near the capital. Why?”
“Was just curious. You don't talk about yourself much.”
“I see no reason to. Should I discuss my favorite meals or childhood memories as I’m repairing flesh?” He asked somewhat facetiously, his flat tone of voice making him sound far more critical than humorous.
“No, of course not. That’s not what I meant,” you backtracked, trying to think of how to carefully word your sentences in a way that would get him to open up without causing suspicion as to why you were asking.
“Then say what you mean.”
“I was just curious what you’re like in your free time. When you're not taking care of patients.”
Zayne sighed but didn't rebuke you. “I enjoy reading and drawing. Recently I’ve taken up carving. I hate carrots but love sweets. Is that answer satisfactory to you?”
“It’s a start.”
“A start?”
You hummed. “What about your home life? Are you married?”
He went silent, face completely blank. He looked down at his hand, thumbing the bare finger where his ring should have been. “I am,” He said, careful to keep his tone neutral.
“How long have you been married? What’s she like?”
He hesitated, not particularly wanting to reveal that he was a newlywed who immediately left his wife the very next day. “We married quite recently, and, truthfully, I don't know much about her. It was an arrangement with her father for social standing. I left early in the morning the day after the ceremony to come here.”
“Oh. How did she take the news?” You asked, trying to push for more information, to find out why he would do such a thing to you.
“I didn't discuss it with her beforehand. We’re not even friends or properly acquainted all that well, so I didn't think she would care.”
“You don't have a lot of experience with women, do you?”
He looked offended for a moment, like he was going to argue with your statement, but he ultimately didn't. You weren't wrong. “What makes you say that?”
“Dr. Li, it’s very possible she’s not even waiting at home for you anymore. Think about it from her perspective. You got married and then the next day you were gone. Left her there with no warning. I can't imagine how she felt.”
Yes you could, and it was a misery and ache that you wouldn't wish upon anyone.
“I hadn't considered her feelings in the matter. As I said, we’re practically strangers. And I did leave a note explaining my absence.”
You shook your head. “And I’ll bet it was as dull and straightforward as these patient logs.”
He again went silent, contemplating your words. Once more he could neither argue nor defend himself against your accurate assumption. “. . . Do you truly think she may have left me?”
Your eyes widened and your mouth dropped open slightly. You masked the expression as quickly as it came, performatively shrugging your shoulders as if you didn't care. “I don't know her, so I can’t really answer that.”
Before the conversation could fizzle out into nothing, there was still one specific thing you wanted answers to. “If you're married, then why don't you wear a ring? Do you keep it on a necklace since you can't wear it when operating?”
Zayne grimaced. “I left my ring with the note.”
You raised your eyebrows, playing your role as concerned apprentice as best you could. “You left your ring? Why would you do that? She probably saw that and assumed you left her. As in, a divorce. That’s what an abandoned wedding ring typically means.”
Zayne was rubbing his temples now, the very picture of stress. “I didn't mean it that way. The intention was to leave something important behind, something I'd return to claim.”
You were ready to smack your hand against your face. How could someone so intelligent be so stupid? “You said the two of you were practically strangers. Do you think she would have made that connection herself?”
For the first time since you arrived Zayne looked truly distressed. Gone was the immaculately put-together doctor, leaving only a husband who was realizing he had ruined his marriage before it truly had the chance to even begin.
“That is enough for tonight. I’ll handle the rest of the paperwork. You can go.” His voice was audibly strained, the muscles in his jaw tight.
You left without another word, casting a quick glance over your shoulder as you ducked through the tent flap to see Zayne hunched over his desk with his head propped in his palms.
From that point on, Zayne made it very clear that he wouldn't discuss anything more with you than the usual orders for more bandages or clean linen. Somehow, he was even more distant than he had been before. But when a soldier came in with a shattered femur and every other medic was already occupied, he had no choice but to work side by side with you. Despite his emotional avoidance, he was still teaching you new things, such as how the anaesthesia was made and how much to administer.
Flesh and tissue was one thing, but you quickly found that bone was not your strong suit. As expected of a man of his caliber, Zayne was entirely unfazed as he directed you to help him realign the bone and gather the materials to make a splint.
As always, he was efficient, but he couldn't help but get distracted by your hands. You had never worked so closely before, and only now was he able to see that your hands were much smaller than those of the average adult male. He wondered if you had been malnourished as a child. And yet, something about them was familiar.
As soon as the splint was in place, he allowed himself to be as distracted as he wished in order to analyze your hands. Why did they look so familiar? It was irritating that he was struggling so much to think of a reason behind his own recognition.
“Dr. Li? Is everything alright?” You asked, breaking him of his intense focus. He turned his head to look at you, but his attention was captured by something else. The tunic you’d worn that day was too large, the fabric practically swallowing you. It left just enough space for Zayne to see that the braided cord you always wore wasn't empty.
There, looped onto the cord, were two silver rings, the larger of which was startlingly familiar.
His ring.
The one he had left at home.
You didn't understand why Zayne had suddenly stopped moving, glancing down to see what he was so focused on. You knew you hadn’t forgotten your wraps so—the ring. He could see the ring! You knew you should have left it in your tent with your things, but you didn't want to risk losing it or it getting stolen.
“Dr. Li—”
“Come with me,” he snarled, grabbing your wrist in an almost painful grip. He pulled you after him, not heeding your pleas to slow down or caring how much attention he was drawing. He was beyond furious. What were you thinking? No wonder your hands looked familiar; they were the same ones he had held at the altar, the same ones that he had slipped a ring onto.
As soon as you were in his tent and out of sight, he turned to face you. “What are you doing here? What were you thinking?” he hissed at you, just barely holding onto his composure.
You only glared back at him. How were you supposed to say that the way he’d left had ignited such a fiery rage that you couldn't even think straight?
He took both of your shoulders in his grasp, his anger giving way to a borderline frantic concern. “Answer me, please.” His voice had dropped down to a pleading whisper. “Yn, please, why are you here? You could be put to death for this.”
“So what? It’s not like you wanted a wife anyway,” you grumbled, pushing his hands away. You crossed your arms across your chest, staring at him expectantly.
He made an exasperated noise. Why did you have to be so stubborn? What kind of foolish thinking had even led you here? “Is it so hard to believe that I don't want my wife to be murdered?” He was hurt that you truly thought so little of him, but it’s not like he’d given you much to work with.
You faltered, his heartbroken expression pulling on your own heartstrings. “I just didn't think you'd care at all,” you answered honestly.
Zayne inhaled deeply, calming the storm of emotions that had started as soon as he saw his ring. “Of course I care. You can't let anyone know.”
You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. You weren't binding your chest everyday for fun. “Of course not. I don't want to be executed either.”
Zayne began to speak again, but faltered, trying to find the right words without coming across as too coarse. “It’s more than that. Yes, potential execution. But it would make you the only woman in a camp full of men. You already are, but they don't know that.”
You grimaced. It seemed you hadn't quite considered everything. “Understood. I’ll be even more careful from now on.”
He said your name so softly you almost weren't sure he said it at all. “I’m not trying to lecture you. I’m just concerned for your safety. Surely you can see this was a foolish plan.”
For someone not trying to lecture it sure sounded like he was doing just that, and you told him as much. “I wouldn't expect you to understand. We’ll continue our duties as normal and we won't acknowledge this again. Does that sound acceptable?”
From the look on his face, you would guess, no, it was not good enough, and that this was far from over. Ideally, he wanted you back home, but for now he guessed this was all that was possible. “Fine. But you work with no one else but me. And don't wear such loose shirts. You're not as tall as these men, and, if they're able to see down your shirt as I did, they may see the bindings.” Though he had spoken so matter-of-factly, his face was tinged an endearing shade of red.
You brought a hand up to clutch at the collar of your shirt. “Noted.”
He looked like he wanted to say more, but today had been enough of a catastrophe already, so you took your leave before Zayne could continue. He watched you go, mind swirling with all the horrible possibilities of what would happen to you both if you were found out.
True to his word, Zayne did not permit you to work with any other medic. He kept you at his side as much as he could, and when he didn't truly need your help he had you running to and fro, completing menial tasks such as cleaning bed linens or fetching water to boil. You were exhausted by the end of each day, but the work was so fulfilling that you didn't even mind.
One particular day had been so hectic you hadn't even had time to eat lunch, and by the time you finally did have the chance to put any food in your mouth, you were so tired that you barely even had the energy to make it to your tent before collapsing into your cot.
You don't know how long you slept, but you woke to the feeling of someone gently shaking you. You opened your bleary eyes and could barely make out Zayne’s figure standing beside your bed. He had brought a lantern with him, illuminating your small space and casting shadows across his sharp features.
“Zayne? What are you doing here?” You mumbled, brain still sluggish from sleep.
“Sit up. I didn't see you at supper, so I brought you food.”
You grumbled as you rubbed at your eyes, still adjusting to the light. “C’mon,” he urged. You couldn't see it, but there was a small smile tugging the corner of his lips as he watched you struggle to rouse yourself. A part of him felt bad for waking you from what was clearly much needed sleep, but he couldn't let you go hungry either.
Zayne handed you a bowl of food when you finally made it into a sitting position. You took it from him gratefully. The longer you were awake, the more aware of your empty stomach you became. Between the lack of sleep and hunger, you didn't even bother putting all of those etiquette classes to use. You ate like you were scared Zayne might take it away from you despite him being the one to have brought it in the first place.
“Slow down before you choke” was his only commentary. It wasn't until the ache in your stomach had calmed that you actually heeded his advice, finally remembering to thank him for going out of his way for you.
“It's a husband’s job to take care of his wife, no?”
You were here to prove a point, but somehow it seemed that Zayne was determined to undermine the image you had of him, but it would take more than one meal to undo the damage he’d inflicted. “Did you only do this because we’re married and you felt obligated or because you actually wanted to?”
“Why are you so intent on seeing the worst in me? I am concerned for you as a person, first and foremost. Your body needs food. But I can't lie and say that you being my wife has nothing to do with it.”
You hummed in acknowledgement, digesting his words, pretending you weren't even a little bit touched by his concern. It was hardly anything. Nothing to have your cheeks warming, which they definitely weren't.
The silence lulled between you, not uncomfortable, just an air of calm that settled over you both as you finished your food. “You can sit on the bed, if you’d like,” you offered quietly. “I’m sure the ground isn't comfortable, and you've been on your feet all day.”
He looked at you thoughtfully before ultimately deciding to take you up on your offer. He stood slowly, his full height towering over you until he sat back down, this time at the foot of your bed, obviously making a conscious effort not to touch you in any way. “Thank you. This is better.”
“So, you said you like carving right? What do you carve?” You inquired around a mouth full of food.
“Jade, mostly. It’s an expensive hobby, so I don't indulge in it as much as I’d like.”
“Would you show me some of your pieces when we return home?”
His eyes widened momentarily, shocked you were actually interested, and then his face melted into something much warmer. “Of course.”
When all he could hear was the clinking of your chopsticks in the now-empty bowl, he asked, “Are you still hungry? Would you like some more?”
You shook your head. “No, this was plenty, thank you.”
He stood up and offered his hand out to take the now-empty bowl from you. “You should get some rest, then.” Before he could second-guess himself, he leaned over to press a gentle kiss to the top of your head, turning around and exiting before you could see the spreading flush on his face.
You watched him leave, wondering where the sudden affection came from, but certainly not hating it either.
As Zayne was returning to his own bed for the night after returning your bowl, he was stopped by the soldier that he often saw stopping by to talk to you. “Can I help you?”
The soldier nodded. “Yes, but we need to speak somewhere more private. Too many ears out here.”
Zayne narrowed his eyes, suspicious. This was unusual. No one ever stopped him for anything other than someone needing urgent medical assistance. “Follow me,” he said, continuing on his way to his quarters, listening for the footsteps of the soldier behind him that verified he was indeed following.
Once safely tucked away, Caleb wasted no time getting to the point. “That apprentice of yours, Zhi,” he started.
The mention of your “name” immediately caught Zayne’s full attention. “What about him?” He asked sternly, his tone frigid and his eyes razor-sharp, analyzing every microexpression on Caleb’s face.
“Delicate guy, isn't he? Shorter than you'd expect for his age. Of course, I’m not a doctor, but someone of his disposition doesn't really belong in a harsh place like this. He stitched my arm up. Did a damn good job of it, too. But his hands are soft, no scars or callouses.” As he spoke, he had an easy, knowing grin, almost smug.
He didn't say it outright, but his expression, in addition to his veiled words, was enough to tip Zayne off: he knew. Zayne nodded slowly, apprehensively. “And what about it?”
Caleb shrugged. “Nothing, really. Just figured you’d like to know that you’re training him well, but that delicacy might draw some unwanted attention. It's not fitting for someone in the army, medic or otherwise. You’d be wise to keep him safe near you.”
Zayne clenched his jaw, loathing the fact that this soldier had probably known that you were a woman before he had recognized you as his own wife, and even then it was only because you had his ring. He recognized a ring before his wife. What kind of worthless husband was he?
“Noted,” he told the soldier shortly. “I don't intend to let my apprentice suffer the consequences of my oversight.”
Caleb’s rigid posture relaxed slightly, the tension he’d been carrying since realizing what kind of position you were in alleviated knowing that Zayne was also keeping your secret. “I’ll take my leave then, Doctor.”
The second that Zayne was alone, he all but collapsed onto his bed, staring up but focused on nothing. How had it all become so complicated? When he was young, all he had ever wanted was to be a doctor. He had worked and studied hard to get where he was now. He used to wonder what it would be like to have a marriage like his parents, but had eventually written off such dreams as just that—dreams. His busy lifestyle wouldn't allow for him to be the doting husband his father was. That was one thing about Zayne. He had always struggled to draw a clear line between work and his personal life, with work often eating into what should have been his time to relax and recuperate from the day.
And yet, there you were. The daughter of one of his father’s friends. A young woman who needed a husband, and him, a successful young man who stood to gain social capital if he had a wife at his side. Somehow, that simple arrangement had devolved into this masquerade with potentially deadly consequences. He dragged a hand down his face, sighing like he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. Might as well be, considering his wife’s very life was hanging in the balance, not to mention his own.
Try as he might to fall asleep, his thoughts would not allow him peace. All the grief he gave you about taking care of yourself and yet there he was, unable to take his own advice. Toss and turn as he might, sleep would not take him.
By the next morning, after only a few hours of fitful rest, he woke up feeling like death itself. Everything ached, and he was sweating and shivering at the same time. He tried to sit up but it felt like his head was trying to split itself in two. He lay back down, admitting defeat. Even if he did manage to make it to his feet, there was no guarantee he would stay on them. The stress and exertion of the past few weeks had finally taken their toll on him.
When you arrived at the medical center, you immediately noticed a certain doctor’s absence. Odd, you thought, he was always the first to arrive. You asked one of the other medics if they had seen him that morning, but the answer was negative, as it was with everyone else you asked afterwards.
You took it upon yourself to go check on him, informing one of the other doctors of your intentions. You strode quickly across the camp, which was still slowly waking, soldiers walking around only half awake as the early morning light shone upon them.
Zayne’s tent was quiet, even when you called for him. You peeled the flap back, peaking your head in to see him still sound asleep in bed. You entered quietly, and, the closer you got, the more you were able to see the flush across his cheekbones and the sweat beading on his forehead. Your brows scrunched together in concern, and you reached a hand out to feel his forehead. You gasped at the heat emanating from his skin. He was burning up.
“Dr. Li?” you called again, lightly shaking his shoulder. He grumbled something unintelligible as his eyes slowly opened. He started to sit up, but you pushed him back down. “You're sick. The others will take over your duties until you're better, so you focus on getting your own health back.”
“I’m fine,” he muttered thickly.
You had to resist the urge to roll your eyes. He was more married to his work than he was you. “No, you're not, and you know it. You can’t help anyone like this. What if you get the injured sick? Their bodies are already struggling enough as is.”
His displeasure was written all over his face, and truthfully it would be cute if you weren't so focused on how high his fever was. You told him that you were going get some supplies and that you would be right back.
For three days you provided round-the-clock care for the head doctor after getting permission from the medic whose head it fell on if Zayne was otherwise unavailable. His fever had only continued to rise despite the constant replacement of the cold compresses on his forehead. You were applying a new one yet again when he reached out and tugged your sleeve. “Zhi?”
You halted what you were doing, locking eyes with his pretty green gaze. “Do you need something?” You asked him with a tone as gentle as his tug on your tunic.
He didn't acknowledge your question, instead carrying on like you hadn't spoken at all. “Have I ever told you I’m married?”
Your eyebrows were practically in your hairline, lips briefly forming a perfect ‘o’. You hid your smile behind your hand, trying to contain the giggles that were involuntarily bubbling up. It seems his fever had made him slightly delirious.
“No, I don't think you have. Why do you ask?” Evidently, he had also forgotten that you had, in fact, had this conversation already. But who were you to correct the sick? You were already doing everything you could for his physical health as Zhi, so you might as well do what you could for his emotional health as his wife.
“I was mean to her. We got married, and I left the next morning before she even woke up. Didn't even say goodbye.” He mumbled. You had to lean closer to his face to hear him properly. “I should have at least taken my ring with me.”
“You left your ring there?” You asked as though you weren't already well aware.
“I hope you don't think less of me. You're doing really well, and I don't want my own apprentice to think I’m not a worthy role model.”
With the way he was looking at you, you would almost think he cared more for Zhi than you, despite you being the same person. “I don't think less of you as a doctor. As a husband though, you do leave much to be desired.”
Zayne groaned, turning his feverish head and burying his face in his pillow, the compress you’d just given him sliding right off. “What am I to do when I go home? She’ll surely hate me.”
At least you had confirmation he cared about resolving your relationship. He didn't know it, incoherent as he was, but he was already well on his way to getting back in his wife’s good graces. “You’ll have a lot of groveling to do. Do you know her favorite flowers? Or her favorite foods? Something to maybe prevent her from smacking you silly the second you show your face.” You knew he didn't, but perhaps he’d remember just who he was talking to when the fever finally broke. You were outright telling him things that you would appreciate. “The best thing you could do is explain yourself and make up for any lost time.”
He nodded, taking every word to heart. He looked utterly miserable, and clearly not just from his illness. “When I get home, I’ll tell her.”
“Tell her what?” You probed. It was probably wrong not to correct him at such a vulnerable point, but under the influence of the fever, his higher cognitive functions weren't able to step in and cause him to harbor a second guess. Once he recovered, he likely wouldn't remember much of this, and, if he did, it was even less likely that he would tell you.
“That I’m sorry,” he said solemnly. “That I should have considered her more. That I should have talked to her and not assumed she wouldn't care.”
You nodded along to his words, a small smile on your face. “She knows you're sorry.”
He looked at you with wide, unguarded eyes. “How can you be so sure of that?”
“You’ll just have to trust me, Dr. Li.” You said assuredly, fixing the compress on his head once more. You wondered what this whole exchange was like for him, a man who kept his emotions so in check. Would he remember any of this when the fever broke?
“You know,” he spoke up once again, looking right at you as your hands pulled away from him. “It’s kind of funny . . . you almost look a bit like her. In the face. Your smiles are the same.” It took everything in you not to start outright laughing this time, but you just barely suppressed it, that aforementioned smile of yours widening a bit as a direct result.
“. . . That probably sounds odd of me to say. I apologize,” he was quick to add, clearly at least thinking straight enough to recognize that much.
“No, no, you’re alright. I’m flattered,” you told him, letting a bit of your laugh seep through to lighten the mood.
“. . . Flattered?”
Ah. Maybe that was the wrong choice of words. Well, it was a bit late to go back on what you said. “By which I mean,” you started, trying to make sense of your own comment, “your wife sounds like a lovely woman. Perhaps, with a face like hers, I could find myself a wife of my own someday.” A good enough cover. Probably. At least with him being in the state he was in, anyway.
“Ah, right. You're still young aren't you, Zhi? I'm sure you'll meet a fine woman of your own in the near future. Hopefully you'll treat her better than I’ve treated my own.”
God, he was making it so difficult to keep it together. But, in addition to being humored, you also felt your heart swell a bit at that last part. His remorse was so genuine and tangible, you could tell it was eating away at him enough to escape his mind in this conversation like it was.
You could tell his fatigue was starting to return from the look in his eyes, so you decided you ought to let him rest for a while so his fever could properly dissipate. Plus, you needed some quiet time to think about this entire interaction all over again. “Get yourself some more rest, Doctor. I’ll be right here if you need anything.
He nodded slightly, letting his eyes fall shut as he shifted a bit under the sheet. Admittedly, he looked somewhat cute like this, and you couldn't resist reaching out to brush a lock of stray hair from his forehead. A part of you hoped he’d remember everything so that you could bring it up later. But, for the time being, you simply hoped he’d feel better soon.
You guessed you had fallen asleep still seated at Zayne’s bedside, because when you woke you were being lifted from the floor. You were vaguely aware of being pressed against a solid, warm surface that eventually registered as Zayne’s chest. You squirmed in his hold, beginning to protest. “You should be resting.”
“I’m feeling much better. You’ve taken great care of me, so let me take care of you now.” He placed you gently in his cot, lying behind you and pulling you into his chest, one of his arms slung across your waist. It was cramped, but not altogether unpleasant. It was the safest you'd felt since arriving at the camp, and the warmth radiating from him was so comforting you didn't even have it in you to argue anymore. You relaxed in his hold, relishing in the physical intimacy he was showing for the very first time.
You were awoken the next morning by the raucous sounds of soldiers shouting and rushing to and fro. You jolted up from bed, not failing to notice your husband’s absence once again, likely already back to work, his admirable (albeit somewhat unhealthy) work ethic pushing him to return to his duties. You rushed to get ready. Judging from all the noise outside, you had definitely overslept. You made your way out of Zayne’s quarters as inconspicuously as you could, but there wasn't any need.
The camp was a riot of sound and movement. At first, you thought that the worst had happened, that they had suffered immense casualties and severe injuries, but, upon closer inspection, most seemed to be in good spirits.
You raced to the medical unit anyway, hoping someone there would give you answers. Every cot was full when you got there, and you wasted no time joining the others in your duties. You gathered from snippets of overheard conversations that it was over—the invading forces had been defeated.
It took hours for the commotion to die down, and only then were you able to speak to Zayne properly. “It’s over?” You asked in disbelief. It had been so long that being at the camp felt normal. What would happen when you returned home? Would you be able to continue learning and training under Zayne, or would he expect you to take up wifely responsibilities and nothing more? Admittedly, you had somewhat enjoyed your time spent as an apprentice, and a part of you didn’t want it to come completely to an end
“It is. I’ve spoken with Captain Sylus. We’ll likely be dismissed as soon as there are less wounded that need care.”
“Why didn't you wake me this morning? I could have been of more help.”
“You're a remarkably deep sleeper, and I thought you could use the sleep. We had it well under control here.”
You frowned. “But—”
He cut you off. “You needed rest. It’s as simple as that. Consider it doctor’s orders.” He wore a small grin as he spoke, as if your tardiness was very amusing to him. You scowled as you watched him walk away, making his rounds and checking on patients.
Zayne was right. A few days later, when the camp was back to its normal rhythm, you were notified that you were being relieved of duty and allowed to return home. You were truthfully a little disappointed it had all ended so quickly, but you couldn't deny that it would be nice to return to a proper bed and not have to worry about concealing your gender.
You were still gathering the few things you had brought with you when you heard someone clearing their throat behind you. You turned around and saw Zayne standing there with his own pack slung over his shoulder. “We can leave together once you finish. I’ve told some of the others that you’ll return with me and continue your training at my own clinic, so there won't be any suspicion from us leaving together.”
He took a seat at the end of your cot, which had since been stripped of its linens, and watched as you packed up the handful of remaining things. He observed you quietly, offering to take your bag from you, which you declined on the grounds that anyone who saw would likely get the wrong idea. “Once we’re far enough away then.” Dare you say he was . . . pouting?
True to his word, the second you had reached the next town, he deemed that sufficient enough distance to gingerly remove your bag from your shoulder and place it over his own.
“You really don't have to, y’know? I can carry it fine by myself.”
He looked down at you, genuinely confused. “I know you can, but you shouldn't have to while I’m around. I wasn't the husband you deserved, and I’ll spend the rest of our marriage making up for that mistake.”
“Even if I’ve already forgiven you?”
“Especially then. I want to be the reason you have high standards for a man, and not just someone you’ve settled for.”
His earnest declaration moved something in you, causing your heart to flutter in your chest.
By nightfall, you were both worn out from walking. Seeing that you were beginning to fall behind, Zayne suggested finding an inn for the night, to which you readily agreed, in dire need of a good night's sleep. You imagined it was worse for Zayne, who refused to take so much as a modicum of a break and insisted on carrying both packs.
As much as you wanted to collapse onto the bed, Zayne grabbed your hand, preventing you from doing so. “I know you're tired, but there’s a bathhouse down the street. We should get cleaned up.” You almost sobbed at being so close to sleep but still so far, but he was right. A proper cleanse was long overdue.
You released his hand, and a hurt expression flashed across his face. “I’m just removing my bindings,” you laughed.
His face went scarlet as he rushed to turn his back to you. Such respect for your modesty despite the fact that he’d see it sooner or later. When you gave him the ok to turn around again, his eyes zeroed in on the wraps you had been using. “Was that one of my shirts?”
You laughed unabashedly. You had completely forgotten that in your anger you had used his clothing to make strips of cloth. “Maybe,” was all you said, but Zayne was a smart man who knew that “maybe” meant he was absolutely right. You almost felt bad now that the anger and embarrassment had mostly abated, but now you knew what his face looked like when he was at least mildly offended, so it was worth it in your book. “Why my shirt? Was no other cloth available?”
You walked past him, ignoring the question. As expected, he followed you out, shutting the door behind him. “So, we got married, and then the next morning you were gone and all I had was a note that said don't contact you. I can't imagine why your shirt became the victim of choice.”
Zayne scoffed, but ultimately couldn't defend himself. “You’ve made your point. I was awful. Should I expect any more damage when we get home? More ruined clothes? Broken kitchenware, perhaps?”
You shrugged. “You might sleep in an empty bed forever if that counts as damage. There’s another bedroom I would be more than happy to claim.”
“Need I remind you that you were in my bed just a few nights ago?”
“Only because you picked me up and then trapped me there.”
“You snuggled into me, so you obviously didn't hate it.”
He wasn't wrong, but you wouldn't give him the satisfaction of admitting it out loud. Your silence was just as well, though, if his smug expression was anything to go by.
It was some hours later before you were both returning to your room for the night. The heated water had done wonders for your aching muscles, and it was such a relief to get the last of your makeup off. You were still dressed in men’s clothing, but that aside at least you no longer looked like one.
Now, laying in bed with your husband, properly clean and so comfortable, you were eager to sleep. Zayne, however, was clearly not quite there yet. He was lying down facing you, fingering the cord around your neck, still securely looped through both of your rings.
“We should wear our rings properly,” he stated.
You looked at him with tired eyes. “Won’t leave it behind again, will you?”
“Never, and that's a promise,” he responded solemnly, talking about more than just the ring. You sat up to untie the cord, letting both rings slip off into your waiting palm. Rather than pick his own of the two, he plucked yours between two of his fingers and took your left hand into his, slipping on the ring just as he had done all those weeks ago at the altar.
Once your ring was snugly back in its rightful place, he wordlessly offered you his own hand. You got the message and returned the gesture, slipping his ring back on his finger. While you were paying attention to your movements, Zayne was paying attention to you; the shape of your lips, the curve of your nose, the way your eyelashes fluttered when you blinked. You were beautiful, there was no denying it. That immaculate self control he had always prided himself on dissipated like smoke in the wind the second you looked at him.
You were already sitting so close, so it was nothing to lean forward just a bit, pressing his lips onto your own. It was little more than a chaste peck, but when he pulled away you both had dreamy expressions that mirrored each other. Neither of you said anything, but this time you both leaned in. His lips moved softly against yours, a small sigh exhaled from his nose as he deepened the kiss, his tongue licking the seam of your lips. You opened your mouth, letting his tongue intertwine with your own. He gripped your hips as he continued to kiss you, reluctant to part for even a moment, and pulled you into his lap so that you were straddling him.
In your surprise, you gasped and pushed away from him, bracing your hands on his shoulders to regain stability. From your new position, you could feel the way he was hardening beneath you and see that pretty flush on his cheeks in perfect clarity. Your heart pounded in your chest, the sound so loud you could barely hear the sound of Zayne’s shuddered breathing.
“Is this okay?” He asked you tenderly as his thumbs rubbed comforting circles where they still gripped your hips.
You nodded, but that wasn't enough for him. “I need to hear you. Do you want more?”
“I do, but I’ve never . . .” you trailed off, turning your head shyly.
“I haven't either. We can go slow. We don't have to do anything at all if you don't want to.”
“No, I do, but can we stay like this?” you asked timidly, still having trouble actually looking at him. He wasn't having that, though. His pretty wife was seated in his lap, but she couldn't even look at him. He turned your head to face him once more, his lips so close to yours but not quite touching, his breath ghosting over them and his nose brushing against yours.
“Like what? Like this?” He thrusted his hips upward, grinding into your covered pussy. You mewled at the delicious friction. “Haah—yeah, just like that.”
The room filled with the sound of your gasps and moans as he continued to grind your hips against his. But it wasn't enough for either of you. “Keep moving, my love.” He instructed, nuzzling his face into your throat to suckle at the soft skin as his newly-freed hands groped and squeezed at your breasts. Your back arched, pushing you further into your husband's hands.
Without warning, he flipped you onto your back, pulling one of your legs over his hip for more access to continue grinding into you. He kissed up from your throat that was now covered in blooming bruises, across your jaw, and back to your lips, suckling your tongue and nipping at your lips.
His hard length was throbbing in his pants, precum soaking through the fabric. It was too much and not enough at the same time. “I’m so close, darling.” The steady rhythm he had set faltered, his raw, primal need completely taking over.
You could only whine in response, your mind completely void of anything other than your husband on top of you and his hard cock thrusting against you. He wasn’t faring any better, babbling about how good it all felt. “Say my name. Scream your husband’s name when he makes you cum.”
You were gasping and panting, struggling to say the singular syllable of his name, but it was enough. Enough for him to bite down on the groove between your neck and shoulder, muffling the sounds of his ecstasy and bringing you over the edge with him.
Empty. Again. You were beginning to think Zayne was incapable of staying in bed past sunrise. You sat up and looked around the room, finding him sitting by the window, curtains drawn back just enough for him to have enough light to read his log books by. “How long have you been up?” You asked groggily, squinting even in the minimal amount of sunlight.
He looked up from the pages of his meticulously taken notes to see you staring at him curiously, hair still mussed from bed. “Not long. I couldn't fall back asleep, so I figured I’d be productive.”
“You should take breaks sometimes. You’ll burn out.” you remarked, a frown pulling at the corners of your lips.
“I’d consider last night a break, wouldn't you? If it was more of a stress relief for me than it was for you then I’ll have to remedy that when we get home.”
Your cheeks flamed at his insinuation, and he chuckled at your obvious embarrassment. Truth be told, he had only been able to read a few lines before his mind wandered back to the way you had writhed beneath him, how the sounds of your pleasure had almost been his undoing. He wanted more. Wanted to know what you look like under those clothes, how you'd scream when you truly felt him for the first time, how warm and wet you would feel around him. By the time you woke up, the book was just to hide how aroused he was from imagining you in various positions on his bed.
But his efforts were for naught when you climbed out of bed and instead walked over to curl into his lap instead. You didn't miss what he had been trying to hide. “Are you—”
“Hush,” he snapped.
“Do you want help, or should I step out and let you handle it yourself?” You minx. You’d been awake for all of ten minutes and were already teasing him. In lieu of a verbal response, he led your hand to cup his hardened length through his pants, and you squeezed lightly, making him hiss.
You trailed your hand up to the waistband of his pants, hooking your fingers into it to pull it down and allow his twitching cock to spring free. Your eyes widened. He was so much bigger than you had anticipated, even after feeling him through his pants, but actually seeing it was different than using your imagination to guess based on feeling alone.
You wrapped your hand around his shaft, your movements unsure. He groaned, urging you to please move your hand. His words emboldened you, and you began to slowly stroke up and down, causing his breaths to come in quick pants. He bit his bottom lip to muffle the sound when you stroked the tip, his hips thrusting into your hand involuntarily.
His voice was strained when he choked out, “Like that, baby, just like that—oh—yes!”
He watched the way your hand pumped up and down his leaking cock, his own precum being used to slicken his length. You slunk down onto your knees between his legs, and he looked down at you in something between shock and adoration, his jaw slack and eyes begging for everything you were willing to give so long as you didn't stop.
You gave an experimental lick to his weeping tip, eliciting the most pathetic sound you had ever heard Zayne make. You took even more of him in your mouth, hoping to get even more sinful sounds from him. “Slow—Ngh! S-slow down, I’m gonna—”
He wanted to cum. He didn't want it to end. He wanted to push your head further down. He didn't want to hurt you. It was all so overwhelming. He was so consumed with pleasure he couldn't focus on anything but the silky sensation of your mouth licking and suckling at the most sensitive part of him, using your hand to stroke whatever didn't quite fit.
Your glossy eyes looking up at him between his legs is what pushed him over the edge, his cum spurting hot and thick rivulets into your mouth and moans of your name spilling freely from his bitten lips. You swallowed his spend, and he stared at you, awestruck and still panting. “That was . . . You were . . .” He tried to get out some deliverance of praise, but his words were failing him. There was no adequate way to describe the sheer bliss you had bestowed upon him.
You were rubbing your thighs together, desperately seeking any sort of friction by that point. This, of course, didn't escape Zayne’s notice. His eyes sparkled, mischief dancing in his beautiful green gaze. “Did sucking my cock get you wet?” He asked with mock sympathy. “All you have to do is ask, my sweet wife.”
So you did. And he delighted in telling you “No.” Your face fell at his words, distressed that he wouldn't lift a finger to quell the burning ache in your core. He continued speaking, explaining exactly what he meant. “And not because I don't want you. I do. But when I take you for the first time, I want it to be in our marital bed, the way it should have been from the very beginning.”
You whined at his words, the beginnings of either an argument or begging on the tip of your tongue, your pride and neediness warring against each other. He bent down, face close enough that it was all you could focus on. “Consider it a punishment for risking your life with that foolish plan of yours.”
And a punishment it certainly was. The trip back was miserable, your soaked undergarments glued to your skin keeping you all too aware of the need that Zayne had built and then promptly left to simmer for the remainder of the trek home.
Your punishment quickly turned into his own. He should have known that you wouldn't just accept the situation. You got under his skin like no woman ever had, relentlessly teasing him and pretending you weren't intentionally doing anything. By the time you were finally crossing the threshold of your shared home, he couldn't keep his hands to himself anymore. The bags had barely hit the floor before Zayne was scooping you into his arms, his lips colliding with yours with urgency, insistently parting them with prods of his tongue. He carried you to your shared bedroom, dropping you onto the bed and hurriedly pulling off his shirt, revealing muscle you truly hadn't expected the doctor to have.
Unable to hold himself back, your clothes quickly followed, discarded with his own on the floor. He groaned, your bare form beneath him the very picture of perfection. The heavens themselves could not hold a candle to the divinity you radiated in his eyes.
“You're so beautiful,” he murmured, eyes roving over every inch of exposed skin. His hands kneaded and groped at your flesh with a mind of their own. He was transfixed on the way you squirmed and writhed, urging him to touch you properly, where you needed him most. He hadn't done anything yet and already your breaths were coming in quick pants from the anticipation.
He had spent hours between your thighs, using both his hot tongue and long fingers before he was finally swiping the head of his cock through your dripping folds. He pushed in slowly, the stretch of accommodating his girth burning even after all the prep he had done. He hissed through his teeth. “You're so tight, my love.”
Zayne pushed in slowly until his hips were flush with yours, filling you up so completely you felt like you would split in two. He groaned as he took in the sight of you taking him all the way to the base, your tight cunt clamping around him. “Please, Zayne,” you pleaded. “More.”
Who was he to deny his pretty wife what she was asking for? He pulled out, thrusting back in roughly and setting a nearly animalistic pace almost instantly. His professional precision translated remarkably well to the bedroom, hitting your deepest spots that made you see stars.
He gripped both of your thighs, pushing your legs up over his shoulders, allowing him to reach even deeper. You moaned loudly, your voice joining the symphony of skin on skin. His hips pistoned in and out of you furiously, burying his cock into your gummy walls repeatedly.
His guttural moans and praises stimulated you just as much as the mind-numbing sensation of his length stuffing your needy hole. “So pretty, so perfect, and all mine.” Zayne was babbling, not even thinking about the words that spewed from his lips. “You’re clenching so— Hng—! So tight around me. Cum for me. Cum for me, my sweet wife.”
His cockhead nudging insistently your cervix, his desperate pleas for you to cum, his flushed skin, him—it was all too much. Your back arched as much as the position he had folded you in allowed, your cunt spasming around him as he pushed you over the edge. “Th-there she is. Ah—yes—!”
He abruptly pulled out, his chest heaving. “We’re not done. Roll over, my love.”
You did as he said, your knees propped up on the bed with your hands supporting your weight. He tsked behind you, placing his large hand between your shoulderblades and pushing down until your face was in the pillows. “Just like that, perfect.”
He positioned himself behind you and dragged his fingers through the slick that was leaking down your thighs. “Such a messy girl. All this for me?” The pleasurable sensation of his fingers was replaced with a stinging on your ass, quickly soothed by his warm palm rubbing the now lightly-throbbing skin. Your sharp cry sent heat shooting through his abdomen. He lined himself up with your quivering hole, swiping the weeping head of his cock through your soaked folds before pushing in again in one swift thrust.
“Ohhh! Oh my god!” You squealed, your hands gripping tightly at the sheets beneath you. Zayne’s grunts filled the room, his eyes transfixed on the way the muscles in your back moved and flexed when you arched oh so perfectly just for him. It wasn't enough to just look.
He halted his movements, adjusting your legs to straighten out, allowing him to lay his weight on top of you, your back pressed to his chest. He mouthed at your neck, rutting his hips into you once more. This new position felt infinitely more intimate, so much of his bare skin in contact with yours. He overlaid his left hand with your own to intertwine your fingers, your twin wedding bands glinting in the low light.
He wormed his hand beneath your body to rub circles on your sensitive clit, the rush of euphoria almost immediately bringing you to climax. You chanted his name like a mantra, like it was the only thing that mattered, and, in that moment, it was. He sucked dark marks onto your neck and shoulders, nipping and kissing every inch he could reach.
His groans were morphing into breathy, whiny exhalations as he neared his own peak. “You take it so well. My little wife was made for her husband, weren't you? F-fuck! Cum with me. Ngh—! Cum for me!”
He sped up, completely unrestrained, pummeling your insides until your muscles were clenching and your cunt was spasming and creaming around his cock so deep inside you. “That’s it, yes, yes! Oh, I’m, I’m gonna—!”
Hot ropes of cum spilled inside you, and he worked you through both of your orgasms with short, shallow thrusts, unwilling to pull out of your squelching heat for even a moment until he was sure that he had given you all he could offer. He stilled on top of you, keeping you plugged full of his seed.
You were both gasping for breath, and you whimpered when he finally pulled out, his thick spend leaking out onto the bedsheets below. He rolled over next to you, pulling you into his chest, his arms wrapped securely around you. He kissed the top of your head where you were nuzzled into him, a tender sign of his affection just after his unbridled show of lust. “Would you prefer to rest or bathe?”
“Bathe. We’re sweaty, and the sheets are gross.” You made a face of distaste, eliciting a light laugh from Zayne.
“Bathe it is then. Wait here. I’ll prepare everything.” He rose from the bed, the chill of the room replacing the warmth of his skin. He donned a robe, your eyes lingering on his beautifully built figure.
When he returned, you were halfway asleep, exhausted from the night's rigorous activities. He scooped you into his arms and carried you to the bath, lowering you in gently before climbing in behind you. Somehow, you felt even more vulnerable like this than when he was literally inside you. You relished in the way his hands skimmed your wet skin and lathered your hair, massaging your scalp as he did so.
You returned the favor afterwards, switching places so that you could run your hands through his dark hair. He hummed at the way your nimble fingers felt running through the soft strands and across his skin. He stayed like that for some time, almost falling asleep himself, more relaxed than he had been in a very long time, the combination of your attention and the warmth of the water offering unparalleled comfort.
He had to practically force himself out of the bath before he truly did fall asleep. Now, dried and dressed, he was preparing the bed with fresh sheets, aided by you in smoothing it across the surface of the bed. The sullied ones were discarded to the floor, joining the day’s clothing to be dealt with tomorrow. Where Zayne had put as much distance between you that very first day as he could, he was now loath to not have you as near to him as possible, safe in his arms.
The breaths from your nose fanned across his bare chest, your body pulled as close to him as he could have you. He thought you were already asleep, but you took him by surprise, raising your face to press a small kiss to his chin, a whispered, barely audible, “I love you,” slipping past your lips and trickling into his ears like sweet honey.
Zayne’s breath stuttered, his heart almost stopping its steady beat in his chest. He mirrored your actions with a chaste kiss to your forehead and a confession that, prior to you, he never thought he would find himself uttering. “I love you, too, my sweet wife.”
There, wrapped in each other’s embrace, you both drifted off to sleep.
And this time, when you woke, his arms still held you close.
⚘. summary Ꮺ You ordered a custom dildo that perfectly matches your big-brother-figure Caleb’s dick. Caleb ordered a pocket pussy that perfectly matches your's. Neither of you knows the toys are synced to the real thing. Now every time one of you fucks your toy, the other feels it—like ghost sex on steroids. You’ve both spent months thinking you’re being haunted by the supernatural while secretly fucking each other senseless through the wall. The feedback loop goes haywire. No one is surviving this vacation with their sanity intact.
⚘. content warnings Ꮺ pseudocest, og cn gege/meimei trope, heavy dubcon, masturbations, unsolved sexual tension, zero communications, guilt, denial, forbidden desires, sexual frustration, mutual yearning, usage of sex toys, magical sex toys that secretly link to other person's body, mutual fucking, semi-public/public, double penetration, extreme tightness + involuntary orgasms, excessive cumming/squirting, porn with little no plot . . .18 + ★ MINORS DNI !
⚘. wc Ꮺ 6k+
⚘. cherry’s note Ꮺ this is probably the weirdest scenario I've written so far... took me some real good TIME to finish...
“And that’s the last box,” you huff, letting the cardboard thud against the scuffed hardwood near the doorway. You straighten up straight, rolling your shoulders, wiping the sheen of sweat from your forehead with the back of your wrist. The tiny apartment looks like a warzone of luggage and flat-pack furniture Caleb swore you “absolutely needed”—his credit card, his orders, his quiet, stubborn way of still taking care of you even when he’s hundreds of miles away.
Linkon City air tastes different. Sharper. Lonelier.
You’ve been here three weeks and it still doesn’t feel like home. Maybe it never will without him barging through the door, scolding you for leaving dishes in the sink or for forgetting to eat again.
A sigh slips out as you kick off your sneakers. Shower first, chaos later.
Clothes hit the floor in a careless pile. The bathroom is barely big enough for one person, but the water pressure is perfect—hot, punishing, exactly what your sore muscles crave. Steam fills the cramped space, fogging the mirror, swallowing every reflection that isn’t you.
You tip your head back, letting the spray pound against your throat, your collarbones, sliding down between your breasts. The heat loosens something inside your chest.
Caleb’s face flashes behind your closed eyes uninvited. Always uninvited, yet always there.
Sharp jaw. Tired eyes that soften only for you. The way his pilot uniform hugs his shoulders now that he’s filling out, taller and broader every time he comes home on break. The way he still calls you “little pipsqueak” even though you’re not little anymore.
You shouldn’t.
You really, really shouldn’t.
But your hand is already moving, gliding over slick skin, tracing the curve of your waist, the dip of your navel, lower.
“You must’ve felt this heavy too, gege…” you whisper to the steam, voice trembling with guilt and something darker. “All alone in Skyhaven… in that big empty house with no one to—”
Your fingers slip between your thighs, parting swollen folds, finding yourself already soaked and it has nothing to do with the shower.
A broken little sound escapes as you circle your clit, slow, teasing, the same way you’ve imagined he would if he ever—God—if he ever let himself unravel like this.
“Mmh… gege, are you worried about me?” The words come out filthy, breathless, wrong in the best way. “Do you… think about me when you’re alone too?”
You press two fingers inside yourself, curling, pumping, thighs shaking. The heel of your palm grinds against your clit and your hips jerk forward like you’re fucking your own hand, like you’re chasing a ghost that wears his face.
You’ve never touched each other. Not once. Not beyond lingering hugs that lasted too long, not beyond his thumb brushing your cheek when you cried after graduation, not beyond falling asleep on his shoulder during long flights home and pretending both of you didn’t notice how neither moved away.
But you know.
You both know.
“C-Caleb—” His name cracks in your throat as you come undone, clenching hard around your fingers, knees nearly buckling. Water pounds over you like it’s trying to wash the sin off your skin, but it can’t reach the stain inside your chest.
You stay there until the water starts to cool, forehead pressed to the tile, panting, ashamed, and still aching for him.
Because even an entire city apart, even with new lives and new rules and the Hunter Academy waiting to swallow you whole tomorrow—Caleb is still the only home you want to go back to.
And you’re terrified he wants to come back to you too.
You step out of the bathroom wrapped in nothing but steam and guilt, skin still tingling, cheeks flaming hotter than the shower ever got. Droplets race down your neck, your spine, between your ass cheeks; every trickle feels like a reprimand. You don’t even bother with clothes. You just belly-flop onto the bed, wet hair fanning across the pillow, and immediately start flailing like a dying shrimp.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid!” you hiss, kicking the sheets, punching the mattress, rolling side to side until the towel finally gives up and falls open. You lie there spread-eagle, panting at the ceiling like it personally offended you.
You miss your stupid, overprotective, stupidly hot gege this much.
It’s pathetic. You’re pathetic.
You need to do something about it before you lose the last shred of your sanity.
With a groan you drag the laptop Caleb bought you—matte black, way too expensive, has a little fighter-jet sticker he slapped on the lid as a joke— onto your stomach and flip it open. Fingers hover over the keys for half a second before shame loses the fight.
You type: “best sex toys for beginners”.
The screen explodes with color and silicone and words like “thrusting” and “suction” and “10 vibration patterns”. Your eyes go wide.
“Oh WOW…”
You scroll, jaw literally on the floor, until you hit the prices and wheeze. Eight hundred dollars for a rabbit vibrator? Who has that kind of money? Certainly not a broke freshman hunter living off instant noodles and Caleb’s guilt-money transfers.
You slam the laptop shut, fling yourself backward again, and whine at the ceiling.
“Too broke for that… damn, I can’t even get a proper dildo shoved up into my pussy, life is unfair—”
Ding ding.
Your phone lights up on the nightstand. Unknown number. A link.
Normally you’d ignore it. Today you’re desperate and dumb, so you squint, see “70% OFF FLASH SALE!!” in screaming red letters, and click before your brain catches up.
The site that loads is… questionable. Neon pink, flickering banners, probably one virus away from stealing your soul. But front and center is a product that makes your heart stop.
“Upload a photo, choose vein pattern, pick warmth settings; experience the exact cock you’ve always dreamed of.”
Your mouth goes dry.
There’s a little heart icon that says “Most Wishlisted Item of the Year”.
You shouldn’t.
You really, really shouldn’t.
But your finger is already over the “Customize Now” button and your thighs are already squeezing together remembering how your own fingers felt pretending they were his.
Ten minutes later you’ve uploaded the clearest photo you have of Caleb—him leaning against the cockpit of his fighter, flight suit half-zipped, smirk sharp enough to cut glass. You pick the length you’ve definitely never measured in your head while hugging him goodbye, the exact girth your dirty imagination has circled back to for years, the upward curve you’ve caught a glimpse of once through his sweatpants and never recovered from.
Veins: raised, prominent, just like the ones on his forearms when he carries your luggage without breaking a sweat. Warmth setting: “always hot, like he just worked out”. Internal texture: “tight but yielding, the way you bet he’d feel if he ever snapped and pinned you down.
The total, with the sketchy discount, is suspiciously low. Delivery: 3–5 days, discreet packaging.
Your finger hovers over “Place Order”. Morals scream. Pussy throbs harder. You hit the button before you can talk yourself out of it.
Order confirmed. You drop the phone like it’s on fire, roll facedown into the pillow, and muffle a scream that’s half horror, half unbearable anticipation.
In three to five days, you’re going to fuck a perfect replica of the cock belonging to the one person you’re never, ever supposed to want.
And you already know you’re going to call it gege while you do.
Five days of checking the mailbox like a lunatic. Five days of that stupid website 404-ing every time you tried to track the order. Five days of punching training dummies with your entire soul while screaming internally about getting scammed out of your last paycheck for a ghost dick.
“FUCK, IT WAS A SCAM!” you snarl, slamming an uppercut into the dummy’s throat so hard the stuffing starts leaking, “WHAT WAS I THINKING!”. Your squadmates give you a wide berth, whispering. Whatever. Let them think you’re unhinged. You are unhinged.
Then your phone buzzes against your hip. Package delivered.
You don’t even wait for the instructor to dismiss you. You just bolt, boots pounding pavement the whole way back, lungs burning, sweat cooling on your neck in the evening air. The second the apartment door slams behind you, you spot the box.
Plain brown. No labels except your name in printed font. You drop to your knees like a woman possessed, nails clawing at tape, ripping cardboard like it owes you money. The lid flies off. And you stop breathing.
Nestled in black satin is the most obscene, perfect, terrifying cock you’ve ever seen.
It’s huge. Stupidly, ridiculously huge. Thick veins snake up the shaft, only these are flushed dark, pulsing faintly with the built-in warming tech. The head is that deep brownish-pink, flared and glistening from whatever hyper-realistic coating they used. Heavy balls hang low, weighted, shifting slightly when you nudge the box.
You don’t remember setting the length slider this high.
You don’t care. Your mouth actually waters.
“Oh wow…” It comes out strangled. You fall back onto your ass, legs splayed, staring at the thing like it might stand up and walk over to you itself. “Oh my god.”
Your pussy clenches so hard you feel it in your throat.
You haven’t even taken your sweaty training gear off and you’re already dripping down your thighs.
You pick it up with both hands—jesus, it’s warm, heavier than expected and the second your fingers close around the shaft it pulses again, like it knows who it belongs to.
Like it’s been waiting for you just as long as you’ve been waiting for him.
You press the thick head against your cheek without thinking, dragging it down to your lips, breathing in the clean, new-silicone scent mixed with whatever insane tech makes it smell faintly like his cologne.
“Fuck, gege…” you whisper against the tip, voice cracking.
The toy throbs in your grip like it heard you.
You have never sprinted to lock your bedroom door faster in your life.You don’t make it to the bed.
The second the lock clicks you’re already peeling off your sweat-soaked clothes, sports bra flung somewhere, shorts kicked aside, panties dragged down your thighs and left dangling off one ankle. The toy is still in your grip, hot against your palm, veins pulsing faintly with the internal heater like it has a heartbeat.
You drop to your knees on the rug, legs spreading wide without shame, back hitting the edge of the mattress. The thick head nudges your lips and you open instantly, greedy, tongue flattening against the underside as you take the first few inches into your mouth. It’s too big; your jaw aches immediately, drool already spilling down your chin, but you force yourself deeper, gagging softly, eyes watering.
You pull off with a wet pop and a broken moan.
“Need you inside me, gege… please—”
You flip onto all fours, ass in the air, face buried in the sheets that still smell like the detergent he used to buy for both of you back home. One hand reaches back, guiding the fat tip through your soaked folds, coating it, teasing your clit until your thighs shake.
Then you push.
The stretch is obscene. Your pussy flutters, resists, then gives all at once. A strangled cry rips out of you as the first half sinks in, thick veins dragging against your walls, that perfect upward curve kissing spots you’ve never reached with your fingers. You claw at the sheets, hips jerking back on instinct, taking more, more, until your ass meets the heavy silicone balls and you’re stuffed so full you can’t breathe.
“F-fuck—Caleb—”
You pull forward until only the head remains, then slam back. The impact makes you scream into the mattress. Again. Harder. Faster. Your tits bounce with every brutal thrust, nipples dragging against the rug, thighs slapping against silicone like they’re slapping against his hips.
You lose count of how many times you fuck yourself on it. You lose language. All that exists is the wet, filthy sound of your cunt swallowing him, the burn in your thighs, the way your clit throbs every time the base grinds against it.
You flip over, legs thrown wide, knees hooked over your elbows so you can watch. Watch the way your pussy lips stretched thin around his cock, watch it disappear inside you again and again, slick coating everything, dripping down your ass, pooling on the floor.
“Look what you do to me, gege,” you sob, voice wrecked. “Look how wet you make me—how empty I am without you—fuck, I’m such a slut for you—”
Your free hand flies to your clit, rubbing frantic circles, and the orgasm barrels into you like a freight train. You squirt, actually squirt, a gush that soaks the toy and your thighs and the rug beneath you. Your walls clamp down so hard the dildo almost slips out, but you shove it deeper, riding the aftershocks, grinding, crying his name like a prayer.
You don’t stop.
You can’t.
You pull it out only long enough to flip the toy around and shove the slick head against your ass, teasing, not quite brave enough yet, but the thought alone makes you come again, smaller this time, a full-body shudder that leaves you gasping.
When you finally collapse, the dildo is still buried to the hilt, your pussy fluttering around it in lazy pulses. You’re trembling, sweaty, ruined. Tears and drool and cum smeared across your face and chest.
You reach down blindly, fingers brushing the base, and give it one last slow thrust just to hear yourself whimper.
“…come home soon, gege,” you whisper to the empty room, voice hoarse. “I don’t think this is gonna be enough anymore.”
The toy stays inside you the rest of the night. You fall asleep clenching around it, dreaming of the real thing finally splitting you open.
—
—
Skyhaven, DAA parade grounds, 18:47 local.
Caleb is standing at parade rest, flight jacket crisp, medals gleaming, trying to look like the perfect poster boy for the Deepspace Aviation Academy while the brass drones on about honor and vigilance. The formation is dead silent except for the wind whipping the flags.
Then it starts.
A faint tingle at the base of his spine. He shifts his weight, ignores it. Probably just nerves.
Gideon elbows him from the left. “Dude, you good? You’re sweating bullets.”
Caleb forces a laugh, teeth clenched. “Yeah, just hot in this jacket.”
The tingle turns into heat. A slow, syrupy, pooling right behind his balls. His cock twitches once, then again, harder, like someone just wrapped a fist around it and squeezed.
He locks his knees to keep from swaying.
The sensation climbs. Something slick and impossibly tight slides down his shaft, inch by inch, swallowing him whole. His breath stutters. The wet spot blooming at the front of his dress pants is impossible to hide now; he angles his body behind the guy in front of him, praying nobody notices.
Another squeeze. A rhythmic drag. Something soft and spongy kissing the tip over and over and over.
His vision whites out for half a second. He breaks formation without permission, muttering a choked “bathroom” to Gideon’s startled face, and bolts.
He barely makes it to the nearest restroom, slamming the lock, back hitting the door as his trembling fingers rip his belt open. The second his cock springs free it’s flushed angry red, leaking like a faucet, veins bulging exactly the way you spent hours customizing.
He doesn’t even touch himself.
He doesn’t have to.
The feeling slams into him again: tight, wet heat clenching around him, riding him hard, fast, merciless. Invisible hips slam down, grind, pull up, slam down again. His balls draw up so tight it hurts.
“F-fuck—!” The moan tears out of him; he slaps a hand over his mouth, eyes rolling back, hips jerking into empty air like he’s fucking someone bent over the sink in front of him.
Every thrust feels real. Too real. He can feel slick walls fluttering, a cervix nudging the head on every brutal stroke, the phantom slap of skin on skin he’s never actually heard but somehow knows by heart.
His knees buckle. He grips the porcelain with white knuckles, forehead pressed to the cool mirror, panting like he’s running a marathon.
“Ah—shit—stop—please—” he doesn’t even know who he’s begging.
The pace only gets rougher.
He comes without warning, a broken cry muffled against his own arm, thick ropes painting the sink, the mirror, his dress shirt. His cock jerks and jerks like it’s being milked by a throat, a pussy, something greedy and possessive and familiar.
The orgasm doesn’t stop. It rolls straight into another, smaller but sharper, and his legs finally give out. He slides down the door until he’s sitting on the cold tile, cock still half-hard, twitching with aftershocks, cum dripping down his fist even though he never stroked himself once.
Chest heaving, he stares at the mess in dazed horror. “What the fuck was that…?”
Three hundred miles away, you’re still sprawled on your bedroom floor, impaled on the toy, whispering his name like a prayer while it throbs inside you.
Neither of you has any idea the link goes both ways. Yet.
Every night for the past ten days it’s the same ritual.
You stumble through the door still in your sweat-drenched hunter uniform, kick off your boots, and don’t even bother with the lights. The second the bedroom door shuts behind you, clothes hit the floor in a frantic trail. You’re already soaked before you even touch the toy, thighs slick, pussy throbbing like it’s been counting the hours until you get home to it.
You keep the dildo in the top drawer now, wrapped in one of Caleb’s old flight academy T-shirts like a dirty little secret. The moment your fingers close around the warm shaft it pulses, eager, like it missed you just as badly.
And three hundred miles away, Caleb starts sweating through whatever he’s doing.
Day 4
You ride it reverse on the desk chair, feet planted wide, rolling your hips slow and deep just to feel every vein drag inside you.
In Skyhaven, Caleb drops an entire tray of coffee in the cadet mess, doubles over the table with a choked gasp, thighs clamping together while his cock leaks helplessly into his boxers. Gideon has to drag him out by the elbow while Caleb stammers something about food poisoning.
Day 6
You’re on your knees in the shower, toy suction-cupped to the tile, slamming back onto it until your ass is red and the water runs cold.
Caleb’s in the middle of a night-flight simulator run. Mid-loop his whole body locks up; he yanks the stick too hard, fails the exercise, and spends ten minutes curled in the cockpit seat coming untouched while the instructor screams over the headset.
Day 8
You can’t wait anymore the second you get home. You don’t even make it to the bedroom. You drop onto the hallway floor, legs over your head, fucking yourself with both holes now—the replica so slick from your pussy it slides into your ass easy. You scream his name until your voice cracks.
Caleb’s in the barracks laundry room folding clothes. One second he’s fine, the next he’s on the floor, biting his own forearm to stay quiet while his cock jerks and feels violated by invisible forces. He comes so hard his vision blacks out. When he can move again he finds the crotch of his pants soaked front and back and has no explanation.
Day 10
You’re greedy. You strap the toy to a pillow, mount it like you’re riding him for real, hands braced on the headboard, hips snapping down so hard the bedframe slams the wall in rhythm.
“Gege—fuck—harder—please, I need—”
You sob it into the dark, tears streaking your cheeks, pussy gushing all over the silicone balls.
In Skyhaven, Caleb is supposed to be asleep. Instead he jerks awake in his bunk with a wounded sound, sheets twisted around his hips, cock so hard it hurts. The sensation hits like a punch: tight, wet heat swallowing him to the root, grinding, milking. Something inside him —his ass—clenches around nothing and everything at once. He shoves his face into his pillow and comes instantly, whole body convulsing, biting down so hard he tastes blood.
When it finally fades he’s shaking, drenched in sweat, heart hammering like he just ran ten miles.
He drags a trembling hand down his stomach and finds his cock still-hard cock slick with his own release and something else—slicker, warmer, smelling faintly smelling like you.
For the first time, real fear cuts through the haze. Because whatever is doing this to him isn’t random. And it’s getting stronger every night.
Caleb hasn’t slept properly in twelve days. Every night the “ghost” comes back. Every night it rides him harder, tighter, wetter, like it’s learning exactly how to unravel him.
He’s stopped trying to fight it. He just locks his door, shoves his face into his pillow, and lets the phantom cunt milk him dry while his cock leaks and his ass clenches around nothing and his brain short-circuits with the same voice that’s haunted him since puberty.
Your voice.
He’s started jerking off to the memory of it in the showers, biting his own fist so his bunkmates don’t hear him whimpering “pipsqueak” like a prayer.
He’s losing his fucking mind.
So when he’s alone in the dorm common room at 0300, half delirious, cock still half-hard from another unsolicited orgasm, he does the stupidest thing he’s ever done in his life.
He googles the symptoms.
Ends up on the same neon-pink, virus-looking website you found weeks ago.
The banner screams: FEEL LIKE SOMEONE YOU LOVE — NOW WITH REVERSE SYNC!
He doesn’t read the fine print. He’s too tired, too desperate, too turned on.
He uploads the clearest photo he has of you—last summer, you in that sundress, laughing at something he said, hair sticking to your sweaty neck.
He customizes everything with shaking hands,outer lips soft and plump, exactly the way he’s imagined a thousand times when you walked around the house in tiny sleep shorts. Inner walls textured like crushed velvet, tight at the entrance, then fluttering deeper. Clit hood pronounced, sensitive node swollen —because he’s spent years pretending he doesn’t notice how you squirm when he hugs you too long enough. Warmth setting: “always soaked, like she’s been thinking about you all day.” Scent module: the exact peach-and-vanilla body wash you’ve used since you were fifteen.
He pays triple for overnight shipping. The box arrives two days later while the entire barracks is out on a weekend training hike. Caleb locks himself in his room, heart hammering like a jet engine.
He tears the packaging open with his teeth. Inside, nestled in black satin, is the prettiest pocket pussy he’s ever seen.
Soft, dusky outer lips, flushed pink inside, already glistening with the self-lubricating gel. It’s warm to the touch, pulsing faintly like it’s breathing.
He exhales a broken “fuck… so pretty…” and runs two fingers down the seam, parting the lips gently. The toy quivers. A bead of lube rolls out like it’s already wet for him.
He doesn’t make it to the bed.
He drops into his desk chair, sweatpants shoved down to his hips, cock springing out thick and flushed and already dripping. He drags the head through the slick folds once, twice, coating himself, groaning at how realistic it feels.
Then he pushes in.
The sound that rips out of him is inhuman.
Tight, hot, velvet walls clamp down instantly, sucking him deeper like they’ve been waiting years. The inner texture ripples around his shaft exactly the way he’s fantasized your pussy would—fluttering, squeezing, dragging over every vein.
He bottoms out in one brutal thrust and his vision whites out.
“Fuck—pipsqueak—” he chokes, hips jerking helplessly. “Is this how you’re supposed to feel? So good—so fucking real—”
He starts slow, savoring it, pulling out until just the tip kisses the entrance, then sliding back in with a wet squelch that makes his balls draw up tight. The toy makes obscene sounds—soft, wet, exactly like a real cunt taking cock—and every noise goes straight to his spine.
He loses control fast.
Hands gripping the desk, he starts pounding into it like he hates it, like he loves it, hips snapping hard enough to rattle the chair. The pocket pussy sucks him back in on every stroke, walls fluttering wildly, clit hood bumping his pelvis on the downstroke.
“Take it—just like that—fuck, you’re so tight for me—”
He doesn’t notice the way the toy seems to clench harder when he says your nickname. Doesn’t notice the way it gushes fresh slick every time he groans “good girl” under his breath.
Three hundred miles away, you’re in the middle of a lecture at the Hunter Academy when your body suddenly locks up. A phantom cock—thick, burning hot, veiny—slides into you from nowhere. Your pen clatters to the desk. You slap both hands over your mouth to stifle a scream as invisible hips slam forward and bury something huge to the hilt inside you.
Your pussy spasms around empty air. Your clit throbs like someone’s grinding against it. Your chair creaks as your thighs snap together, trying to trap the sensation that isn’t there and is there all at once.
The “ghost” fucks you right there in the lecture hall, in front of thirty other cadets, relentless and deep and merciless.
You cum biting your own wrist so hard you leave teeth marks, tears streaming down your face, soaking through your panties and the seat beneath you while the professor drones on about wanderer migration patterns.
Back in Skyhaven, Caleb’s losing his mind in a different way.
He’s hunched over the desk now, one hand braced, the other brutally fucking the toy up and down his cock, chasing the edge.
“Gonna—fuck—gonna fill you up, pipsqueak—take every drop—”
He comes with a guttural shout, hips stuttering, cock pulsing so hard the toy overflows. Thick ropes of cum spill out around his shaft, dripping down the silicone lips, painting his fist, the desk, his thighs.
The pocket pussy keeps milking him through it, walls fluttering like it’s trying to drain him completely.
He slumps forward, forehead pressed to the cool wood, panting like he’s run a marathon.
The toy gives one last gentle squeeze… almost affectionate.
And somewhere far away, you’re curled in the academy bathroom stall, legs shaking, pussy still twitching with aftershocks, a flood of cum you didn’t make leaking out of you in thick, warm pulses.
You both whisper the same thing at the exact same second, voices hoarse and wrecked and terrified,“What the fuck is happening to me?”
—
—
The entire summer break is a slow-motion torture.
You arrive at Bloomshore first, two hours early because the Academy let out sooner than DAA. Grandma hugs you so hard your ribs creak, pinches your cheeks, stuffs you full of peach cobbler and gossip. The childhood house smells exactly the same: sun-warmed wood, sea-salt breeze, the faint lavender sachets she still keeps in every drawer. Your old bedroom is untouched, posters curling at the corners, the same twin bed you used to share with Caleb when thunderstorms scared you.
You dump your suitcase, unzip it, and there it is: the dildo, wrapped in one of his old flight-school hoodies like contraband. It’s been two days since you last used it and your body is already twitching, thighs pressing together every time you remember how it feels.
You shove it under the mattress and try to be normal. Then the front door opens downstairs and you hear his voice.
“Gran squeals, “Caleb, my handsome boy!”
You freeze halfway down the stairs.
He’s… bigger. Shoulders filling the doorway, hair longer and tousled from the wind, sunglasses hooked in the collar of a white T-shirt that clings to his chest. He’s grinning at Gran, but the same crooked smile that’s been haunting your wet dreams for months.
Then his eyes flick up and find you. “Hey, pipsqueak… and Gran.”
Your stomach flips so violently you almost trip on the last step. You launch yourself at him anyway, because that’s what you’ve always done. He catches you mid-jump like you weigh nothing, arms banding around your waist, laughing low in his chest as you collide.
“Yup, gege’s here. How’s my meimei doing in Linkon, hm?”
The second his palm settles on the back of your head, petting like when you were kids, every filthy memory slams into you at once—the toy stretching you open, the way you sobbed his name into your pillow, the phantom cum that leaked out of you for days afterward.
Your face ignites. You feel the heat of his body through his shirt, the flex of his biceps as he holds you, the faint cedar-and-jet-fuel scent that is just him. You jerk away like you’ve been electrocuted.
“Huh… me? …oh… uh… good! I’m doing… good!!!”
Your voice cracks on every syllable. You practically sprint past him, suitcase banging against your leg, and disappear into your room so fast you almost take out the coat rack.
Caleb stands there frozen, arms still half-raised, cheeks flushed crimson for reasons he refuses to examine.
Gran raises an eyebrow. “You two are acting mighty strange.”
He clears his throat, grabs his own duffel, and mutters something about needing a shower.
That night neither of you comes down for dinner.
You lie in your childhood bed, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars you stuck on the ceiling together when you were ten, thighs clenched so tight they ache. You can hear him moving around in the room next door, the creak of his old mattress, the low thud of his bag hitting the floor.
You wonder if he brought it too. You wonder if he’s touching it right now. Across the wall, Caleb is wondering the exact same thing about you.
Both toys are hidden under respective mattresses, pulsing faintly like they know they’re finally under the same roof as their match.
The air-conditioner rattles. Crickets hum outside. The house is asleep.
Neither of you sleeps a wink. And somewhere in the dark, two identical warming circuits kick on at the exact same moment, waiting for someone to break first.
The first night back home, the dam breaks at 2:17 AM.
You’ve been tossing in your childhood bed for hours, sheets tangled around your ankles, thighs slick and aching from the constant low thrum of need that started the second you heard his laugh downstairs. The house is silent except for the distant crash of waves on Bloomshore’s cliffs and the faint creak of floorboards in the next room.
He’s right there.
Walls so thin you can hear him breathing if you press your ear to the plaster.
And under your mattress, the toy waits, warm and heavy and calling to you like a siren.
You give in with a muffled curse, fishing it out, fingers trembling as you drag it between your legs. No prep. No teasing. You’re already dripping, have been since that hug, so you just line up the fat head and sink down in one brutal slide.
The stretch is immediate and vicious, your pussy clenching around silicone veins like it’s starving. You bite your pillow to stifle the moan, hips rocking slow at first, savoring the drag, the way it kisses your cervix on every grind.
In the next room, Caleb jolts awake with a strangled gasp.
His cock—already half-hard from dreams of you—suddenly feels like it’s being strangled in velvet. Tighter than ever. Hotter. Wetter. The phantom walls clamp down so hard his vision spots, every ridge and flutter magnified tenfold, like whatever’s fucking him is twice as desperate tonight.
He scrambles for his duffel under the bed, yanking out the pocket pussy with shaking hands. No way he’s enduring this alone. He shoves his boxers down, spits into the toy’s slick entrance, and thrusts in without mercy.
The second he bottoms out, you scream into your sheets.
It’s like a second cock slams into you alongside the first—thicker, hotter, splitting you open from the inside. Your walls flutter wildly, stretched beyond reason, the dual sensations overlapping in a filthy symphony: the toy’s familiar curve grinding one spot while the phantom one drags against another, both pounding in perfect sync.
“F-fuck—gege—what—” you whimper, confused and wrecked, hips jerking up to meet nothing and everything. Your clit throbs like it’s being sucked, your ass clenches around air that feels full. You shove the dildo deeper, faster, chasing the burn, tears leaking down your cheeks as your body tries to process being double-fucked by ghosts.
Caleb’s teeth sink into his own bicep to keep from roaring loud enough to wake Grandma.
The toy is a vice. His cock feels like it’s being crushed in the best way—walls so tight they might snap him in half, rippling and milking with every brutal thrust. It’s wetter than before, slick gushing out around his shaft like the thing is coming alive, and every time he pulls back it sucks him in harder, deeper, the inner texture fluttering like a heartbeat.
“Pipsqueak—shit—too tight—gonna break me—” he growls through clenched teeth, one hand braced on the headboard, the other fucking the toy up and down his length so fast his arm burns. His balls slap against silicone with every snap, heavy and aching, the pressure building so intense he’s terrified he’ll black out.
You both lose track of time, separated by one flimsy wall, fucking your toys in frantic rhythm without knowing you’re fucking each other.
For you, it’s endless—the dildo splitting your pussy while the invisible cock mirrors every move, stretching you to your limits, making you gush so hard the sheets are soaked beneath your ass. You come once with a muffled sob, clenching around both, but it doesn’t stop—the sensations only amp up, phantom veins dragging inside you, a second head nudging spots that make your toes curl.
“More—gege, please—fill me up—” you beg the dark, fingers flying to your clit, rubbing frantic circles while you slam the toy home again and again.
Caleb hears something—a faint, wrecked whine through the wall—and it snaps his last thread.
He flips onto his back, legs spread wide, and fucks into the pocket pussy like a man possessed. The tightness is agonizing now, walls constricting so hard around his cock he swears it’s going to cut off circulation—hot, pulsing, fluttering like it’s alive and greedy and his. Every thrust sends sparks up his spine; his free hand claws at the sheets, hips bucking off the mattress.
“Take it—fuck, just like that—my good girl—” he rasps, voice hoarse, imagining your face, your body, the way you’d look split open on him for real.
The orgasm hits you both at the same instant.
You arch off the bed with a silent scream, pussy spasming around double fullness, squirting in thick arcs that drench your thighs and the toy. The phantom cum floods you—hot, thick, endless—leaking out around the dildo, pooling between your legs, making everything slicker, messier.
Caleb comes with a guttural “fuck—pipsqueak—” bitten off against his fist, cock jerking so hard the toy overflows instantly. Cum spills everywhere—his stomach, the sheets, the silicone lips stretched thin around him—but the walls keep milking, squeezing tighter than humanly possible, wringing every drop until his balls ache and his vision tunnels.
You both collapse in sweaty, trembling heaps, toys still buried deep, aftershocks rippling through you like shared electricity.
The wall between your rooms might as well not exist.
But neither of you moves. Neither knocks. Neither dares whisper the truth.
Instead, you pull the covers over your ruined body, the dildo still twitching faintly inside you, and pretend your heart isn’t pounding loud enough for him to hear.
Next door, Caleb does the exact same, cock softening in the vice-grip of the toy, a single thought looping in his wrecked mind,
↳ Episode Subtitle: "Victims of Circumstances" aka. the spin off of idol zayne x non mc - non celeb reader
The episode opens in two different rooms that somehow feel like the same memory.
[Exes, Unedited]
[Episode: "Victims of Circumstances".]
It isn't framed as a scandal special. It isn't edited like gossip. There are no dramatic sound effects, no flashing headlines, no red circles around blurred-out faces. Instead, a soft instrumental plays under the opening montage, clips of city lights, hands brushing in crowded streets, empty café tables, a phone screen lighting up in the dark. A voice over, gentle and steady, introduces the premise.
[Some relationships don't end because the love disappears… Sometimes, they end because the world gets too loud around them.]
As the voice fades, the screen splits. You on the left, Zayne on the right. Two different rooms. Two different lives. Same story.
You're framed in warm tones, like someone sitting inside a memory they've made peace with. He's framed in cooler tones, like someone who has learned to live with regret without letting it drown him. The show doesn't pit you against each other. It holds both of you carefully, letting your words exist side by side without interruption.
You look like the version of you that learned to choose yourself first. He looks like the version of him that learned what it meant to lose you. And as the interviewer's first question floats in. "How did the two of you meet?" It feels less like the beginning of an expose, and more like opening a door you both once closed quietly. Not to fix what happened. But to finally, gently, look back at when you were us.
[How did the two of you meet?]
The question hung in the air for a moment before you answered. You breathed out slowly, and then smiled. Small, reluctant, tinted with the kind of warmth that only comes from touching something that’s been sitting in the back of your mind for years. A smile with dust on it, softened at the edges.
"It was accidental." You said. "I wasn't even supposed to be at that volunteer event. I was covering for a friend who got sick last minute." Your fingers traced an absent pattern on your knee as you continued.
"I was rushing, I remember that. They handed me an apron, pointed me toward the tables, and I was trying not to drop a stack of cups. I turned too fast and just… Bumped into him. Full-on collision." A quiet laugh slipped out of you. "I apologized without really looking at his face at first. And then, when I did, I remember thinking he looked familiar… But I couldn't place him. It didn't feel like meeting an idol. Just… A person who happened to be in my way."
The host let the silence rest there for a beat, then. It cuts to Zayne's interview.
He didn't smile when they asked him the same question. Not right away. His gaze dropped to his hands, lashes lowered, like the memory was something fragile he had to hold carefully or it might shake loose everything around it.
"I noticed her first." He admitted after a moment. "Before we even spoke." His voice was calm, but there was a thread of something softer running underneath. "She was wiping tables near the back." He went on. "Hair tied up badly, like she'd done it on the way there. Apron crooked, sleeves rolled unevenly. Everyone else there seemed very… Prepared. Like they knew there were cameras, managers, staff watching."
His eyes lifted slightly, not to the lens, but somewhere past it. "But she didn't look like that. She looked… Real. Like she'd just stepped out of her day and into this one without changing for it. Like the world didn't have claws yet." A faint exhale. "I think that was the first moment in years that I remembered I was human. Not a product. Not a headline. Just a person standing there, watching someone exist without performing."
For a brief second, the screen split down the middle. On the left. You, smiling softly at the memory, eyes distant but gentle. On the right. Zayne, gaze lowered, the corner of his mouth barely tilted, like the memory hurt and comforted him at the same time. Your soft wistfulness. His quiet ache.
The same story, remembered from two different hearts.
[How long did the relationship last?]
The question made you pause for a moment. Your thumb moved slowly over the fabric of the chair's armrest, like you were smoothing out creases in time itself. Your gaze didn't harden or break. It softened, settled somewhere a little behind the cameras, where the years you were being asked about still lived.
"Four years." You said finally, a small, sure nod accompanying the words. "Four really full, really good years." You didn't rush to explain. The way you said it, full, good, held enough weight. The kind of years that changed a person, even after they were over.
Cut to Zayne. He didn't need to think. The answer was already there, sitting on the tip of his tongue like a number he'd repeated to himself more than once. Zayne exhaled, slow and measured, as if he was steadying something inside his chest.
"Four years, three months, sixteen days." He said. No hesitation. No calculation. Just quiet certainty. There was a brief silence after that. One he didn't try to fill. His eyes dipped for a moment, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. "It wasn't long enough."
No elaboration. No dramatic sigh. Just that simple truth, landing with the weight of everything he didn't say.
[Was it smooth sailing?]
You let out a soft laugh, almost affectionate, the kind that carried both warmth and a touch of sadness. "It was, at first. Really smooth. We found our rhythm. But… Then the peak of his career hit. And everything changed. Suddenly, things got loud, too loud for the quiet we'd built."
Zayne sat there for a moment, his gaze drifted somewhere far beyond the room, distant and pained.
"It was smooth." He murmured. "Until the cameras became heavier than our hands could hold… Heavier than us."
The air between you thickened, heavy with the memory of days when love felt simple, and the weight of the world hadn't yet pressed in.
[When you first started dating, what kind of future did you picture?]
You looked down, cheeks warming, a shy smile tugging at your lips. "It sounds… kind of silly." You said, voice soft, almost uncertain. "But I really did imagine a future with him. Nothing huge. Just… Something small. A home we could call ours, lazy weekends, maybe a couple of pets. A life where we could just exist together, without the noise of the world pressing in."
Zayne's response landed heavier, slower, as if each word carried the weight of years. "A quiet life." He murmured, voice low, almost breaking. "Away from everything. And… A family. I used to picture her laughing with our kids, the kind of laughter that fills a room. I don't think I've ever told anyone that before."
Behind the camera, the crew went still, as if even a breath might shatter the fragile memory he was holding so tightly. The silence stretched, full of unspoken longing, and the ache of what might have been.
[Before things got complicated, what was a normal day like for you two?]
You brightened, not in pain, but in the quiet warmth of remembrance. "Oh… We'd sneak into little cafes." You said, eyes softening at the memory. "Trying sweets he insisted I would love, even though he secretly had the biggest sweet tooth. They were always too sweet for him, but he'd still let me take the first bite, just to see me smile."
You smiled faintly, remembering the laughter. "And we loved being outdoors. Skiing in the mountains until our legs ached, hiking trails that ended in ridiculous views, biking until the sun dipped low. Holidays indoors, pillow fights, midnight grocery runs… Small things, but they made the world feel tiny and safe."
Zayne's expression softened too. This time not grief, but a kind of yearning that hurt because it had once been warm.
"Those… Those were the only times I felt like I belonged to myself." He said, voice low, almost trembling. "Being with her… It made me feel like I had a home. I didn't even know I missed that… Not until I lost it."
The camera lingered for a moment, capturing the fragile ache in both of you, the memory of ordinary days that had once felt extraordinary.
You remembered sweetness. The careless laughter on snow dusted slopes, the stolen bites of desserts he insisted you try first, the quiet evenings spent tangled in blankets, pretending the world outside didn't exist. He remembered loss. The empty silence after the cameras left, the nights where even the quiet felt too loud, the weight of hands that no longer held his.
You held those years like soft photographs, edges frayed, colors faded, but still warm beneath your fingers. He held them like heirlooms he had broken with his own hands, fragile pieces sharp enough to draw blood if he lingered too long.
The crew behind the camera moved carefully, as if even breathing wrong might fracture the fragile honesty between you. Both were true. Both were honest. Both were memories displayed on the same screen, two versions of the same love, intertwined yet separate, a story told together but felt alone.
-
The camera settled on you slowly, the room feel weightless like you were seated inside a memory rather than a filming set. You inhaled deeply, drawing in the quiet like a fragile melody, steadying yourself, gathering the scattered pieces of a past that still lingered in your chest.
The off-screen interviewer's voice was gentle, careful, as if not to disturb the fragile space.
[During the relationship… What was it like for you?]
You didn't answer immediately. Your lips curved in a ghost of a smile, your fingers fidgeting just slightly, caught somewhere between a sigh and a laugh.
"It was… Peaceful." You said after a pause, your voice carrying the softness of someone reopening an old, cherished book. "Even when the world around him was loud, chaotic… When cameras were everywhere, and people expected him to be someone else, he had this way of making the world quieter for me. Maybe that was the best part, how ordinary moments could feel… Enough. Like the world shrunk down just so we could breathe in it together."
Your eyes traced the outline of your hands, rubbing your thumb over your palm unconsciously, as though touching memory could make it linger. "I don't think I realized it then." You added, voice low and fond. "But I was… Really happy. Just… Being with him was enough."
The next question came gently. [Was it hard… Loving him?]
Your eyes softened instantly, as if the answer had been waiting there all along, tender and inevitable. "No." You said quietly. "It wasn't hard. Loving him felt… Natural. Even with the life he led, the spotlight following him everywhere… It never made it harder to love him. It was just… Loving him."
A soft, wistful laugh slipped from your lips. "He looked cold sometimes. Aloof. People assumed he was distant. But he wasn't. Not with me. He was… One of the sweetest people I've ever known, in the quietest ways. Loving him didn't require anything of me but… To be me."
Your smile widened slightly, gentle, protective of the memory. "And he tried." You murmured. "Even when he thought he wasn't enough… I always saw him."
[What did you dislike about him?]
Your smile faltered, not from resentment, but from the gentle ache of seeing someone you love shoulder burdens alone.
"There wasn't much." You whispered. "Maybe… That he carried everything himself. Even when he didn't have to. I wish he'd trusted me more, let me share it, lighten the load. But he didn't. He bore it alone." You paused, exhaling slowly, the sound like wind brushing old windows. "It wasn't a flaw. Just… One of those things that quietly hurt, watching him try to hold the world on his own."
The interviewer's voice softened further. [Do you think you were truly yourself with him?]
"Yes." You said immediately, before the question could even finish. "I think… He was one of the few people who made me feel like I could be myself when I'm with him. He gave me space to be myself, and I tried to do the same for him. Maybe that's why it all felt so real. We weren't trying to be anyone but… Us."
Your gaze drifted to some distant corner of the studio, as if searching for a part of him that lingered there, invisible but familiar.
[Looking back… What do you appreciate about him now?]
"Everything." You whispered, soft, warm, nostalgic. "Even with the fame, the misunderstandings, the silences… I still think of him kindly." You drew in a slow, steady breath, letting it settle. "Some people stay soft in your memories." You said, voice barely above a whisper. "He's one of them."
The interviewer hesitated, sensing the weight of what came next. [What's a small, ordinary memory with him that still feels vivid to you?]
You smiled fully this time, quiet, unguarded, luminous with tender sadness.
"Waking up next to him." You said simply, eyes glimmering. "He'd fall asleep so peacefully. I'd wake first sometimes, watch him lying there… Hair messy, blanket half off, so unlike the public image everyone knew. Just him. Just soft, breathing quietly. And for a moment, the world disappeared. No cameras, no schedules. Just him… And me… In a morning that could have lasted forever."
You swallowed, but the smile remained, steady and soft, the kind that warms even when it carries ache. "It's funny." You murmured, almost to yourself. "Of all the things to remember… It's that."
The camera lingered, capturing the gentle light in your expression. The quiet serenity of someone who had loved, who still loved, and who carried that love like a soft secret, tucked carefully in her chest.
-
The camera shifted smoothly to Zayne, settling on him with a gentle focus. A quiet tension lingered, measured breaths, a stillness that spoke of memories held close, carefully, almost reverently. The off-screen interviewer's voice was deliberate, careful, as if not to disturb the fragile space he inhabited:
[During your relationship… What was it like for you?]
Zayne didn't answer immediately. His gaze dipped to his hands, resting lightly in his lap, tracing shadows that existed only in memory. "It was…" He began slowly, voice steady, almost fragile. "…Simple. In a way my life never is." He exhaled softly, barely audible. "When I was with her… Everything felt quieter. The world, the cameras, the noise… None of it mattered. I didn't have to be anyone but myself. She didn't ask for more. She didn't expect more. And I think I only realized how much I valued that… When it was gone."
The next question came gently. [Was it hard balancing a public career with a relationship with someone who wasn't in the industry?]
"No." He said immediately, firm but quiet. His fingers flexed slightly against his knee. "It wasn't hard. I never tried to hide it, though people assumed I did. I wasn't loud about it… But that's not the same. I wasn't ashamed of her. I just… Wanted to keep her safe. From the cameras, the gossip, everything that comes with me." His jaw tightened, a faint tension in his posture. "If anything… The world made it hard. Not us."
The interviewer's voice softened further, almost tenderly. [Was it hard loving her?]
Zayne's answer came instinctively, a quiet certainty. "No."
Then, slower, like the words came from somewhere deeper, hidden until now. "She was… The easiest person in the world to love." His eyes lifted slowly, and for a brief moment, the grief he'd carried for years flickered openly, raw and unguarded. "She loved me… Just as I was. Not the idol, not the persona. Just me. Even when I didn't deserve it. Even when I didn't give enough back." He paused, letting the quiet linger. "I didn't have to pretend with her. That kind of love… It's rare."
The next question came softly, almost cautious. [What kind of partner were you in that relationship?]
Zayne let out a slow, steady breath, gaze lowering again, the weight of quiet shame settling into his posture. "I think… I received more than I gave." He admitted, shoulders lifting in a faint, reflexive shrug. "I was busy. Too busy. I didn't show up the way she did for me. She carried us in ways I couldn't. Even when I didn't speak about my struggles, she understood. She held the relationship steady… And I… Held onto that steadiness she created."
He blinked slowly, and then the next question came, softer, intimate. [What made the relationship feel safe for you in the beginning?]
This time, Zayne met the camera directly, voice low, reverent. "I could come home to her." He swallowed, chest rising and falling in careful rhythm. "And only her." Another quiet breath. "She was the one place where everything stopped. The noise, the expectations, the pressure… All of it ended at that door. I'd walk in, and she'd be there, sometimes smiling, sometimes reading, sometimes half-asleep on the couch but always there. And that was enough. More than enough."
His voice thinned at the edges, fragile, ghostlike, but full of memory. "She made home… Feel like an actual place. A real place. And I didn't realize how much I depended on that… Until it wasn't mine anymore." He blinked slowly, letting the quiet settle around him, and whispered softly, almost to himself. "Some people stay alive in your memory. She's one of them."
The camera lingered, capturing the careful reverence in his expression. The raw, controlled grief of someone who had loved fully, lost fully, and still carried that love like a treasured secret, held quietly against the chest.
-
The lights dimmed a little more, the background music softened, and the show eased into the segment every viewer had been waiting for. The part no one wanted to watch too closely, yet everyone couldn't look away from.
[Why did the two of you break up?]
You were shown first. Sitting across from the interviewer, hands resting loosely in your lap, your smile was soft, not sad, more reflective, tempered by time, the kind of expression worn only after survival.
"It was a long process, actually." You said, voice steady, calm, the edges tinged with quiet understanding. "People assume it happened overnight, that we just… Stopped. But it didn't. There were cracks before the scandal even hit. His schedule, the pressure, the constant attention. It wore on both of us. Bit by bit, the weight became heavier than we could carry."
You inhaled slowly, letting the pause stretch for a heartbeat. "And then… The scandal came up." Your fingers tightened briefly in your lap. "Everything we had, everything we built… It felt like it fell apart in a single night." The camera moved slightly closer, catching the faint flicker in your eyes, more resignation than pain, the acceptance of something inevitable. "I'm sure you all know which night I mean."
And everyone did. That night had burned across headlines like wildfire.
The feed cut to Zayne. He didn't look at the camera at first. His jaw shifted, once, twice, the subtle movements betraying the restraint behind the composed posture.
"It was my fault."
Four words. Quiet. Certain. Final. The kind of admission that didn't need explanation.
And the viewers understood. They understood all too well what 'fault' meant when a life under constant scrutiny collided with love, expectation, and public perception. He drew in a slow, controlled breath, letting it settle. "I couldn't protect her from the world. I couldn't protect us from what came next. And that… Is on me."
A pause lingered, heavy and fragile, before the next cut returned to your face, calm, almost serene. "Sometimes." You whispered. "Love isn't enough, not when the world keeps knocking at your door, uninvited, relentless. And sometimes… We have to let it go to survive."
The editing made the voices flow together, overlapping for a brief, haunting moment, two truths, two perspectives, neither wrong, neither fully healed, but both enduring, fragile and honest, like glass caught in sunlight.
They showed Zayne first this time. The off-screen interviewer's voice was gentle, careful. [Looking back… What do you think really broke the two of you, in the end?]
He didn't hesitate. The truth he carried had been rehearsed in quiet moments, tucked away in the folds of years spent replaying what went wrong. "Silence." A pause. A long, almost unbearable pause. "I left her in silence."
Nothing dramatic. Nothing defensive. Just a clean, devastating truth, stark against the soft lighting of the studio. And the way he said it… It was as if he still lived inside that echo of quiet, trapped in a moment he could never undo.
The camera shifted back to you. You settled in front of the lens, shoulders squared, forcing a calm smile that barely reached your eyes, as if bracing yourself to tidy the moment into something manageable.
"Looking back… What really broke us." You began, your voice steady at first. "Was me being scared of holding him back. He was at the peak of his career, and I…" You paused, swallowing hard, the words catching in your throat. "I left, like I was moving in darkness… Like I was just another face in the crowd of our own lives."
Your hands twisted in your lap, fingers curling and uncurling with the weight of memory. "I knew he loved me." You continued, voice trembling slightly. "I just… Doubted myself so much. Watching him from afar, seeing him shine, seeing him live… It made me question if I even deserved a place in his world." You lifted your hands slightly, as if searching for something to steady yourself, your voice dropping to a fragile whisper. "Can… Can we take a moment? I just… I need a moment."
You turned your face away, letting the tears fall freely now. The walls you had built to appear composed crumbled entirely, leaving nothing but the raw, aching truth that had lived in your chest for years.
The camera lingered, catching the quiet tremor of emotion, the vulnerability of someone finally allowing the weight of her own heart to be seen. And in that moment, the viewers didn't just watch, you felt the silence, the absence, and the love that had once held everything together.
[What's the hardest thing to unlearn after loving them for so long?]
This was the one question where the two of you seemed to speak in a shared rhythm. Your words linked by the past, but the emotions beneath them couldn't have been more different.
The edit placed your voices back-to-back, a subtle conversation across years and memories. You answered first, a soft laugh escaping your lips like sunlight through a window, nostalgic but gentle, free of the sharp ache that once accompanied it.
"Taking care of someone else before taking care of myself." You said, voice low, reflective. "We were always looking out for each other, almost without thinking. And it took a while to remember what it felt like to just… Look after me. To let myself breathe without feeling guilty. To let the world be smaller for a moment, just for me."
Then Zayne's voice came, slower, heavier, carrying the weight of absence like a physical thing pressing against the chest. "Taking care of myself." He said quietly, the words deliberate, measured. A faint, hollow smile brushed his lips, fleeting and almost invisible. "She… She always reminded me to eat. To rest. To slow down. To breathe. When she left… I didn't know how to do any of that anymore. I didn't even know where to start."
He didn't need to say that she had been his anchor. The grief in his voice said it all, resonating in the quiet spaces between syllables, a reminder that sometimes love teaches you how to live and sometimes, it teaches you how to survive without it.
-
The music softened again for his segment, a quiet, almost reverent hush that seemed to acknowledge the weight of what he was about to share. It wasn't background noise for easy viewing. This was the kind of truth that demanded stillness, that asked the audience to lean in and listen without distraction.
Zayne sat with his hands loosely clasped in his lap, fingers shifting nervously, as if each tiny movement could tether the emotions he kept just beneath the surface. His posture was calm, composed but the subtle tremor in his hands betrayed the storm of thought and memory he carried quietly inside him.
The interviewer didn't ease him into the questions. There were no warm-ups, no gentle preamble. They never do. Because some truths aren't meant to be cushioned, they're meant to land, stark and undeniable, and for Zayne, they were about to land hard.
[Your relationship was confirmed by the public before it was ever acknowledged by your company. During that time, did you think about what it was like for her to face all that alone?]
His shoulders lifted slightly, then sank, as if the movement alone could release a fraction of the tension he carried. A slow, quiet breath escaped him, uneven, unsteady, like a tide brushing against jagged rocks. "Yes." He said, firm but soft. No hesitation, no deflection. "Every single day." He leaned back a little, eyes lowering, not in shame, but in the weight of remembering, the ache of replaying moments he could never take back.
"I knew what she was facing. Even if I couldn't be there to see it… I knew the internet could be merciless. I knew the industry would always protect its investment first, and a person second." A muscle in his jaw twitched, subtle, almost imperceptible but enough to betray the strain beneath his composed exterior. "And I knew… She was alone in all of it, because I wasn't allowed to stand beside her. Because I couldn't. And that…" His voice caught slightly, a pause that held years of regret. "…That's the part I can't forgive myself for."
He spoke steadily, almost too composed, but the fracture beneath the surface was unmistakable. A quiet, lingering crack in a voice that had carried so much silently for too long.
[Do you think the relationship would've survived if you weren't an idol?]
Zayne didn't answer immediately.
He looked down at the floor, eyes tracing some invisible pattern across the studio carpet, lost in the kind of memory that TV cameras aren't meant to capture. The silence stretched, long enough to feel like a heartbeat suspended in time, too long for a broadcast, but the editors left it in.
"I think…" He began, voice low, tentative, as if testing whether the truth could be spoken aloud. He swallowed, a small, deliberate motion. "I think… We would've been okay. Maybe even happier. Freer." Another pause, heavier this time, filled only by the faint hum of the studio lights. "If I wasn’t an idol…" His voice softened, almost breaking under the weight of regret. "If I wasn't under all that… Scrutiny… I could've chosen her. I could've chosen her over silence. Over distance. Over everything that kept us apart." He lifted his eyes briefly to the camera, just enough to let the world glimpse the quiet ache behind his restraint, before letting them drop again.
That line. Simple, understated, devastating. Would later trend for forty-eight hours, reverberating across fan forums and news headlines, carrying the weight of everything left unsaid between them.
[Did your schedule and the pressure from the industry play a big role in that difficult phase?]
"Yes." He said plainly, almost too plainly, as if stating the obvious could somehow make it easier to bear. "But that isn't an excuse." He exhaled softly, a quiet breath that seemed to release years of tension, though it didn't erase the weight in his shoulders. "I was exhausted. Overworked. Pulled in every direction, every day. Deadlines, appearances, expectations… They never stopped."
His gaze flicked downward, hands resting loosely in his lap, fingers tightening just slightly, betraying a tension he otherwise tried to mask. "And yet… She always made time for me. She always carved out space in her life for us. And I… I couldn't do the same. I couldn't match her effort, her presence. I failed in the small, important ways that matter most."
He swallowed, voice quiet, almost to himself. "I kept telling myself I'd fix everything once things slowed down. Once I had the time. Once the chaos passed. But time… time doesn't wait. It doesn't pause because you’re scared to lose someone. And by the time I realized that… It was already too late."
[If you look back at that period… Do you think the breakup was avoidable, or was it already too late?]
He blinked slowly, letting the question settle, as if weighing every memory against it. "It wasn't too late." He admitted finally, voice quiet, almost fragile. "Not at the start. There was a chance… If I'd been braver. If I'd spoken, if I'd acted." His brows drew together, shadows of regret deepening the lines on his face. "But I made it too late. I let fear… Silence… My own stubbornness get in the way. By the time I realized it, the space between us had grown too wide. And I… I couldn't bridge it anymore."
There was no drama in his words, no plea for sympathy. Just the soft, aching acceptance of someone who had replayed the same mistakes too many times, over and over, wishing he could turn back the clock, but knowing he never could.
[Was there a point where you knew she was crying over you at home, and you still went to work like it was just another day?]
Something in him stilled. Not in a showy, dramatic way. Not for the cameras. Just enough that the air seemed heavier, almost holding its breath with him.
"Yes." He said, voice barely above a whisper. "I knew." The interviewer remained silent, giving him space, but Zayne continued on his own, as if the dam inside had shifted, cracking just a little. "She tried so hard to be strong." He murmured, eyes dropping. "But I could see it. Even when she laughed, even when she smiled at me… I knew when she was hurting. She didn't have to say a word."
A long breath, almost a sigh, and he shook his head slightly. His fingers fidgeted briefly, curling and uncurling, betraying the weight he carried. "That's what I regret the most." He admitted, the words soft, broken, carrying the ache of someone who had watched the person he loved hurt and had done nothing but stand by, powerless or unwilling to act.
[Do you think she stopped feeling like a girlfriend at some point and started feeling like… Collateral damage?]
Zayne's gaze lifted slowly, tracing the ceiling as if searching for an answer hidden in the lights above. His eyes glimmered wetly, but he blinked it back so quickly it was almost imperceptible just enough to catch anyone looking closely. "Yes." He said, voice quiet, almost fragile. A pause hung in the air, thick and unspoken, the kind of silence that carries everything it doesn't need to explain. "And I hate that I let her feel that way." He added, lower this time, as if speaking it aloud might somehow make it real.
There was no defensiveness. No attempt to justify himself. No self-pity. Only the weight of truth, stripped bare, heavy enough to press into the room around him.
[Is that the moment you consider your biggest failure, not as an idol, but as a person?]
Zayne didn't answer right away. The pause stretched, measured, as if he were letting the memory settle before speaking it aloud.
Then he nodded once, slow, deliberate. "My biggest failure." He said softly, voice low, almost swallowed by the quiet around him. "Was that she needed me and I wasn't there." He didn't falter, didn’t break. His voice remained steady, but the grief beneath it was unmistakable, like a shadow pressed into every word. "I broke something I didn't know how to fix. And by the time I realized I was losing her… She was already gone. Too far for me to reach."
The camera lingered on him as he looked away, eyes blinking hard against some invisible weight. No tears fell. No dramatic gesture. Just the quiet, heavy presence of someone who had carried the grief of a love lost for years, still feeling it beneath his ribs every time he breathed.
-
The camera lingers on you for a moment before the first question. Not because you look fragile, you don't. You appear composed, measured, every line of your posture deliberate, every breath steady. It's the kind of calm that only comes after years of picking yourself up from the pieces you didn't know how to gather at first. The kind of calm forged from facing something that should never have happened, and surviving anyway.
But when you speak, even softly, it carries the weight of those nights you cried alone, the nights you questioned if you could keep moving forward, the quiet terror of realizing that love and safety can fracture in ways you never expected. Your voice isn't trembling, but it's raw. Honest. The kind of honesty that hints at scars beneath the surface, scars that remind everyone watching that some experiences leave marks no one can fully see.
It's clear you lived through something that shouldn't have happened to anyone, and yet, here you are. Whole, yet changed. Strong, yet carrying the echo of loss in every careful word.
[When the dating scandal first broke, where were you and how did you find out the public suddenly knew about your relationship?]
You inhale slowly, deliberately, as if drawing in air will steady the memory before it slips too sharply into the present. "I was at our apartment. Not doing anything dramatic, honestly, I wasn't even on social media that day. I wasn't expecting anything. And then a friend called me… And asked if I was sitting down. That's how I found out. She sent me the link, and suddenly… Everything I thought was private, everything we had… It was just out there. All at once."
Your eyes shift slightly, not away, but inward, tracing the edges of the moment that still stings. "And the first thing I did was call him. And call him. And call him again. My hands were shaking, my heart… I just needed him to answer. I needed him to hear me, or me him, or… Something."
A soft, humourless laugh escapes you, brittle and quiet. "He didn't pick up. I assumed… I assumed he was ignoring me. I had no idea his phone had been confiscated, that he couldn't even reach me if he wanted to. That was something I only found out months later. Months. By then, everything had changed."
[The company denied everything and called it 'just rumors.' How did it feel hearing something real to you being turned into a lie?]
Your jaw shifts once, almost unconsciously, the kind of movement that comes when someone revisits a memory that still tastes bitter. "It felt… Like being erased. Like everything we had, everything I knew to be real, was suddenly nothing. Or worse, it was rewritten, recast as a story where I was the villain in someone else's carefully crafted crisis PR plan."
Your eyes lift, steady and unflinching, but there's a shadow in them, a quiet ache you can't hide. "I watched the person I loved… The person who meant everything to me… Be publicly detached from me, as if I were a stain on his image. And because he didn't say anything, didn't defend me, I thought he agreed with it. I thought he… Didn't care."
A pause, long and heavy. "He did care. I know that now. But back then… I didn't. I didn't know anything but the emptiness of being silenced while the world assumed the worst."
[Did you ever reach a point where you were afraid to even look at your phone?]
"Every day." The answer comes out before you can soften it, sharp and honest. You let out a slow breath, eyes lowering for a moment as if you can still see the screen glowing in the dark.
"I was getting messages from strangers telling me to die." You continue quietly. "People I didn't know somehow had my number. Some figured out where I lived. There were threats, stalking, videos filmed outside my street. Photos of my building. My door. Comments about what I was wearing when I took the trash out." You shake your head once, the memory visibly uncomfortable.
"And it didn't stop, not for days, not for weeks. Every time my phone lit up, I felt sick. I didn't know if it was a friend checking on me… Or another stranger telling me how they'd hurt me if they ever saw me outside." Your voice tightens, but it doesn't crack. It holds. "It only stopped after Zayne filed the lawsuit months later. Until then… I lived scared. Really, genuinely scared. The kind of fear that makes you double-check the locks three times and still not feel safe." You swallow slowly, throat working as you force the words out steady.
"I stopped sleeping properly. I stopped going out unless someone came with me. I avoided windows. I jumped at the sound of any notification, even if it was just a weather alert. And even after the threats stopped, the fear didn't. Not right away." Your hands fold loosely in your lap, fingers brushing over each other like you're grounding yourself.
"I'm better now." You add softly. "Therapy helped. A lot. Time helped too. But back then?" You look straight into the camera, not accusing, just honest. "It felt like the whole world had decided I deserved to suffer… Just because I loved someone."
[Be honest, during that period, was there a part of you that thought losing them would be easier than constantly feeling guilty?]
Your expression softens, folding into something fragile and achingly honest, like the corners of an old photograph curling under years of sunlight. "…Yes." You admit, voice low but steady. You don't flinch from the truth, don't try to soften it.
"I thought… Maybe if I stepped away, it would all stop. The hate, the fear, the guilt. The constant feeling that I was ruining his life, that my presence was somehow making things worse. I thought he was already letting me go, he wasn't saying a word." Your eyes drop, tracing the edge of your hands in your lap as if seeking comfort in the simple shape of them.
"So I assumed the silence was a choice." You whisper, each word weighed down with the memory of months spent in uncertainty. Another beat passes, the pause stretching just enough to let the emptiness breathe. "But it wasn't. It wasn't a choice at all. I just didn't know that back then." Your gaze lifts again, soft but steady, carrying the quiet ache of a lesson learned the hardest way possible.
[What was more painful: the strangers attacking you, or the person you loved staying quiet?]
The studio feels heavier somehow, as if the air itself is holding its breath.
"The silence." You say softly, voice low, almost a murmur that still manages to fill the space. "But not because he owed me a statement." You continue, shaking your head just slightly. "It was because… I truly believed I'd been left to drown alone."Your voice isn't angry, never anger, but there's a deep, quiet wound threaded through it, a lingering ache that hasn't fully healed.
"I didn't know his phone had been taken. I didn't know he wasn't allowed to reach me. I didn't know he had no idea what I was facing, that people were stalking me, sending threats, showing up outside my building." A small exhale escapes you, soft but loaded. "I thought he abandoned me when I needed him most. And that belief… That belief shaped everything that came after. It made me afraid, it made me doubt myself, and it made every day feel like surviving alone was the only option." You pause, letting the weight of it linger, not for pity, but so that the truth, your truth, can be held in the quiet of the room.
[While everything was unraveling, did you keep any of their messages, photos, or voicemails?]
Your lips curve into a faint, almost embarrassed smile, not romantic, not tragic, just quietly honest. "…Yes." A small nod follows, as if admitting it surprises even you. "I kept everything." You don't rush, letting the words settle in the space between your breaths. "I didn't delete the photos. Or the messages. Or the voicemails." Your voice is steady, measured, carrying the calm of someone who has faced the chaos and survived it.
"It wasn't because I was waiting for him, or holding onto the past, or hoping we'd get back together. It wasn't anything dramatic like that. I just… Couldn't bring myself to erase a part of my life that was real. That was ours." You tilt your head slightly, reflective, almost apologetic for the small vulnerability you're revealing.
"When the breakup happened, everything else in my life felt like it was being ripped away, my privacy, my safety, my sense of peace. Keeping those memories was the only thing I could control, the only way I could hold onto myself when the world felt like it was spinning without permission."
A slow breath fills the quiet. "And later… After therapy, after time, after learning how to breathe without constant fear… I still didn't delete them. Not because it hurt to look at them, but because it didn't anymore." Your gaze softens, almost wistful. "They became part of my story. Something that happened to me, yes, but not something that haunted me." A small, almost tender laugh slips past your lips. "Besides… There are some silly photos of him half-asleep that still make me smile. I'm not deleting those. Not ever."
-
The screen fades in from black, soft notes spilling quietly into the silence, carrying a weight that feels both intimate and tentative. The music settles, and the scene gently splits into two frames. Like two halves of a story that was always meant to be remembered in tandem.
[When you look back at that time… What's the one moment you wish you could go back to and do differently?]
You take a slow breath before answering, the kind that doesn't look dramatic on camera but feels heavy in your chest. "…I would've had the courage to answer the phone. Just once." Your eyes soften, your gaze unfocusing as you drift back to a night you’ve replayed too many times to count. "I kept silencing his calls because the threats… The stalking… Everything online… It felt like the world was closing in on me. Every notification made my heart jump. I was so terrified that even hearing his name or his ringtone made my chest tighten. I couldn't listen to his voice without feeling like I might fall apart."
You swallow once, your throat working around words that have taken years to come out this calmly. "I also wish I’d stayed in our apartment a bit longer. Just… A few minutes more." Your fingers twist lightly in your lap, almost apologetic. "My friend came to pick me up because I was too scared to be alone, people were already posting videos near my building, leaving things by the door. I packed whatever I could reach, and I left so fast. I didn't even check the time. I just wanted to disappear."
You let out a small breath, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh that never fully forms. "If I hadn't… I would've seen him come home. He actually came home." The words are simple, but they land like something that still echoes. Your voice cracks, just slightly, not like fresh heartbreak, but like an old wound that still remembers how it hurt. "I didn't know that until much later. When I found out, it felt like discovering there was this one tiny window where everything could've changed… And we missed it by hours."
You blink slowly, steadying yourself, the grief softened now into something quieter, something you've already learned to live with. The weight of your words hangs in the air, and for a moment, the camera lingers on the silence that follows.
Then it shifts to Zayne. He stills, the question pressing into him like it's always been there, and finally exhales, a long, quiet release of a truth he's carried alone, never spoken until now.
"I should've gone to her. Even if she didn't want to see me. Even if it made things harder. I should've been there." His jaw tightens, a brief flicker of tension that says more than any dramatic expression could. "I didn't know she left because she was scared. I didn't know she thought she was alone in all of it. I didn't know she was… In actual danger, not just overwhelmed."
He pauses, the memory clearly replaying behind his eyes. "My phone was confiscated. I wasn't allowed to contact her. I didn't see what was happening online. I didn't know people were finding our address, that she was being stalked, threatened, filmed." A breath. He looks down, fingers lacing together, knuckles faintly tense. "I didn't know she thought I'd abandoned her. That's what hurts the most when I think about that time. That the story she saw was me choosing to stay quiet while she was drowning."
His gaze stays lowered, like the floor is holding the version of himself he hates the most. "If I could go back… I would've run home sooner. I wouldn't have waited for permission or a right time. I would've broken every rule they put in front of me." He lets out a short, unsteady breath. "I would've gone to her friend's place, or anywhere she was hiding. I would've knocked until my hands hurt. Or broken the door down if I had to. Anything, just to tell her she wasn't alone. That I never chose the silence she heard."
The camera lingers on him for a beat, catching the quiet devastation of someone who has finally learned the exact shape of his regret, only after the moment to change it is long gone.
[After the breakup, did you two remain in contact?]
You shake your head slowly, the weight of the past pressing quietly in your chest. "No. We didn't talk. Not for a long time." Your hands tighten slightly in your lap, a subtle sign of the tension you carried even years later. "After the scandal, after the threats… Even seeing a notification on my phone made me jump. I couldn't talk to him, even if I wanted to, I just wasn't capable of it yet."
A faint, sad smile touches your lips. "And honestly… I was afraid. Afraid that if I called, I'd hear him say it was really over." You lift your gaze, eyes soft, tracing the invisible distance that stretched between you during those months. "It wasn't until after he won the lawsuit that I finally sent a message. Just a text. But it was enough to start closure."
The camera lingers a moment, capturing the quiet relief in your expression, a relief shadowed by everything that had come before.
In a different studio, under a cooler light, Zayne rubs the back of his neck, a rare sign of discomfort that betrays his usual composure.
"I wanted to reach out. I thought about it every day. But…" His voice lowers, almost ashamed. "Her friends wouldn't talk to me. Her family wouldn't answer my calls. I thought… She hated me. That she told them to block me out." He looks away for a moment, then back, eyes steady but burdened with the memory. "So I stayed quiet. I convinced myself reaching out would only hurt her more, that I'd make everything worse."
A pause. The silence holds the weight of years unspoken, a quiet mirror to the fear and hesitation that had kept you apart. "It wasn't until after the lawsuit, when everything was finally out in the open, that I realized… Staying silent was the biggest mistake." He exhales slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "When her message finally came… I can't explain it. I felt like I could breathe again."
[Would you say you parted on good terms, or was it complicated?]
A quiet, soft laugh escapes you, not amused, just the kind of laugh that comes from finally naming something painful.
"It was complicated. Very complicated." You look down, tracing the outline of your hands in your lap, letting a slow breath carry the weight of the memory. "Back then, everything felt… Overwhelming. The scandal, the threats, the fear, the confusion, it was like we were both trapped in a storm we didn't understand. Every day felt heavy, and the distance between us kept growing." You pause, eyes lifting slowly, a hint of relief touching your expression.
"But once the lawsuit ended, once the chaos had quieted even a little, we finally talked. Honestly. Openly." A subtle nod, small but firm. "That's when things became… Gentle again. When I realized we could part without anger, without carrying resentment. We parted on good terms, finally."
In his own studio, under the cooler lighting, Zayne nods once, unconsciously unaware that he was mirroring your movement on the other side.
"Complicated. That’s the word I'd use." He leans back slightly, the weight of his regret softening into reflection. "But after we talked, after we explained ourselves, after we finally listened to each other, there wasn't bitterness left. Not really. Just… Understanding. A quiet acknowledgment that we had both been through something hard, and that we'd survived it."
His gaze drifts slightly, as if revisiting the past gently, not painfully. "It wasn't easy, and it didn't happen overnight. But in the end… It was enough. We found our peace, even in the middle of everything that once felt impossible."
[Are there things you still talk about with them, even casually?]
You let out a soft breath, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. "Yeah. We're casual friends now. I still go to gatherings when his mom invites me. She's always been kind to me, even when everything else was messy. We see each other with mutual friends… We were both at MC's son's birthday recently." Your gaze drifts for a moment, remembering, quietly amused. "And back then… Before I fully healed, Zayne even accompanied me to some of my trauma consultations. He waited outside. Never asked questions. Never pushed. Just… Waited. It was comforting in a way I didn't expect." A soft, reflective smile lingers.
Zayne leans back slightly, eyes distant but soft, as though recalling a memory he keeps close. "She still shows up when my mom invites her. We see each other in group gatherings, sometimes just passing a few words, life updates, stupid jokes, nothing heavy, nothing that reminds us of the past too sharply." His voice quietens, careful, gentle. "It feels… Peaceful. Like there's a calm now that didn't exist before. We don't have to carry everything from before into today. We just… Exist alongside each other, quietly, and that's enough."
[Do you ever think about what life might've looked like if things had worked out?]
You pause for a moment, letting the question settle, eyes soft and distant. "Sometimes. I think anyone who's loved deeply does. There are moments when I imagine the 'what ifs.' What if things had been different? What if the world hadn’t been so cruel, so loud?" A small, gentle exhale. "But I believe everything happens for a reason. Painful as it was… It shaped us. It taught us what matters, what doesn't." You let a wistful smile flicker across your face, warm but unresentful.
"We loved each other. Even when it hurt. Even when we couldn't be together. Nothing changes that."
Zayne leans forward slightly, fingers loosely intertwined, voice quiet but steady. "I think about it from time to time, yeah. I wonder what life might have been like if things had been easier, if circumstances hadn't gotten in the way. But…" A small pause, reflective. "We're both okay now. We survived it. We grew. And that's what matters. The past… It's part of us, but it doesn't define everything that comes after." He looks up briefly, a faint, bittersweet smile tugging at his lips.
"It reminds me that even when love doesn't last the way you hoped, it still leaves something true behind."
-
The screen flickers with soft, warm light. Clips from the interviews fade in and out, your hands folding in your lap, Zayne rubbing the back of his neck, both of you staring just past the camera as if somewhere else entirely. The music is quiet, a gentle piano threading through the pauses between words.
Your voice breaks the silence first. "We hurt each other, yes… But the love was real."
The camera shifts. Zayne in his cooler-toned space, eyes tired but steady. "And even when everything fell apart, it never became hate."
The montage moves through fleeting glimpses. Street corner where you once walked together, sunlight spilling over an empty apartment, laughter echoing in memory, a hand brushing against nothing. Your voice overlays the images again.
"Maybe we weren't meant to stay forever." Zayne's voice follows, layered over the scene of him looking down, remembering. "But we were meant to be something important." Snippets of both of you appear, smiles half-hidden, eyes soft, quiet moments that speak louder than any words. "And I'm glad he came back." You say, a faint, gentle smile tracing your lips. "And I'm glad she reached out." Zayne responds, his tone carrying relief, the weight of years of silence easing just slightly.
The images slow. Light streams through a window, a street empty but peaceful, your hands and his, moments separated by time, but connected in memory. The voices overlap, soft, harmonious. "Maybe this is what love really is… Not possession, not forever… but understanding, care, and the courage to come back."
The screen lingers on warmth and quiet, then fades to black.
-
FINAL QUESTION [If you could send them one message today, without expectation, what would it say?]
The studio lights are soft, bathing the room in a warm glow. The cameras roll quietly, but for a moment, it feels like time itself has slowed. You inhale slowly, the memory of that long-ago night pressing against your chest like a weight you've carried for years.
"If I could send him a message… I'd tell him that I understand now. That we were both… Victims of timing, of fear, of circumstance. He was at the peak of his career, and I… I felt myself slipping out of his life. And I let it happen." Your fingers rest lightly in your lap, tracing invisible patterns as if trying to touch something just beyond your reach. "I'd tell him I'm sorry. Sorry for being too scared to answer the phone that night. For letting my own fear pull me away. For letting silence grow between us when we didn't need it to. I wish I'd stayed just a little longer in that apartment… Long enough to see him come home, long enough to see that he was trying in his own way, even when everything around us was falling apart."
A soft, almost wistful smile tugs at your lips. "And I'd tell him… Thank you. For holding on when I couldn't. For trying in ways I couldn't recognize back then. No expectation. Just… Honesty from me, finally. That's all." A pause. The quiet hum of the studio feels like it's listening, holding space for the unspoken years.
In his own studio, the air feels unexpectedly warm, carrying a stillness that mirrors your own. Zayne leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped loosely. He lets himself remember the small things. The way you would roll your eyes when he came home with candy, the little routines that were once ordinary but now seem monumental.
"If I could send her a message… I'd tell her that, in my own way, I've never stopped loving her. I don't think I ever will." His voice is quiet, almost reverent, like a secret spoken only to the night. "I'd tell her… If there were a chance… I'd meet her again in that same little cafe where we had our first date. I'd bring a slice of her favorite cake, even if she pretends she doesn't like it and we'd sit there, quietly. No cameras. No words about the past. Just the way it used to be. Just us."
He exhales slowly, as if releasing a weight that's been lodged in his chest for years. "And I'd tell her that it's still her. Always her. And even if she never replied… Even if nothing changes… I want her to know that she's remembered. That she mattered. That she still does. More than anything else."
The camera lingers on him a moment longer, capturing the soft light in his eyes, the quiet ache of someone who has carried love and regret for far too long, and the fragile, enduring hope that truth can finally reach across the distance between them.
The camera pans slowly across each of your faces, separately, in your own spaces, lingering on the quiet ache in your eyes, the faint, almost shy smiles, the pauses that hold more than words ever could. Every glance, every slight tilt of the head, carries the weight of memory. Moments remembered, moments missed, moments that shaped you both. The soft swell of music rises and falls beneath the narration, underscoring the bittersweet gravity of it all, love, grief, longing, and gratitude coiled together like a fragile ribbon.
It's not a reunion. It's not a confession meant to pull either of you back. It's something gentler, subtler. The final acknowledgment that you were once each other's entire world, and that even as time stretches on, the echoes of what you shared still linger, quietly woven into the fabric of your lives.
For the viewers watching, it's more than just a story of heartbreak. It's a reminder that love, even when it ends, leaves a mark. It can be painful, yes, it can bruise and break but it also leaves something enduring, soft, and almost tender behind. Two hearts that once collided so fiercely, now learning to let go, while carrying the sweetness, the warmth, and the unspoken beauty of what once was. A memory that refuses to fade, teaching that some love never truly disappears. It simply changes shape, settling into the quiet corners of your life, always remembered.
[BONUS CLIP]
The studio lights have dimmed, the official interview long wrapped, but the cameras don't stop rolling entirely. They linger in the corners, capturing moments too small, too human, for the main segment. You turn a corner and almost collide with Zayne, stepping out from another part of the set.
His brow lifts in surprise, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. "You… Didn't you say you were going somewhere?" He asks, voice low, laced with worry and disbelief. You laugh softly, the sound light, familiar, carrying a hint of relief. "They reached out to me for an interview." You say, letting the words hang in the quiet space between you. "For that show about exes."
Recognition hits him immediately. His expression shifts, from mild shock to something more attentive, protective. "And… It's okay? They weren't forcing you?" His tone is careful, almost pleading, his eyes scanning your face as though trying to gauge whether you're truly safe. The cameras catch none of it, but you see it all, the instinctive care, the unspoken concern.
You can't help but laugh again, soft and warm, and slide your arm through his. "I'm fine." You say, tugging lightly. "Come on. I'm hungry." His worry melts slowly, replaced by that familiar ease, though his hand lingers near yours. "Alright… Where do you want to eat?" His voice is lighter now, tentative, as if testing the waters of comfort you both used to inhabit so effortlessly. You shrug, grinning. "I don't know. But… I've been missing that little cafe we used to go to."
For a heartbeat, his face stills, as if the words have carried him somewhere else entirely, to a memory you both shared. Then, a slow, soft smile spreads across his features. He steps a little closer, letting you lean into him, wrapping an arm around you in that quiet, protective way you remember, the kind that says everything without words. "Okay." He says, simply, but there's a weight behind it, the sum of everything you never needed to say.
The camera, rolling still, catches the small gestures. The linked arms, the shared smile, the quiet rhythm between two people who once lost and now find each other again. Then, almost reverently, it fades to black.
Outside, you and Zayne walk side by side. The city stretches ahead, lights shimmering in reflection, streets familiar yet renewed. No interviews. No cameras. No shadows of old scars. Just the easy rhythm of companionship restored, memories lingering like the faint sweetness of chocolate on your tongue, soft, bittersweet, and undeniably yours.
-
CHOCO_lover: you're telling me these two are "just friends" now when they talk about each other like that??? be serious.
shiptaxcollected: The way they BOTH said the other was "easy to love" and "made home feel like a place" … i'm sorry but why are you not dating RIGHT NOW??
delulusafely: no cuz "love didn't fail us, circumstances did" is NOT something normal exes say. that's soulmates-who-got-attacked-by-life energy.
zaynesleftshoe: petition for the universe to un-scandal them so they can try again 😭
user938271: They healed, they matured, they're in each other's lives, his mom still invites her, they go to the same gatherings, he accompanied her to trauma sessions… this is literally divorced-but-still-in-love vibes except they never even married.
cinnamonrollcore: I fully respect their boundaries and healing but also: your honor, I am in favor of a reunion.
softietrash: her: "I'd tell him I'm sorry I was too scared to answer the phone that night." him: "I'd tell her I never stopped loving her and I'd meet her again in that same cafe." ME: okay so who's gonna lock them inside that cafe until they talk???
fanbutnotdelulu: Lowkey obsessed with how they refuse to villainize each other, went through hell, healed, and are still in each other's orbit… that's either the healthiest closure I've ever seen OR the prequel to a second-chance romance.
tearductsempty: "Love didn't fail us. Circumstances did." "So loving her was still the most real thing I ever did." sorry but if they don't at least REVISIT that relationship when they’re ready i'm filing a complaint with destiny.
giveusthecafe: not to be dramatic but if we don't eventually get: one cafe selca, one "the cake was too sweet" post, one blurry photo of them in the same corner again. i will riot respectfully.
heartkneesweak: The worst part is… they really look PEACEFUL now. Like if they ever did try again, it would actually work this time. 🥲
agencysuesurvivor: him: "if I wasn't an idol, I could've chosen her instead of silence." also him now: free, stronger, on his own terms …hello?? chance?? second chance?? anyone??
foreverthirdwheeling: You can't convince me they don't still talk late at night sometimes. the emotional intimacy is TOO strong for them to just be like "yea we’re just casual friends 😊" okay sure.
thisismyromanacekdrama: This episode felt less like "we broke up and moved on" and more like "we time-skipped, did side quests called therapy, and now we’re ready for Season 2 if the writers allow it."
letmemanifest: manifesting: ✨ a soft announcement one day ✨ like "we took the long way, but we found our way back." until then i'll just replay this interview and scream quietly.
cryingoverstrangers: It's actually insane how they managed to make me root for: her healing, him growing, them staying friends AND ALSO them maybe getting back together someday. This is emotional multitasking.
cakeandclosure: He literally said he'd still meet her in the same cafe, with the same cake, no expectations, just them. She literally said she's thankful and understands now. Universe, I'm not saying rush them, but… do something.
justonehugplz: Imagine them watching this episode separately and going. "Yeah… if the timing was different." Now imagine them watching it together one day. I'm fine. Totally fine. 😭
okaybutlisten: I respect them not forcing anything and just existing in each other's lives again, but also… if they ever decide to try again, I'm already seated.
-
You were lying in bed, the soft glow of the TV painting shifting shadows across the room. The clip was playing quietly “Exes, Unedited” and even though it had been recorded two years ago, it was only airing now. You found yourself watching, heart twisting with nostalgia and warmth as you saw yourselves young, tentative, discovering each other all over again. The awkward smiles, the small hesitations, the way your eyes met before words ever came, everything felt alive, a ghost of a time that was still yours.
"Mm… What are you doing?" Zayne's voice was thick with sleep, low and heavy, pulling you from the memory. Before you could answer, he nudged closer, warm and solid, burying his face into your bare neck. The gentle press of him, the quiet weight of familiarity, made your chest lift with a slow, steady rhythm. "I'm… Watching the interview." You murmured, your fingers brushing through his hair almost absentmindedly, feeling the soft strands slip between them.
He hummed softly, shifting closer until your legs tangled together, and a lazy warmth spread between you. A quiet thought crossed your mind. What could possibly happen if people knew this interview was two years old… And that we're married now, expecting our little one? The thought made your chest swell in a way words never could.
He sighed, the soft exhale pressing into your skin, and you could feel him smiling even without looking. "You're warm." He murmured, nuzzling a little more. You laughed quietly, tilting your head to meet him halfway. "You're warm too." You said, hands tracing lazy, absent circles on his shoulders as he curled closer. You let yourself savor the small, mundane perfection of the moment, the quiet intimacy, the gentle rhythms of togetherness, the peace of being allowed simply to exist with him.
Outside, the world could speculate, argue, or obsess over the past. The scandals, the viral comments, the whispers, all of it might as well have belonged to someone else. Here, in the soft glow of the TV, under the gentle hum of the apartment, it didn't matter. You were here. He was here. And you were waiting together for the little kicks of the life growing between you, your fingers threading through his hair, your palms catching the curve of his smile against your skin.
"Two years ago, huh?" You whispered, leaning against him, letting the memory settle into the present. "Two years ago." He echoed, voice muffled against your neck. "And now…" He tightened his hold, exhaling softly, deliberately. "Now we're exactly where we're supposed to be."
And in that moment, all the interviews, the scandals, the fleeting judgments, they might as well have never existed. Because this, this closeness, this warmth, this shared breath and heartbeat, this life you had built together, was everything.
You hadn’t expected this sex ban to affect him so much. After all, you were both busy people and you’d often go two weeks or even longer without having sex. But apparently having you near and not initiating sex the way you often did left him feeling…needy.
“Z-Zayne you have to-to breathe at some point!” You gasp out, tugging weakly at his hair. His face is buried between your thighs, as it had been for the past thirty minutes. He’d been alternating between fucking you and eating you out, letting you recover for a bit between each round by kissing you. Your head was spinning, but god if it didn’t feel incredible.
“I have to apologize properly, don’t I?” He looks up at you through half lidded eyes. It’s sinful really, the way your wetness shines on his face as his chest heaves.
“I already-oh-forgave you!” His tongue delves back into you, your back arching off the sheets. Your grip on his hair grows tighter and you swear he moans against you, hips grinding into the bed. How he keeps getting hard you simply can’t understand.
He makes you cum over and over with his mouth, gaze flicking up everytime an orgasm tears through you just to watch your face contort in pleasure.
“I-I can’t cum again!” You gasp through the burn of overstimulation. You think you might die if his tongue runs over your clit one more time. He hums, moving up to kiss you. It’s so filthy you almost can’t believe that the ever-composed Dr. Zayne is the one kissing you like this.
He begins to kiss your neck, teeth scraping against the delicate skin. His whole body presses against yours as if he needs to feel every inch of you. When his eyes meet yours, his pupils are so dilated you can barely see the familiar green hue.
“You deprived me of my favourite dessert for so long. Isn’t it only fair I have my fill?”
sypnosis while inspecting the cave behind your farm, you come across a frozen, ancient effigy whose glowing eyes speak of losses (and desires) unforetold.
— tags. yearning!zayne, effigy!zayne x fem!reader, body horror, eldritch horror, blood and injury, light bondage, monsterfucking, blood as an aphrodisiac, biting kink, implied age gap (human x monster), past lives, riding, inspired by the chinese paper doll folklore, light angst, open ending, mild language, implied zayne moving on
— dawn says. 3/4 of kinktober almost complete!! this one is a little spoooky and kinda gross-ish so please bear that in mind when you read. cws are a little dark.
kinktober 2025 | A03
IT’S NOT EVERY DAY THAT YOU COME FACE-TO-FACE WITH AN ANCIENT POWER BEYOND YOUR WILDEST IMAGINATION.
But, then again, it’s not every day that a being like Zayne comes into your life.
Life in the valley is peaceful—it’s consistent.
Day in and day out, it’s crops, fields, and a settling comfort of growing old in the quiet.
Until it’s not, and the peace unravels, revealing a darker world underneath, like a primordial tree unearthing its twisting roots.
There’s so much to say in such a limited time.
But first, let’s backtrack to the beginning.
It all started with a heavy thunderstorm.
Local weather channels reported that it was the heaviest of the season, and as a concerned crop supplier, it fell to you to check on the cave systems behind your farm to determine if your produce would be affected.
Big mistake.
But perhaps—the strangest mistake of your life.
“Hmm, that’s odd.”
Your whispered breath is the only sound in this clearing besides the clanking of tools in your backpack.
The sight of blood smearing the cave walls is not something you quite anticipated seeing on a random weekday morning.
What the…?
There’s more blood. Weeds underfoot crushed like an animal had drunkenly trampled through them, splatters flecking the stony ground with bright red.
Stumbling past the brambles of the cavern’s hanging foliage, you’re drawn to a soft, glowing light in the distance.
Self-preservation is in every farmer’s sixth sense, but it seems like yours had taken a vacation.
Even though your instincts scream at you to stop, you push forward.
Driven by the innate curiosity to see what else this valley had to offer.
Tentatively, you approach the bright, shimmering light spilling through a crack in the cave wall.
The air crackles with an unexplained electricity, making the hair on the back of your neck stand.
However, a hand on your shoulder stops you from approaching.
Your heart deep dives straight to your stomach in horror, and you whip around.
Only to see a pair of glowing emerald eyes staring at you in the half-dark.
What the—!
His unnervingly bright eyes are not what stop you in your tracks.
It’s his body.
It's covered… in bark.
Thick, dark bark that pockmarks his skin like patches of a spreading disease.
Tufts of black hair fall into his face, his left cheek completely consumed by the wooden hide.
Your stomach twists.
You think you just might throw up.
“You shouldn’t be here.” His voice, low and commanding, pierces through your consciousness, shattering the last of your composure as the world grows dark around the edges.
The strange effigy’s eyes widen.
“Wait—”
But his words are lost in the dark waters of your mind; the black stars reaching down from heaven and sucking you right into their devouring eye.
All the light disappears, and the last thing you feel before your body tumbles to the ground is a pair of strong, rough arms catching you.
…
You have no idea how much time has passed.
When you finally come around, you’re in a dark cave. Only a sliver of evening light is visible from the crack on the ceiling, but it's enough to illuminate a man seated on a wooden throne, his watchful eyes keeping tabs on your every expression.
“You’re awake.”
Jolting, you sit up in a frenzy, remembering what had brought you here in the first place.
“What the hell are you?!”
You hadn’t meant to shriek such a cliche question, but your mind is spinning, your stomach churning.
Cliches could be forgiven when one doesn’t know exactly what they’re dealing with.
His mouth twitches, and the act reminds you of a thin piece of bark quivering under pressure.
“More importantly, it is I who should inquire what you are doing so deep in these secret woods,” he rumbles.
He makes no move to stand.
The effigy leans forward, and you hear the slight rattle of chains. Your eyes feel like they’re about to pop out of your skull.
“Are those—?”
“Chains.” He says flatly. Bleakly. “Yes. They are.”
You fall silent.
Unsure of how else to react, you take a moment to assess your situation: firstly, you’re in a dark, dank cave with a mysterious, talking half-tree man.
Not good.
Secondly, you have no idea if you’re still around your farm; the air here smells fresher. Like that of a mountain.
And, third?
You shift your weight from one foot to another.
“… Is it possible if you have a bathroom I can borrow?”
The effigy's brows shoot up into his hairline.
The absurdity of the situation and your question is exacerbated by his silence.
“I will not bother to entertain your nonsense with a response.”
He waves his hand, and you go flying back.
“Ah—!”
In a flash, you're warped in darkness, and when you open your eyes, you're back in your farmhouse.
Relatively unharmed and safe.
The next morning, your body runs a high fever, which makes you doubt the believability of what you've experienced.
But, you know what you saw; what you've experienced.
It was real. You saw him.
He’s real.
It doesn't take long for you to search the caves again, the second you make a recovery.
Stumbling for a second time into a familiar clearing, you find the effigy asleep on his throne. Except this time, you’re brave enough to approach him.
Your footsteps rustle the grass, and he barely moves.
Striding closer to him, you tentatively touch one of his bark-ridden hands.
His finger flexes. Eyes creak open.
“You are back…”
He huffs, and it sounds like disbelief wrapped in disappointment.
A force wraps around your torso, and you stumble closer, almost tumbling onto his lap.
The effigy raises one rough finger to your cheek, gently grazing it.
“Amazing,” he breathes. “I can feel the magical properties within you.”
He sucks in a breath. “However, you have a remarkable lack of self-preservation.”
His words are pointed—sharp.
Yet, you don’t wilt from them.
“You could’ve killed me anytime you wanted,” you don’t mean to blurt out, but the words spill past your careless lips. “If you wanted to hurt me, you would've done it a long time ago.”
His lips twitch.
Something about your words pierces right through him.
“Perhaps, it is because a certain human is quite stubborn in seeking out danger when she shouldn’t put her nose where it doesn’t belong.”
You pretend not to hear the exasperation in his tone.
Approaching him closer on his throne of wood, you note the vines encasing his hands and feet. Literally rooting him to the spot.
“Who did this to you?”
Not: Why are you trapped?
Or: Why can’t you escape?
But, who?
His eyes flicker briefly, a flash of pain appearing for a moment before that hint of vulnerability disappears behind his stoic mask.
That emerald gaze regards you in a new light, features softened with curiosity now more than hostility.
“You are the new farmer up the road?”
His voice is low, gravelly.
“You may call me Zayne.”
“Zayne,” you test his name in your mouth. “Not what I was expecting from someone trapped here, but okay. It’s a rather… modern name.”
The corners of his lips quirk up, despite himself.
“You want to know how I ended up like this?”
He continues, easing back into his throne of warped roots. “I made a mistake. A horrible one. And now, here I am—cursed by the Gods to stay in this form, only allowed to stand if my realm is threatened, but never go beyond this cave.”
There’s a bleak rumble in his voice.
A sense of despair.
“Until you walked into my land. Activated the leylines.”
His sharp green eyes hone in on you.
“There’s something magical about your blood. Something sacred.”
The effigy—Zayne—leans forward. Even his bare chest is covered with bark.
You flinch back, attempting to put some space between the two of you. But, it’s futile—there’s a force keeping you in place.
“I wonder…”
Something sharp gashes across your arms. Blood spills, bright red and violent, onto the forest floor.
Your scream melts into a flurry of his mouth pressed on yours; the force dragging you up and into his lap. He groans, lusty and in relief, when the bright red droplets spill onto his skin.
Before both your eyes, the rough cracks turn into smooth skin.
Human skin.
“What the…” You trail off in disbelief. “What the hell?”
“I knew it,” he husks, shifting under you so you have to straddle his lap. “You’re the one the prophecy has foretold. A child of the earth with magic in their veins.”
He leans in, breathing your scent deeply; his voice lowers in reverence.
"Come closer.”
Compelled by the desire dripping heavily in his tone, you lean in closer. His teeth catch on your lower lip, biting down hard enough til you taste the rusted tang of blood coating your tongue.
The drops begin to heal him—the rough bark covering his skin disappearing.
You want to stop him, but your voice is lost in a debilitating haze of lust suddenly descending upon you.
Like a delicious burst of sweetness, you can’t get enough of him.
It’s enough to make you dizzy, leaving your head spinning.
“S-Stop—”
Your palms press to his chest to weakly stop his advances. Zayne pulls back, albeit reluctantly, and huffs, licking his lips. Smearing more thick crimson over his mouth.
The sun is closing in a final hurrah, brilliant orange tones casting fiery shadows across its face.
You watch, unable to tear your eyes away—
—when his hands that were once shackled to the throne reach to grasp your waist.
“Have you ever heard of something called a Soul Bond?”
You shriek. “Hey—!”
The chains around his wrist loosen enough to give him leeway to hold you firmly on his lap.
“Answer me.”
"I—” Squirming is futile. He tightens his grip on you. “I have no idea what—”
“It means two people who are tied together through multiple destinies, fated to meet each other again and again.”
His tone is cold, though his hands are warm on your skin.
“And you, farmer, are the biggest thorn in my side.”
As much as you try to fight off his advances, he doesn’t let up. Only fastened his arms tighter around your torso.
“For years—” he growls, lips pressing to your jaw and chin, as if he could consume you from the inside out. “For years, I have waited for this moment. Biding my time.”
Ruthless now, he chuckles darkly. “Or, do you not remember that it was you who cast me into this horrendous fate…?”
His words barely make a lick of sense.
You think he’s gone insane.
But Zayne’s arms are like metal ropes around you, making escape impossible.
His words strike fear in your heart, but none so then when he touches your forehead with his.
And, instantly, a wave of memories comes flooding in like a barrage of snow, banketing your thoughts like an avalanche of pure despair.
The scene unfolds—a man is hunched over in the frosty silence, a woman frozen in his arms, her lips blue with impending death. As she exhales her dying breath, she whispers three words that would bind him to his fate forever: “Forget me, Zayne.”
His tears barely move her. Like the setting of a brilliant sunset, her eyes close forever.
Zayne lits his forehead from yours, your gasps loud and ragged in the resounding silence.
He doesn’t speak for a moment—allowing you to catch your breath.
After a beat of silence, he finally speaks.
“You cursed me to lose the memory of you, and I wept day and night by your side.” His tone betrays no emotion, even as the words are scalding.
“Till I grew bark on my skin. Till my tears turned into ashes in my mouth.”
The briefest tremble in his lower lip.
Yet, his gaze doesn’t soften. He stares you down with his aquiline nose, hard and unrepentant.
“And, you swore to be with me for life. To stay with me no matter what the world threw at us. Instead, you cursed me to forfeit your memory—and, I will never forgive you for that.”
Zayne’s tone turns bitter, and he squeezes down on your flesh harder.
“I will make you bleed for me—till every drop heals this malady from my body.”
You cry out when his sharp nails rake down your thighs, digging deep enough to make drops of blood seep into his skin. He hisses in pleasure at the feeling of your blood healing him, and tips his head back.
His soft moan caresses your chin.
“For centuries, I have waited for you—”
A rough growl as he licks down your neck.
“And you have evaded me for far too long.”
Gasping, you scramble to save yourself, or else this creature might bleed you dry.
The first thing you can think of is to smash his head in with the palm of your hand, like an old Judo master from years ago taught you. But, he’s quicker—evading your throw and pinning your hand down to the arm of his wicked throne.
“Argh—!”
Zayne’s teeth puncture your shoulder, and more crimson red spills onto his front, healing him over. This time, it doesn’t hurt as much as it does, and the sharp pain is replaced by a swooping sensation that makes you light-headed.
Your protests grow weaker, eyes heavier with fatigue. You slump forward, and he catches you before you can slide down to the forest ground.
He continues to feed from you, lapping up the ruby droplets, letting them heal his skin.
Despite the desperate depravity in how he feeds from you, Zayne doesn’t want to drain you completely.
He keeps you on the edge between consciousness and blacking out, the cruel edge striking primal fear into your soul.
Then—
He lets you go.
Licking his lips, his emerald gaze pierces your soul. Zayne sucks in a trembling inhale.
“Go,” his voice booms, and he can’t look at you. “Go.” Before I do something I regret.
The words are implicit, but you hear them clearly.
You stay frozen on his lap.
Zayne shudders, a full-body shiver that wracks him apart when you look at him with those dumb, hazy eyes.
“Fuck—”
“I-I can’t move—”
He curses again under his breath. “Get up,” a snarl filled with desperation more than maliciousness. “Get up and go now—!”
The strange fog creeps into your brain. Your muscles can’t move. The heat that blooms straight from your center feels too good to deny.
Your hips start to move on their own accord before you can stop them.
“No—”
His breath leaves in a sharp hiss.
You run your hands over his healed skin, taking in the contrast between smooth flesh and indents of rough bark.
It’s mesmerizing—he would be handsome if he weren’t scowling at you like you were an animal needing discipline.
“Human—”
He chokes off when you lean forward to press your lips to the hollow of his throat.
Whatever protest he had withered away into a moan as he tipped his head back, groaning at the weight of you in his lap—how you perfectly fit on top of him.
His hands, trapped under the vines, ache to reach out and touch you.
Leaning into him, the weight of your body melting into his is intoxicating. All warmth and soft, silky skin.
Your lips meet his, and at first, you jerk back at the rough feeling of dried skin and bark.
But, eventually, you get used to it and lean into the sensation.
Zayne groans under your ministrations.
Hapless and immobile, it’s now his turn to let you have the fun you need.
Your tongue traces his lower lip, sinking into the depths of his mouth and twining with his surprisingly human appendage.
Whoever or whatever cursed Zayne into this miserable life as a forest effigy was careful enough to keep his most human parts intact.
You expect him to be hollow under your touch.
Yet, he’s vibrant and warm.
The end of his breath catches in his throat when you glide your hands down his firm chest.
“You know, for a wooden statue, you sure are sturdy,” you attempt to make a joke.
He doesn’t laugh. Though a small spark of amusement lights his eyes.
Zayne lets you kiss down the clavicle of his collarbone, and halts when you try to go down further.
“That’s quite enough,” he rasps.
A sudden force tugs you back from descending further, and you find your body pinned to his chest, your breath falling out of you in a rush.
“Zayne—”
“Go home.” His lips brush the crown of your head. “That is an order.”
Sensing your pout more than seeing it, he chuckles hoarsely.
“Come back tomorrow. Midnight sharp. I will be here waiting for you.”
Skin still smarting from his bites, slightly dizzy from the blood loss, you stumble off his lap.
You have no idea what possesses you to agree with his orders, but you nod, the penetrating green of his gaze piercing through your heart.
“Tonight.”
—
The moon tonight is unusually murky behind an impenetrable roll of fog.
Guided by the flashlight’s beam, you make your way through the thick foliage and find the opening of the clearing where you sense the unmistakable magical aura from the bat.
Zayne is where you left him, head drooping, breathing shallow.
You cautiously walk over to him, gently tapping his hand.
He moans, and when he lifts his head, you catch a pungent whiff, like something rotten coming from him.
But he grins when he sees you, despite the clear exhaustion in his eyes.
“You are back… my goddess.”
Goddess?
The word sends a thrill up your spine. Reverberating across space and time to fill you with the sense that this endearment is familiar.
Zayne doesn’t stop you from clambering onto his lap once more, his presence sturdy and reassuring.
You find you quite like how his somber eyes would regard you with a mix of anticipation and dread all at once.
A constellation of anxiety painted emerald green that tugs on your soul.
You cannot look at him without feeling a stab of pity.
“Zayne… when you mentioned I was the one who imprisoned you—” His hitched breath makes your words stumble. “—can you tell me more?”
He hesitates for a second. Something tells you this is a touchy subject.
Raising his head, the stench is mitigated by his smile fracturing around the edges to reveal a warmth that literally takes your breath away.
“Do not worry about it,” he murmurs, and this time, is the one to initiate the kiss first. “You have my heart and every memory that comes after it. I would never blame you for what you had to do.”
There’s that dizzying feeling again.
The one that makes the world spin and your core tighten in heat.
His lips are on yours, and you drink him in. It’s intoxicating. It’s wild.
It’s dangerous.
This affection is more like an affliction.
Sucking your tongue into his mouth, this is the closest you will ever feel to worship in this life.
Embraced by his warmth and firm body, you find the courage to wrap your arms around him.
He doesn’t bite down on your flesh. Doesn’t claim your blood as a remedy for his malady.
He just kisses you like a man enamored with a lover for half of his existence.
“Zayne—”
Your heated gasps fill every crook of his mouth. He mumbles:
“Do what you must.”
So, you go with your instincts.
Sliding your panties to the side from underneath a short skirt you wore (totally not with the hopes that he would let you take him this way), you sink on the stiff pole jutting from underneath all that bark.
He feels warm and solid inside of you as you take him inch by inch.
From the periphery of your gaze, you see his hands clench into fists.
“Gods,” he moans like it’s blasphemy. “You feel sensational.”
Your walls are a warm hug around his hardness. It’s easy to settle him fully inside when he remains stock still, letting you work yourself down to your comfort.
Once seated to the hilt, he buries his lips against your throat.
Again, he orders slash plead:
“Do what you must.”
So, you ride him.
Slowly at first, and then with full intent to drive you both down the cliffs of this pleasure that has enraptured you towards the tether of your common sense.
You have no thought in mind.
Nothing but how he feels inside of you—how right this moment is.
Engraved in this hidden alcove, upon his lap where he sits on his throne, you take the forest effigy and race to find your completion.
The sloppy sensation of your bodies meeting together again and again fills the air with a lewd rhythm.
Zayne cusses out, “Gods,” when you bite down on his earlobe.
The fat, weeping tip of his hard cock rams your sweet spot, and your eyes water.
“Z-Zayne,” you cry out, holding on for dear life as his hips surge up, meeting you slick thrust for slick thrust—
Ruining you as much as you ruin him.
“H-ah,” he pants, and in this light, he looks more man than stuffed beast.
Eyes crossed, cheeks pink, and lips puffy.
Your heart skips a beat, and you clench down on him.
His teeth drag down the column of your throat, a soft growl accompanying the bite he sucks into a spot underneath your ear.
You want him to hold you—to clasp you tight as you ride him to oblivion.
“Please—” you hiccup, reduced close to tears.
Your shiny eyes glimmer in the moonlight, and Zayne has to bite back a curse.
“Can you touch me?”
He grunts like he’s in pain. “Lovely, I want to, I so do—”
Another pained groan.
“But, I cannot. I cannot—”
“You could hold me a few days ago,” you cry out, and the way you buck your hips to bump his weeping tip with your clit as your hips rise is unfair. “When you told me to return home—”
“I can only rise when my territory is threatened,” he moans out, gritting his teeth.
“Beyond that, I am no more useful than a doll.”
His words are laced with pain and frustration.
The interplay between pleasure and despair contrasts beautifully on his mirage, like a shadow and light show.
Zayne grits his teeth against a sudden wave of arousal, making him throb hot and deep inside of you.
“Gods, I am not going to last—”
“Don’t,” you choke. “Don’t hold back.”
His bound hands twitch, as if desperate to grasp your hips and slam you down harder on him.
Bound by blood and a mysticness neither of you can explain—perhaps in the shades of dreams long gone and a life no longer lived—your souls merge in an ecstasy of pleasure.
Providing the ultimate release he needs.
While the orgasm wracks through you, Zayne moans and writhes like he’s been set aflame.
The pungent, rotting aroma doubles, and you nearly gag.
Underneath your body, he heaves—rolling his hips, tossing his head back—
And, his entire face disintegrates into a rotting, maggot-infested corpse right before your eyes.
The outer shell—his bark—melts away to reveal the deadened man made out of wood and a foul dark magic you cannot name.
Shock like freezing water drenches you from head to toe, and for a moment, you can’t think—
AHH!
You jump off his lap, screaming and maniacally batting the maggots that had clung to your skin off like you’re trying to put off flames.
A litany of curses and wails pierces the evening air.
The corpse slumps down the throne, its manacled hands detaching from the torso.
You pick up what’s left of your sanity and run.
Far from the clearing, far from this cursed, wretched place.
You don’t realize tears are streaming down your face until you halt right in front of your cabin door, catching your breath.
What the fuck—!
You turn your gaze back to the clearing, your body frozen.
What the hell just happened?!
Your mind is a ringing mess.
For a second, you wonder if you’ve died and entered a strange version of hell. A few slaps to your cheek. A pinch on your arm.
You swear you can still taste rotting flesh on your lips, and the thought makes your stomach twist—
On your hands and knees, you dry heave spittle, flecks of your early dinner, and bile acid into the hard-packed ground.
The world spins. The night sky expands before your eyes, the stars threatening to swallow you up whole—
And, the entire world grows dark.
But, just before you fade into the black, an icy finger traces your cheek, catching your tears. A whisper in the wind:
I never once blamed you for what happened—rest easy now, my love.
—
The police could find no trace of a body in that deep wood clearing you stumbled into all those weeks ago.
Neither could any of them understand your senseless rambles when you try to piece together a proper story.
One of them even passes you a hospital’s number, in case of a head injury.
Despite how the world denies him, you know he exists.
You know he’s in the aether, soul still bound to yours.
You feel him in the cool night breeze, whenever droplets of rain splatter on your face.
The effigy hiding the man; this inexplicable connection you have with Zayne.
Maybe one day you’ll finally remember the truth.
But for now, you take comfort in the silence and solitude of an approaching winter; your gaze always finding that clearing in the distance, wondering if you’d ever catch a glimpse of the divine again.
— reblogs and comments to support are very much appreciated 💕
SYNOPSIS★ When your sweet old landlady passes away, her grandson Caleb takes over the property. He’s goofy, charming, a golden retriever of a man—except behind that smile is a freak who can’t get enough of your scent. First it’s lost panties, then unwashed bras, and before you know it your landlord is moaning into your laundry and begging for “payment” straight from the source.
CW★ landlord!caleb, writer!reader, panty theft, gooning, scent kink, lingerie stealing, unwashed clothing kink, masturbation, cum everywhere, oral (fem receiving), leg humping, public indecency vibes, crack mixed with depravity, Caleb being a pervy golden retriever weirdo but hot about it, reader hairy + unshaved mentions, rent = panties arrangement, shameless dirty talk. . . wc : 4.3k
CHERRY’S NOTE★ caleb is a freak from heart. only face card is saving him. also, tysm for 4k+ followers—take this as a celebration gift.
You hadn’t exactly planned on being broke.
That was the funny thing about pursuing your dreams—it sounded noble until you were eating instant ramen for the fourth night in a row and rationing your laundry detergent because it was either that or running out of coffee. You’d quit your steady nine-to-five to finally give writing a real chance, which meant no more safety net, no steady paycheck, just you and a Word doc full of half-finished drafts.
And rent. Always rent.
The apartment wasn’t glamorous, but in the middle of Linkon City, it was a miracle you’d managed to hang onto it this long. The only reason you’d survived was your landlady Josephine, a sweet old woman with a soft spot for starving artists and lonely tenants. She never raised the rent, always slipped you leftovers from whatever she’d cooked that week, and told you, in her gravelly smoker’s voice, that you reminded her of her younger self.
Then she passed away.
Just like that, you went from living in a cozy, rent-stable haven to dreading the letter that slid under your door with news of “new management.”
That was how you met him.
Caleb.
Josephine’s grandson.
The first time you saw him was at the front of the building, clipboard tucked under his arm, chatting up the tenants like he’d been born to do it. Tall, broad-shouldered, messy brown hair that fell into his purple eyes when he laughed—and he laughed a lot, loud and goofy, like a golden retriever in human form. He wasn’t what you expected at all.
When it was your turn, he leaned against your doorframe like he already knew you, grin so easy it almost disarmed you. “You must be… let me guess…” His eyes swept you up and down before he tapped his pen against the clipboard. “The mysterious writer in 3B? My grandma used to say you were always clacking away at night.”
You blinked at him. “That’s me.”
“Hell yeah, nailed it on the first try.” He gave you a wink, then extended his hand like you were old friends. “I’m Caleb. New landlord, same building. Figured I should get to know my tenants, y’know? Keep the family business running.”
You shook his hand, noticing the way he held on just a second too long. His palm was warm, rough, and when he finally let go, he still lingered there in your doorway, rocking on his heels, grinning.
“So,” he said, like he had all the time in the world, “what do you write? Horror? Romance? Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who writes smut and tries to hide it. My grandma would’ve loved that.”
Heat crawled up your neck. “I… write fiction. Different stuff.”
“Cool, cool.” He nodded enthusiastically, messy hair falling into his eyes again. “That’s awesome. Bet you’ve got a ton of stories. You’ll have to tell me sometime.”
It was harmless, you told yourself. Just a goofy young guy, suddenly inheriting more responsibility than he probably knew what to do with. He made a couple of corny jokes about rent—“Don’t worry, I won’t make you pay me in blood, ha ha”—and then scribbled something on his clipboard.
But when he finally left, you couldn’t shake the way he’d looked around your apartment like he was memorizing it. Like he wanted to know more than just your name.
It started with one pair.
You figured you’d dropped them somewhere between your bathroom and the laundry room, maybe caught on another piece of clothing or shoved too far into the dryer drum. Things got lost all the time in a shared building like this.
But then it kept happening.
Another pair went missing the next week. Then two more the week after. You counted one morning, standing in front of your dresser with your hands on your hips, and realized you were down nearly half your underwear. The good ones, too—the ones you actually liked wearing.
It didn’t make sense. You weren’t careless. You weren’t that forgetful. And yet every time you shrugged it off, convincing yourself you were imagining things, you’d pull another empty drawer and feel your stomach sink.
What you didn’t know—couldn’t know—was that your missing underwear never made it out of the building. They were upstairs. In Caleb’s room.
He’d tried to hold back at first. The very first pair he’d “rescued” from your laundry basket, he’d told himself it was just curiosity, just one time, just a stupid little peek because he couldn’t stop thinking about how good your smell must be. But one time turned into two, and then three, and then now.
Now he was spread out on his bed, the violet of his eyes blown wide with a glassy haze, his thick brows pulled together in desperate focus. Four used tissues were crumpled on the floor beside him, and he was rutting against the fifth pair like an animal in heat.
Your panties—pink cotton, soft and worn—were pressed to his face as he moaned, voice muffled and filthy. His hips bucked into his fist, stroking himself raw, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t slow down. Not when your scent was clinging to him, filling his lungs, drowning out every thought except you.
“Fuck—pipsqueak,” he groaned into the fabric, voice breaking on the nickname he gave you. “Smell so fuckin’ good, can’t—shit, can’t stop—”
He buried his face deeper, nose dragging over the gusset until he was practically whining. His body trembled, desperate and frantic, as if the panties themselves were his lifeline. The mattress creaked under his weight, the slick sound of his fist pumping echoing through the room.
Around him, the evidence was everywhere. Pairs of your underwear scattered across his sheets, some balled up, some laid flat, some stained and ruined already. He’d tried to keep them neat once, folded in his drawer like trophies, but the hunger was too much. Now they littered his room like a shrine, and still it wasn’t enough.
Caleb’s chest heaved as he came undone again, hot spurts spilling across his hand, staining his stomach, dripping messily onto your panties. He kept rubbing them against his face even as his orgasm tore through him, shuddering with need.
And then, as soon as his breathing slowed, he reached for another pair.
He couldn’t help it. He needed more. Your scent was addictive, sweet and dizzying, and every time he thought he was finished, the ache clawed back inside him.
Caleb clutched another pair to his nose—lacy, delicate ones this time, the kind that made his throat go dry just imagining them stretched over your hips—and groaned low in his chest. His cock twitched in his fist again, aching, insistent, already hardening back to life.
“Fuck, pipsqueak… what are you doin’ to me?” he whispered, voice hoarse, forehead pressed to the lace as if he could sink into it. His body curled in on itself, hips grinding into his hand like a dog rutting against anything that smelled of its mate.
His sheets were ruined, his body sore, but none of it mattered. Not when your scent was in his lungs, not when your panties were his only salvation.
And still, he thought about you downstairs, pacing your room, probably frustrated and confused, probably wondering where all your underwear had gone. The thought made his cock throb painfully, precum smearing over his knuckles.
If only you knew.
If only you could see your landlord, your goofy, smiling Caleb, sprawled out in the dark, surrounded by your stolen underwear, jerking off for the fifth time tonight like a total fucking weirdo.
It was getting ridiculous.
First panties. Then bras. Then—what the actual fuck—your apple-printed pajama shorts. Who even wanted those? They had a bleach stain on the thigh.
And yet they were gone. Just like the too-tight crop top you’d kept for “motivation purposes” and even your socks, mismatched and worn down. You stood in front of your laundry basket one night like a detective on the verge of a breakdown.
“The dryer’s not eating them,” you muttered to yourself. You’d checked. Twice.
Which meant the only possible explanation: some pervert was going to town on your clothes.
The idea made your skin crawl. And yet—there was no way to prove it. No cameras in front of the laundry room. Nothing but your own paranoia. So you started paying attention. Standing guard. Lining up to wash your clothes instead of leaving them overnight. Still, things disappeared, and you swore you could hear the X-Files theme every time you folded laundry.
By the time evening rolled around, you were frazzled. Your desk was covered in empty mugs and crumpled notes. You’d been pounding away at your laptop for hours, trying to hammer out a smut scene for your latest fic, but the flow just wasn’t there.
You slammed the space bar, growled into your hands, and nearly headbutted the keyboard.
“Fucking—”
Ding-dong.
The doorbell startled you upright. Muttering, you padded over and yanked the door open.
And there was Caleb. Clipboard in hand. Purple eyes bright, thick eyebrows bouncing with every word as he grinned.
“Monthly check-in!” he chirped, like he wasn’t the reincarnation of your stress.
You sighed, rubbing your temples, and stepped aside to let him in. “Yeah, sure.”
Caleb strolled in with all the grace of a golden retriever let off leash. His gaze wandered over your living room, lingering here and there a little too long. And then you remembered.
Your laptop. Your violently-typed, wide-open smut scene.
“Shit—” you bolted to your desk, practically diving to slam the tab shut.
Behind you, you swore you heard the low rumble of a chuckle.
When you turned back, Caleb was already scribbling something on his clipboard, face scrunched in fake concentration. And then he looked up, lips quirking into that same goofy smile.
“All done,” he said lightly. “See you later, pipsqueak.”
Your eyebrow twitched at the nickname, but you bit your tongue. He wasn’t raising the rent, so you let it slide.
He clicked his pen closed, spun on his heel, and headed for the door.
You were halfway to the kitchen when your eyes drifted to your laundry basket.
And froze.
The black thong you’d left there—the one you swore you’d wash later—was gone. Just. Gone.
With Caleb.
You stared at the basket. Then at the door. Then back at the basket.
“…oh. My. God.”
Your voice was flat, horrified, disbelieving. You blinked once, twice, as realization hit you like a fucking truck.
Your landlord. Your goofy, golden-retriever-smiling, thick-eyebrowed, clipboard-toting landlord.
Stealing your underwear.
Somewhere down the hall, you swore you heard Caleb humming.
Caleb barely made it to his office before he was clawing at his belt.
The second the door shut behind him, he bolted to the chair, yanking your black thong from his pocket like it was the crown jewels. His cock was already straining against his sweats, leaking through the fabric, twitching with every heartbeat.
“Fuck, pipsqueak…” he groaned, voice cracking as he pressed the thong to his face. “Bet you didn’t even shower yet… fuck, smelled you so good today…”
His hips jerked upward as he fisted his cock with desperate, violent strokes, the slick sound filling the room. He moaned openly, shamelessly, like some bitch in heat. The thong dragged against his nose and lips as he inhaled, shuddering like he might break apart from just the scent.
“Her unwashed thong… mmmhh—fuck, smells so good! God—so fucking good!” His words slurred between panting, his eyes glassy, rolling back with every thrust of his hand. His whole body trembled, thighs spread, cum-slick cock shining under the office light.
The desk rattled with the force of him rutting into his fist. Papers scattered to the floor. He didn’t notice. Couldn’t notice. Not when he was drowning in you, muttering your name like a prayer, a curse, a desperate fucking mantra.
He was gone. Utterly gone.
So gone, in fact, that he didn’t notice the office door swing open.
You stood there, frozen in the doorway, jaw dropping as the scene burned itself into your retinas.
Caleb—your landlord—thick brows furrowed, violet eyes rolled back, cock in his fist, your thong plastered to his face. The obscene sound of wet strokes echoed around the office.
And then—
He came. Hard.
“FUCK—” His back arched clean off the chair, hips snapping up violently as his cock exploded. Cum shot so high it actually spattered against the wall behind his desk, dripping down in obscene streaks. His moans broke into whimpers, thighs trembling, body jerking with the aftershocks as his orgasm tore through him.
Panting, gasping, Caleb finally peeled the thong off his face—only to freeze when his violet eyes locked on you.
Your hand was still on the doorknob. Your mouth was wide open. You swore you wanted to scream, or bolt, or call the cops, but nothing came out. Just stunned silence.
Caleb looked like he’d seen a ghost. His lips parted, his thick brows shooting up, panic flashing across his face.
“P-pipsqueak—” his voice cracked, trembling.
You didn’t move. “….”
“H-hey, p-pipsqueak, I—I…” He scrambled off the chair, tripping over his own pants as he tried to yank them up. His softening dick bounced against his stomach with the motion, making the whole scene even more humiliating.
Your throat worked, and finally, you managed to whisper: “I’ll file a report—”
Caleb practically lunged forward, hands up, eyes wild. “Wait! No—don’t—listen to me!” His words tumbled out, desperate, his voice breaking. “You don’t… you don’t have to pay me rent!”
You blinked. “…what?”
He gulped, then—like the absolute freak he was—pressed your thong back against his mouth, moaning at the scent, shameless even with cum drying on his shirt. His eyes fluttered back, his hips twitching helplessly as his softening cock gave a little jump in his half-zipped pants.
“Pay me in these…”
You stared at him, horrified. “You… want my underwear?”
“Fuck yeah.” His answer was immediate, wrecked, voice thick with hunger.
Silence stretched between you. The only sound was his ragged breathing and the faint drip of cum sliding down the wall.
You thought about screaming. You thought about running. You thought about your dwindling bank account.
Finally, you exhaled, long and slow. “…deal.”
And with that, you shut the door.
It got… normal.
Well, normal in the sense that your landlord would casually sniff the air when you walked into a room, tilting his head like a bloodhound and asking, “Showered yet, pipsqueak?”
You always thought he was a weirdo—which he was, let’s not sugarcoat it—but he was your weirdo, and more importantly, he wasn’t charging you rent. And when your bank account was gasping for air every week, that was enough to keep you tolerating his freak habits.
The first month, Caleb showed up for “check-in,” leaned against your doorframe with that goofy grin, and then just… waltzed right in. You didn’t even fight it. He rooted around until he found your laundry basket, plucked out three pairs of unwashed panties like he was harvesting apples, and left humming to himself.
You sighed, plopped back at your desk, and smashed your keyboard to get another smut scene out. As long as you saved money, having a pervert gooning to your underwear wasn’t the biggest deal in the world. Or maybe it was. You didn’t think too hard about it.
The second month, though…
Caleb showed up again, hair messy, violet eyes wide and twitchy, practically bouncing on his heels. “Pipsqueak, c’mon, I need it fresh outta the source this time. Please. Please.”
You stared at him, deadpan, and then sighed through your nose. Slowly, you hooked your thumbs under your shorts, peeled off the panties you’d been wearing all day, and slapped them into his waiting hand.
He made a sound. A wrecked, desperate, feral sound that you swore belonged in some nature documentary. And then, like a complete horny freak, he stayed in your doorway, panting, jerking himself through his sweats as he buried his nose in the damp fabric.
“F-fuck—fuck, pipsqueak—ohhh god, smells so fucking good—”
You dragged a hand down your face and went back to your desk, deciding to pretend none of that was happening in your peripheral vision.
By the third month, you didn’t even blink when he knocked.
Caleb sauntered in for his “check-in,” twirling a lacy pair of your panties around his finger like a keychain. His grin was pure menace, thick brows raised, violet eyes glinting like he’d just robbed a bank.
“Hey, pipsqueak,” he sing-songed, waving the lace at you before pressing it to his face. He inhaled deep and moaned shamelessly, the sound vibrating in his chest. “Mmmm—bet you’re not showering to let the scent linger even more, huh? you've anything else for me?” He wiggled his eyebrows like he was proud of the detective work.
The worst part? He wasn’t wrong.
You were drowning in commissions, barely sleeping, barely eating. Showering felt like a luxury. Shaving? Forget it. You were running on caffeine and deadlines.
So instead of arguing, you reached under your oversized shirt, unhooked your bra, and handed it over.
Caleb’s reaction was instant. He whimpered. Loud. Like a kicked puppy who’d just been given a steak dinner. His knees almost buckled as he pressed the bra to his face, rubbing it over his nose and mouth, his whole body shivering like he was seconds from busting in his pants.
You blinked at him, expression flat. “…you’re unbelievable.”
And Caleb, muffled against your bra, moaned, “Unbelievably lucky.”
You smashed your keyboard once again.
Caleb had been practically vibrating ever since he could see your thigh hairs peaking out from those shorts. His eyes were sharp, ridiculously so, noticing every single detail. His clipboard was still abandoned by the door, rent forms forgotten, his goofy grin melted into something desperate—hungry.
“God, pipsqueak…” he rasped, pupils blown wide like he was drunk on you, his hand hovering an inch away from your thighs, twitching like it took every ounce of willpower not to latch on. “You really… fuck, you really don’t shave anymore, huh?”
You groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You’re not seriously—Caleb—”
“Dark little curls peekin’ out—mmhh—fuck, I knew it,” he cut you off, his own voice hitching like he’d already palmed himself half-hard just from the thought. He crouched lower, shamelessly eyeing the faint hair on your thighs. “God, bet this pussy’s a goddamn jungle… been thinkin’ about it all week. Nasty, musky—fuck, I wanna bury myself in there so bad.”
The heat rushing up your neck was embarrassing, your own body betraying you. Your oversized shirt felt suffocating, sticking to your skin, and the way his gaze locked onto the damp spot forming on your shorts made you press your thighs tighter together.
“Don’t say shit like that,” you muttered, but it came out weaker than you intended.
Caleb moaned like you’d just sucked him off, head tipping back, hand squeezing the bulge in his pants. “Nnnhhh, pipsqueak… you’re hairy and smelly and I swear to god that’s all I want. Your pussy probably tastes like heaven after days of sittin’ hot in these panties.”
“Two months rent,” you snapped, face hot, ignoring the way your cunt clenched at his words.
His eyes lit up. “Deal—fuck yeah, deal.”
The oversized shirt rode up when he tugged at your shorts, clumsy but frantic, his big hands swallowing the fabric until he yanked it past your knees. And there it was—your puffy folds straining against damp cotton, dark curls spilling out the sides, the faint tang of your arousal hitting his nose.
Caleb whimpered—whimpered—like he’d just been blessed by god himself. “So pretty…” he moaned, fingers trembling as he hooked his thumb under the waistband and peeled the panties off you, his mouth falling open at the sight.
You raised a brow, trying to play it cool even as your stomach flipped. “What, you never seen a hairy pussy before?”
His jaw went slack, eyes glassy, his chest heaving like he’d sprinted a marathon. “Not like this… oh fuck… not yours.” His cock twitched violently in his jeans, precum already wetting the front.
Then he just folded, literally shoved his face forward and pressed his nose against your mound like a starved man. A strangled groan tore out of him. “F-fuck… musky, sticky, hairy—nnnhhh, god, pipsqueak, this is it, this is it—smells so fucking good.” He humped your thigh like a dog, rutting desperately while inhaling lungfuls of your scent, drool dampening the curls above your slit.
You nearly laughed at the absurdity if it didn’t make your head spin. “You’re disgusting,” you muttered, but your legs parted on their own, your body betraying you.
Caleb was too gone to care. He mouthed at the curls, sloppily making out with your pussy lips, leaving trails of spit that matted your hair further. “Mmmhh—fucking love it—your hairy pussy, fuck, jungle time baby!” he moaned, voice muffled as he shoved his tongue between your folds.
Your eyes rolled back at the first hot swipe of his tongue, and you had to grab his stupid fluffy hair just to ground yourself. “F-fuck—Caleb…”
He whimpered against you, humping your leg harder, his voice vibrating through your cunt. “Mmmhh so good, so fucking good… hairy, smelly, fuckin’ perfect… pipsqueak tastes like heaven. Don’t ever shave, don’t ever shower, just—fuck—let me drown here forever.”
His nose buried against your clit, his tongue lapping messy and desperate, sloppy smacks echoing as he kissed and sucked every bit of you he could get. He was noisy, shameless, every groan dripping with depravity.
“Goddammit…” you gasped, toes curling, heat coiling in your belly. Against all logic, all dignity—you were enjoying this. Enjoying how your drop-dead gorgeous landlord was losing his mind over something so stupid. Enjoying how freaky he was, how it turned you on more than anyone else ever had.
Caleb pulled back for just a second, his chin glistening, panting like a bitch in heat. His eyes rolled back as he moaned again, grinding his clothed cock against your leg. “Y-you smell so fucking strong… f-fuck, I’m addicted, I’m—lemme taste more, please please please pretty please—”
You tilted your head, playing at nonchalance despite how wet you were dripping down the couch. “A year’s rent.”
He didn’t even hesitate. “Deal—fuck—DEAL!” he cried, before burying his face back in your hairy cunt like a man possessed. His tongue shoved deep inside you, his nose grinding your clit, his muffled moans vibrating until you were gasping, your thighs clamping around his head.
And Caleb? He was in heaven—whimpering, rutting, face smeared in spit and arousal, a depraved freak making out with your hairy pussy like it was oxygen.
Caleb was already whining into your cunt, his tongue sloppy and desperate, when his hips started moving on their own. The grind of his cock against your thigh was shameless, rough, precum soaking through his jeans as he moaned filth into your folds.
“Mmmhh fuck—smell so good—taste even better—” his words muffled against you, his jaw working as if he could suck your scent out and swallow it whole. His big hands slid under your ass, squeezing, digging in, and suddenly he lifted you halfway off the couch like you weighed nothing.
“C-Caleb—what the fuck—” you gasped, legs dangling, cunt spread wide against his face.
He just groaned, shaking his head like a starving man at a feast, his nose grinding your clit while his tongue lapped up everything dripping from you. His hips rutted harder, humping your thigh like an animal, his cock throbbing as wet spots spread across his pants.
If it were any other guy, you’d be disgusted. Mortified. But Caleb—your stupid, gorgeous, pervy landlord—he made it feel filthy and addictive. He made you want it.
Your back arched, fingers tangling in his hair as your thighs clamped around his ears. His moans got louder, wetter, his whole body trembling with the effort of eating you out while fucking into your leg.
“F-fuck—Caleb I’m—” Your words cut off as your body convulsed, orgasm ripping through you, spasming hard against his face. His tongue never stopped, lapping up every spurt, groaning so loud the vibrations nearly made you scream.
And Caleb? He came with you, rutting hard into your leg until his hips jerked violently, cum flooding his pants, the wet squelch audible as he whined into your pussy. His back arched, his cock spurting through denim, and he nearly sobbed from how good it felt.
When you finally collapsed back onto the couch, panting, legs twitching, he pulled his mouth away with a wet smack. His face was glistening, hair stuck to his forehead, his eyes glazed and blissed out.
He looked up at you with a stupid, goofy grin, panting like a happy dog that just got a treat. “That was… heaven!”
You stared at him, speechless, your brain fried.
And from that day forward, you didn’t have to pay Caleb rent. In fact—you never paid him rent at all.
Now, sitting in his living room years later, you watched him chatting with a nervous guy who came to see one of his apartments. Caleb leaned back, laughing, his wedding ring catching the light as he gestured with his hand.
“Yeah, sorry man—no can do,” Caleb chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m married. A married man. The marriest of all.”
You glanced at your own ring, the sparkle even brighter in the sunlight, and rolled your eyes. Married to your perv of a landlord. The absolute freak who ruined you for anyone else.
And god help you—you wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Need help with household chores? Want a friend to come home to and talk about your day with? Need to let off some steam with a good fuck? Our android companion is perfect for you! Only for the low, low sale price of $4,999.99!
⋆.˚ CW — 18+ MDNI, smut, android!Caleb, shy!reader, alcohol, a non-consensual kiss at the beginning but the smut is 100% consensual, yearning, a bit of angst, masturbation, Caleb's arm as a vibrator, fingering, multiple orgasms, crying (but sexy), overstim
⋆.˚ NOTES — welcome to the 2nd week of kinktober! I had lots of fun writing this one so I hope you enjoy it as much as I did :3
“Ugh, fuck this,” you groan, tossing your tiny, pink vibrator to the side, not caring when it goes too far and flies off your bed. You're way too inebriated and sexually frustrated to give a damn.
Your arm aches and as the pulse slowly fades between your legs, you come to the conclusion that you can't come tonight. Fingers, vibrator, dildos, none of them seem to work on you. It's been like this for weeks. You don't know if it's stress or if there's just something wrong with you.
Your nightly routine tonight consisted of kicking off your heels and settling down with a bottle of wine before bed. You were hoping the wine would help you relax and then you'd be able to come. But, that plan has proved to be a bust.
You pull your panties back up and grab your phone off the nightstand. There are a few notifications from social media, a friend asking if you wanted brunch tomorrow, and what looks like a spam email.
FROM: EVER. CO
SALE SALE SALE: EVER CO. COMPANION BOT, CALEB!
You squint at your phone screen. A mix of alcohol and the late hour convinces your curiosity into clicking the email.
You vaguely remember browsing EVER’s website a few weeks ago out of curiosity. Their companion bots are supposed to be the very best, cutting edge tech, designed to be anything you want—a friend, family, lover, anything at all.
At first, you thought the idea of buying an android was a complete waste of money. You've seen them around the city, either doing errands on their own or walking hand-in-hand with their human partners. When they smile politely at you with their lightless eyes, it sends nothing but chills down your spine.
While checking out their website, you scrolled through the ‘build-a-bot’ section to ridicule the stupid features people pay extra to install.
Seriously, who pays a hundred extra dollars for a bigger dick installation and extra stamina?
It was an amusing browse that lasted for an hour, and you thought that's all it would be—an hour of entertainment you wouldn't think about ever again.
But now you're staring into the violet eyes of the most handsome man android you've ever seen, with eyes somehow reflecting so much life and charm, drawing you in the longer you gaze. He looks less like the typical androids you normally see and that has you intrigued.
Meet Caleb (model no. X-02), EVER’s latest android companion, tailor made to be your perfect partner! He's the boy next door, an attentive lover, the adrenaline junkie that will take you on the ride of your life.
You scan through his bio that lists characteristics, even habits that seem to bring him to life. He loves building model airplanes, hates cilantro, dreams of becoming a pilot, etc.
It reads less like a sales pitch and more like a dating profile. And somehow, he's checking off all your boxes. He really does seem tailor made for you. It's almost creepy.
This Caleb companion is not fit for additional installations or modifications.
So, you can't pay for extra stamina and a twelve inch dick? What a shame. You could really use that right now.
It doesn't help that there’s a shirtless photo of Caleb in bed with his thumb hooking around the band of his sweat pants, gazing up at the camera with a seductive smirk.
The ache between your legs returns annoyingly and you groan, scrolling away before you find your hands down your pants for another useless session.
Price mark down! 80% off! Get him today for the low, low price of $4,999.99!
You whistle, “that's pretty cheap.”
Considering the average, high quality android these days costs $30k and up, you're looking at a bargain—or at least, that's what your tipsy and horny addled mind tells you. But there's no way an android from EVER, a top selling android competitor, is selling a new model this low. There has to be a catch.
You try reading the finer details, but the tiny words just blend together. Somehow the only details you manage to catch are ‘passionate lover', ‘extra stamina pack included’, and ‘six vibrating arm modes’. You're extra intrigued by that last detail.
The add to cart button is clicked without a second thought. Purchasing is a simple, familiar process. Inputting your name, card information, address is muscle memory at this point.
You only realize what you just did when the EVER logo pops up on your screen with a purchase confirmation number.
Buyers remorse kicks in as you stare at the screen. This is probably one of the most embarrassing purchases you've ever made, solely driven by the fact that you're unbearably sexually frustrated and horny for some super hot, discount android.
Before you can figure out how to cancel your order, you notice an audio message attached to the thank you message.
“Thanks for choosin’ me. I can't wait to meet you.” A voice, presumably Caleb’s, says. Even his voice is hot. There's a sweet charm to it, playful and alluring all at once. “Fill out the questionnaire below to help me learn how I can please you.”
The questions range from basic tasks you'd like help with to how frequent you want him to initiate sex. You answer with complete honesty, thanks to the wine.
By the time you finish the seemingly endless and thorough questionnaire, your eyes are drooping until you eventually nod off, dreaming of violet eyes and that low voice whispering filthy things in your ears.
—
It takes Caleb two weeks to arrive at your door.
The delivery man asks for your signature, carts a six foot crate into your living room, and leaves without much fanfare. Though, you suppose these days, delivering androids isn't an uncommon occurrence.
You stare at the intimidating crate. It still hasn't registered that there's an android in your living room. In the two weeks leading up to this moment, you tried pushing it to the back of your mind. It is already embarrassing enough to admit that you bought one out of desperation, but to have it be a reality… you don't know what to expect once you crack open the box.
It takes thirty minutes for you to breathe through your anxieties and start cutting open all the zip ties and tape wrapped around the box. You're greeted by a thick user manual and wall of styrofoam casing when you peel open the top.
You take the manual, a full body scan of Caleb is on it, and flip it open.
EVER Co. thanks you for your purchase! We hope you enjoy your new Caleb companion. Please refer to this user guide to help you get started.
You skim through the instructions, tapping your fingers against the pages as you worry your lower lip between your teeth.
To switch on your companion, hold down the POWER button located on your companion’s sternum for 3 seconds. Your companion will lead you through the next steps after powered on.
There's a diagram next to the text, illustrating where Caleb’s power button is. You pull off the styrofoam mold, tossing it to the corner of your living room, and beneath is Caleb’s sleeping—tecnically powered off—form.
It hits you all at once that he's real and… so human-like.
Your fingers graze over his cheek. He's neither cold nor warm to the touch, but he's not pallid. There's a glow to his skin, kissed by sun. When you press a finger into his cheek, the flesh gives way like any would. You half expected him to be solid, cold metal beneath your hands.
He’s bundled up in a jacket with blue and orange accents and black sweater beneath. You tug down his collar, spying a silver chain around his neck that leads down to some dog tags with his name and model number engraved on it. You feel against his solid chest for the button. It's a small indent in the middle of his sternum, nearly indiscernible to the eye, but you feel it beneath your finger and push down.
The seconds pass and you hear a low hum like fans buzzing to life beneath his skin. When you lift off the button it takes only a second for his eyes to snap open, staring blankly at the ceiling.
You dare yourself to inch closer, searching for signs of cognition. He doesn't stir. You're almost afraid you've already broken him somehow. You wave your hand over his face, wondering if you have to give him something to focus on.
Once, twice—you move your hand, and after the third pass his eyes are suddenly on yours. You squeal, falling back on your behind before scrambling off the floor, straightening out your clothes.
What a great first impression…
He keeps his eyes on you as if he's assessing you, picking you apart piece by piece to figure out what makes you tick, before blinking and wiping it all away with a dazzling smile.
“This is insane,” you mutter to yourself.
His smile is just like the pictures, but somehow in person it makes him ten times more attractive. “Nice to meet ya, pipsqueak.”
You wrinkle your nose. Pipsqueak? You're not sure that was one of the nicknames you chose on the questionnaire. “Um, hello?”
He lifts himself out of the box with quick and fluid movements, glancing around his new home with a discerning eye. There's a satisfied hum before he turns to you, dragging his eyes up and down your form.
“Come ‘ere.”
You hardly register what he means before he crowds you, cradling your jaw, and kisses you. His lips are rough against yours, moving languidly with his tongue parting your lips. Without much thought you melt into him.
It's been so long since you've had this sort of physical connection. Not since your ex and that was nearly a year ago at this point. It’s comforting to fall into someone else's arms, safe and warm.
Heat pools in your core as his hands smooth over your waist, but your mind drifts. It's all so sudden and so much.
“Wait!” You push against his chest and stumble back into the wall. But instead of meeting the solid wall, his steady hands cradle you before impact. He's almost chest to chest with you again, staring down at you with concern.
“Hey, be careful. You alright?”
“Yeah, I'm fine.” As you peel yourself from his arms, his hands tighten around your waist before relaxing and letting you free. You lean against the wall to catch your breath. “What the hell was that?”
His brows furrow. “You marked ‘initiate sex every day, twice a day’ on your questionnaire,” he states as if reciting it. “Is now not a good time?”
Damn you for doing that questionnaire while horny.
“Not really—I mean, we just met. Maybe…” You trail off. You're still unsure about all of this, whether or not you actually want to commit to having sex with him. He just feels so alive, real, and yet willing to do anything for you without a second thought. Does he feel strange about this whole situation like you? Does he even feel at all? You really don't have the mental capacity right now to debate the ethics of having sex with androids. Not when one is right in front of you and throwing himself at you. “We start slow, um, like holding hands and stuff.”
“Holding hands,” he repeats slowly, raising a brow. If you didn't know any better you'd say he’s mocking you. “Are we five?”
You cross your arms, using it as a protective shield against the goosebumps rising on your arms. There's a growing smirk on his lips as he stares at your pout. “Hey! I'm sorry if you expected me to just jump your bones the minute you woke up, but this is really weird for me, alright?”
You barely know him! Sure, you read the basics of his bio, but that doesn't make you comfortable with fucking him immediately even if he was designed to be.
He sighs, “I'm sorry. I don't mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“We can work our way up to that,” you say, adding on a ‘but’ when you see his smirk returning, “but for now let’s just pretend we’re roommates-er, friends.”
“Friends, for now. I can do that.”
Living with an android is somewhat normal. He cooks you meals, makes sure you have all three meals, helps you do laundry, and is there when you come home from work to talk to. He's funny, teasing you occasionally. Indulges you whenever you get pouty. Not to mention incredibly touchy.
His hands are somehow always on or near you. If you're reaching for a plate, he's right behind you, grabbing it before you can get up on your tip-toes. You swear he purposefully moved them higher on the shelf so he could do that. When the two of you are on the couch while you're ranting about a particularly annoying work meeting, his arm is slung around yours, rubbing your shoulder soothingly.
It doesn't help that you still haven't been able to come. You're still in bed every night with a hand down your pants and the other over your mouth to silence your whimpers. The solution is simple—ask Caleb to help, but you're nervous and hesitant. If you even think about tiptoeing out of your room to find him at his charging station in the living room, you tense up and pull the covers over your head.
As much as you hate to admit, he's not just the android you bought while drunk and horny in the middle of the night anymore. He's Caleb. The one who creates a gnawing ache in your chest whenever you see him, whenever he comes near you, whenever he wishes you a good day. All the symptoms of a greater feeling.
You know that he’s an android, advertised as being designed to obey your every command, but it feels like a violation of his autonomy to ask when you know he can't say no. So, you settle for being friendly roommates with Caleb, and leave yourself with your hands and a few toys to (not) do the job, and silent feelings you can't voice.
It's been fine so far, but you wonder every night when the tipping point will finally come.
“I’m back! Work was a bitch, but I picked up some snacks for movie night!” You call out when you step through the door, holding up your stuffed bag. You toe off your shoes at the door and place them on the shoe rack. “Did you choose a- oh!”
Caleb is sitting on the couch, fiddling with his arm. Instead of skin, it is the mechanical, dark chrome endoskeleton layer exposed from his shoulder and down. He has an array of tools spread on the coffee table. You recognize them from the maintenance kit that came in his box. A panel on his forearm is open with colorful wires running through like veins.
You turn your head away, ignoring how the exposed metal highlights the curve of his thick biceps and the way your body responds with a rush of heat pooling in your core. You clear your throat and try not to obviously squeeze your thighs together. “Sorry, am I interrupting something?”
“Nope, I was just finishin’ up.” You hear the click of his panel shutting and the shuffling of tools. “Why’re you lookin’ away?”
“I don't know. It seems impolite to stare while you're…uncovered?” It's a pathetic excuse when the truth is you're just hot and bothered.
He chuckles, “It’s not like I’m naked. And even if I were, you can stare all you want. I don't mind.”
You fling the bag of snacks at him, which he catches by the handles easily, and cover your face. Images of him shirtless in his sweatpants, the obvious bulge pressing against the fabric, flash in your mind. He's walked around the house in that outfit before, sending you little glances and smirks. It fuels your imagination at night while you attempt to get off.
“You're the worst,” you groan, stomping to fling yourself onto the couch.
“But, you keep me around,” he retorts teasingly.
“Only because you cook me dinner and do my laundry,” you grumble, snatching the bag of snacks from him and riffling through its contents to distract yourself from thoughts of him naked.
“Is that all I'm good for?”
You laugh softly, “no, of course not. I like you very much, Caleb.”
You settle for a bag of sour gummy worms and pull them from the bag. As you tear it open, you feel his stare on you again.
You squirm under his penetrating gaze, glancing at him. “What?”
“Nothin’. Just thinkin’,” he hums, reclining back into the cushions. You get a sense he's lying. “You've already seen me naked.”
You sputter, nearly jumping off the couch. “W-What! No!”
“Didn't you look at my profile on the website?”
“I did, but I didn't see that!” You gesture wildly to his lower half.
“Oh, you wanted me so bad, you didn't even look thoroughly.”
“I was tipsy and-” You shut yourself up before you can expose too much and huff, “ugh, you were way cuter on my screen when you couldn't talk.”
He ignores your statement, leaning closer to you. “Tipsy and what?”
Your face grows warmer when traces of a smirk appear on his face. “Tipsy and nothing. F-Forget it!”
You attempt to push him away, but he catches your arm. His thumb smoothes over the pulse point on your wrist in slow strokes. No doubt sensing the way your heart is racing beneath with his heart monitoring function. Any irritation you had falls away as he edges closer.
Cold metal meets your skin when Caleb’s hand reaches up to cup your cheek, making you flinch. Your eyes trace up his forearm and bicep. It's odd to see the mechanical parts of him when the face in front of you is so alive.
Caleb seems to take your quiet as rejection. “Are you scared of me like this?”
“No,” you answer immediately. “Should I be?”
“You don't know me,” he says, sharp and accusatory. “My code’s been rewritten so many times. Sometimes even I don't know who I’m supposed to be anymore.”
“Caleb…” Your mouth is dry, but your heart aches to comfort him.
“And sometimes I think I really like you,” he admits. “But is it me or is it just programming?”
Your heart seizes up at the sudden confession, butterflies fluttering in your stomach. To think… could he actually have feelings for you too?
He guides you closer, never taking his eyes off your lips. A drawn expression on his face. “And sometimes I think I want to kiss you—I really do.”
“Why don't you?” you whisper.
“You haven't asked me to yet.”
“And I won't.” You rest a hand over the one on your cheek, feeling the ridges and grooves around the plates of his fingers. “Take what you want, Caleb.”
You wonder if he can feel your hand against his. If there's some type of sensor, feeding back the warm touch of your palm over his, or if it's nothing at all.
“Take what I want…” he repeats in a whisper.
You think if he were human, his breathing would be uneven, stuck in his chest. His hand slides down to cup your neck, tugging you forward until your lips collide in a desperate, needy kiss.
He's warm on your lips. It's different from the first time he kissed you. Before, he was confident, and knew exactly how to get your knees weak. Now, he's moving, unsure of himself, unsure of whether or not it’s okay.
You reinforce him by parting your lips, letting your tongues dance around each other. He leans forward, clutching you in his arms to lay you against the couch, but jerks back violently, dropping you instead.
He grabs his head, groaning, eyes screwed shut with his face contorted.
“What's wrong?”
“Preventative measures EVER installed in all their androids,” he grounds out. “It usually stops us from doing anything dangerous or disobeying orders.”
It's your turn to cup his cheeks, raising his face to look at you. You never thought this would happen, but you're so glad it did.
“If this is what you want, I want it too. I want you to kiss me, and… I-I want more than that.”
A half grin forms from his grimace as he chuckles. He sweeps you into another kiss, whispering thank yous between each breath.
Your heart swells, knowing that he feels something for you. He may not be able to decipher it fully, but you'll take this, whatever he wants to give.
He holds you in his arms. Your lips fall into a slow rhythm together, neither one of you willing to separate from the other first.
“I found those toys under your bed while I was cleaning and tossed them out,” he admits between kisses.
Your head snaps back as you push on his shoulders. “What? Why!”
Those were expensive!
“I was…” he thinks for a moment before the word comes out hesitantly, like he doesn't know if it's true, “jealous.”
“But you didn't need to throw them away,” you pout. As you attempt to pull away, thinking you could dig them out of the trash if they’re still there, he grips your waist.
“I want to show you why you don't need them anymore. You only need me,” he growls, grabbing your thighs to wrap around his waist and hoisting you up effortlessly. Your arms wrap around his neck as he carries you to your bedroom and lays you against the pillows. “Let me prove it.”
Though his eyes don't leave yours, burning with a raw hunger, you're still nervous. You don't think anyone has ever looked at you this way before and it makes you squirm.
“Are you really sure?”
“I am.” He climbs on top, caging you between his arms. His dog tags dangle between you. “Are you?”
You nod, toying with his necklace. “Think I've been ready for this since you woke up in my living room.”
“Then let me make up for lost time.” he starts at your neck, sucking at your pulse point until he leaves his mark before moving down to your collar.
He's probably programmed with thousands of different techniques and ways to pleasure someone, you think. Plus, you recall inputting all of your favorite kinks and positions in the questionnaire. He already knows every intimate detail about you. Now he just has to learn every inch of your body.
Caleb unbuttons your top, revealing your chest inch by inch and helping it off your shoulders, until your bra is in full view.
You’re a bit embarrassed that they're not more lacy or risque, but he doesn't seem to mind as his metal arm traces down the seam into the valley of your breasts. You shiver at his cool touch, arching into his hand.
“Am I too cold?” He hooks a finger down the middle of your bra, easing it lower to reveal your perfect mounds.
Your breath hitches when he runs his thumb over your nipple. The cold brings it to a quick peak. “N-No, I like it.”
He tweaks your nipples with both hands, one warm and the other cold. You hum beneath him, sinking into the mattress. He slips behind you to unhook your bra and throws it somewhere in your room.
You hear a sharp click! and you yelp when his now vibrating hand returns to toy with your nipple. “Wh-What…”
“Wow,” he chuckles. “You really didn't read anything on my profile. Was I that handsome?”
“Ah, shut up,” you whine when he pinches your nipples between his vibrating fingers.
Six vibrating arm modes. Oh. So this is what it means. Your pussy clenches at the thought of him slipping his fingers into you like that.
“How ‘bout a demonstration?” He turns off the vibrating and slowly begins to ease off your work pants, taking your panties with it, leaving you bare before him.
You're stuck beneath his unwavering gaze, vulnerable to his desire. You try closing your legs but he's kneeling between them.
“Pretty,” he mumbles, tracing a path down your stomach to your slit. He parts your folds, swiping against your slick pussy, gathering it on his metallic fingers.
You bite your lip, trying to hold back the whine threatening to escape, as his middle finger eases its way into your tight entrance. A soft ‘ah’ slips past you when he makes slow curling gestures against your gummy walls.
“I want to hear how good I make you feel. Don't hold back.”
The low, consistent vibrations start up again inside you. It's deep and penetrating, coursing through every fiber of your being, unlike anything you could have done yourself.
“Oh,” you sigh, eyes fluttering shut. Your body sinks into the mattress.
“That's it,” he groans, working your pussy open, sliding in a second finger when you're wet enough. “Just relax. I'll help you through it.”
The stretch has you arching off the bed, grinding your hips down on him. Already, you're feeling that familiar peak approaching, but you're still afraid that even now you won't be able to reach it.
When his vibrating thumb settles on your little aching bud, sending sparks running up your spine, you moan, grasping at the sheets.
He speeds up his pace, eventually switching his mechanical hand with his other hand so he can keep using it on your clit without moving it. The slick sounds of his fingers echo through your room—shlick!, shlick!, shlick!—along with the low humming of his fingers.
“Mph, I-I think I'm gonna come!”
“Yeah?” Caleb curls his finger against a spot that has you crying his name. He hits it over and over, letting your writhe against the sheets.
And you finally, finally, get to come. It shatters you, breaking you apart into pieces until you're weightless and limp as your pussy drools on the sheets.
“I've got you,” he soothes, petting your jaw with his thumb. It's his other hand, softer and warm. You lean into it, catching your breath.
You hear a click! again and the vibrations against your clit intensify with faster and stronger buzzes. It tears you out of that momentary calm and sends you hurling towards another orgasm.
“Ahh, C-Caleb!” You cry, clinging onto his arm. Your body tenses, curling in on itself as intense waves of pleasure pour through you. Coherent words die on your lips. It's nothing but babbling sobs as tears leak from your eyes. “Hahh—ngh—I-I don't think I can-”
“You can. I want to see you come again,” he pants, spreading your legs again when they try to close. “One more for me.”
It's hard to stop your whimpering to form a complete response, so you nod, eyes rolling back when his thumb returns to your aching, swollen clit. The speed this time is much more intense, already your body is tensing against his fingers.
Your hands scramble for something to cling onto. You catch his necklace, dragging him down to meet your lips as your second orgasm crashes through you.
He doesn't move his hand, keeping the torturous vibrations against your clit even when you try to squirm away and cry his name against his lips.
“You said one—ahh!—one more!” You sob, arching off the sheets and gasping for breath.
“‘S not enough. I need more.” He looks down at your tear filled eyes. “Please?”
Safe to say, it's not just one more he wants. He takes and takes until you're a complete mess by the end of it. You're not sure how your eyes are still open, but Caleb is still eager and ready to go.
“Ready to see the other features I have?”
⋆.˚ NOTES — I won't lie sometimes I forget that he has a mech arm since it's not visible (*﹏*;) also, special shout out to Calebs lvl 85 secret times for getting me through this one hehe reblogs, comments, and asks always appreciated! thanks for reading! <3
