hi, i'm airi! i mostly read but sometimes write (inconsistently) to relieve my brain rot.
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゛★ roommates ! satoru and sukuna use you as a body pillow.
oneshot .ᐟ ⋆ modern au ⋆ cuddling ⋆ gojo grabs your boob and sukuna grabs your ass ⋆ polyamory-ish ⋆ fluff ⋆ sfw but suggestive? art by to__0fu
you woke up to warmth. a lot of it.
there was a solid weight pressed against your back, all long limbs and bony elbows, and an arm thrown across your waist that had somehow migrated upward during the night. satoru's hand was cupping your breast like it was a stress ball, his fingers slack but undeniably there, palm warm through the thin fabric of your shirt. his breath was hot against the back of your neck, each exhale of warmth making you shiver, and his knees were tucked behind yours like he was trying to fuse your bodies together.
in front of you, sukuna was a wall of heat and muscle. your face was smushed into his chest, the faint smell of his soap still clinging to his skin, and your leg was thrown over his hip in a way that would've been scandalous if you weren't half-asleep and pretty much used to it. his arm was draped across your waist, large hand splayed low on your back, fingers curving just enough to rest on the swell of your ass. he wasn’t grabbing or groping though—unlike someone. a certain white haired someone.
you blinked slowly. this was normal. this was your morning. sandwiched between two men who could not be more different if they tried, both of them treating you like the human embodiment of a pillow.
satoru's fingers twitched against your chest, squeezing slightly in his sleep, and you felt a low hum of something that was definitely not annoyance.
"satoru," you mumbled, voice rough with sleep. "your hand."
nothing. just more warm breathing against your neck.
you tried shifting, but that only made him pull you closer, his arm tightening around your waist and his nose pressing harder into the curve of your shoulder. a soft, pleased noise escaped his throat.
"five more minutes," he slurred, barely coherent.
"your hand is on my boob."
"i know. it's nice."
you sighed, but you couldn't even pretend to be mad. this was just how it was. how it had been for months, ever since the three of you had fallen into this weird, unspoken arrangement that no one had bothered to define but everyone was clearly on board with.
you turned your attention to sukuna, who was still dead to the world. his face was relaxed in sleep, which was the only time he ever looked anything close to peaceful. his jaw wasn't clenched, his brow wasn't furrowed, and the perpetual scowl he wore like armor was nowhere to be found.
his hand on your ass squeezed once, reflexive, and you felt your face heat.
"you're awake," you murmured, because there was no way that was accidental.
sukuna's eyes cracked open—just a slit, those deep crimson irises catching the pale morning light filtering through the curtains. he didn't move, didn't speak, just watched you with that flat, assessing stare that would've made anyone else squirm.
then his hand squeezed again, deliberate this time, and one corner of his mouth twitched.
"morning," he rasped, voice a low rumble that vibrated through his chest and straight into your cheek.
"you're shameless."
"you’re still here."
you opened your mouth to retort, but satoru chose that exact moment to stir behind you, his arm tightening and his hand shifting just enough to make you gasp.
"oh my god," you breathed.
satoru made a sleepy, questioning noise against your neck. "what? what's wrong?"
"your hand."
"it's still on your boob, yeah. i noticed."
"then move it."
"don't wanna."
sukuna snorted, the sound rough with sleep. "you're a pervert."
"you're one to talk," satoru shot back, voice still thick with drowsiness. "i can feel your hand on her ass from here. don't act all high and mighty."
"at least i'm not groping her like a teenager at a house party."
"it's not groping, it's comforting. they’re like stress balls. there’s a difference.”
"there really isn't.”
you felt satoru shift behind you, his chest pressing closer, and then his hand—which had been resting innocently on your shoulder—slid back down. slow. deliberate. his fingers traced the curve of your ribs before palming your breast through the thin cotton of your tank top.
"groping would be if i did this—"
his hand firmly squeezed, fingers kneading the soft flesh, and then his thumb found your nipple through the fabric. he flicked it—once, twice, a lazy, practiced motion that sent a jolt straight through you.
you gasped, sharp and involuntary, the sound punching out of you before you could stop it. it was embarrassing, needy, and it hung in the morning air like an admission.
"satoru!" you smacked his hand, your face burning, and he let out a theatrical whine like you'd just wounded him.
"okay—okay, sorry..." he grumbled, but you could hear the grin in his voice. his hand slid down to your stomach, palm flat and warm against the bare skin there, fingers splayed like he was claiming territory. "but you made that really cute sound. like a little squeak."
"i did not squeak."
"you absolutely did," sukuna said, voice low and rough with sleep. his eyes were open now, watching you with that knowing look.
“shut up, kuna.”
satoru’s thumb traced a slow circle on your stomach, just above the waistband of your shorts, and you shivered despite yourself.
sukuna's hand moved, sliding from your ass up to your hip, then around to your thigh where it rested heavy and warm. his thumb pressed into the soft skin there, stroking slow, lazy patterns that made your breath catch.
"you're blushing," sukuna observed, and his voice was almost smug. oh how that bastard loved teasing you like this.
"it's warm in here."
"the ac’s on the lowest setting."
"yeah—well, you two are suffocating me. shut it."
satoru giggled and pressed a kiss to the back of your neck. his hand on your stomach tightened slightly, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. "you're so cute when you're flustered."
"i'm not even flustered."
"your heart's racing," sukuna said, and you hated that he was right. you could feel the thrum of it in your chest, quick and betraying. no matter how used to this you’d gotten, the two still knew exactly how to get to you.
"that's because you two are suffocating me."
"you love it," satoru sing-songed.
you didn't answer, because he was right, and they both knew it.
you groaned and tried to roll away, but both of them held firm—satoru's arm locking around your waist, sukuna's hand pressing flat against your lower back. you were trapped.
"you're both so annoying," you muttered into sukuna's chest.
"you say that a lot," satoru said, and you could hear the grin in his voice. "maybe you should get new material."
"maybe you should get a life."
"i have one. it's you. and him, unfortunately."
sukuna's eyes had slipped closed again, but you felt his chest shake with a silent laugh. "unfortunately is right."
"shut up," satoru taunted, kicking him under the covers. "you know you love me."
"i tolerate you. there's a really big difference. if you were smart you’d know that.”
“semantics. and for your information, i am smart.”
you smiled despite yourself, face still pressed against sukuna's chest. the morning light was growing brighter, painting the room in soft gold, and the warmth of both of them was starting to lull you back toward sleep.
"you're both dumbasses," you grumbled, but there was no heat in it.
"and that would make you?” satoru teased, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.
“he has a point,” sukuna grunted in agreement, his hand sliding up from your ass to rest on your hip, thumb tracing a slow circle against the skin there.
you let your eyes close, breathing in the mixed scents of them—satoru's sweet, almost floral shampoo, sukuna's sharper, spicier shampoo.
"breakfast?" you asked, voice sleepy.
"later," satoru mumbled.
"five more minutes," sukuna said, which was practically a declaration of love from him.
"fine," you sighed, practically waving a white flag. "five more minutes."
satoru's hand (which was honestly doing mean things to you) finally moved—off your chest, up to your shoulder, pulling you back against him until you were perfectly cocooned. sukuna's arm tightened around your waist, drawing you closer until there was no space left between you.
and for five beautiful, quiet minutes, there was peace.
then satoru said, "so who's getting up to make coffee?"
୧ synopsis it's not easy, falling in love with someone who is still getting over someone else. sukuna learned to be patient for you, but as his affection for you grows, so does his hatred for the man who made you so scared of love in the first place.
୧ wc 3.9k
୧ content mdni, angst, smut, some fluff too, hurt/comfort, sukuna pov, falling in love, very anxious reader, jealousy, post reader and gojo breakup, sex on the first night, protected piv sex, overstimulation, making out, biting, a little bit of a breeding kink, crying after sex, and a lot of crying in general, aftercare, moving on, posesssive sukuna
୧ a/n this is sukuna's pov of the story, you can find the other parts in this collection! this can be read as part 3 or as a oneshot too. art by @/riyalise & divider by @/diviniyae
"Who is that?"
Sukuna himself was surprised to hear the words leave his lips, but he couldn't help the curiosity.
He found himself sitting on an uncomfortable stool in someone's house party he somehow got convinced to attend, surrounded by the same boring faces as always – until he noticed a new one.
A new girl, sitting on a sofa far ahead, involved in the party but… not really. You had a tight hold on your phone, and you glanced at the screen every few seconds like you were waiting for a message that never came.
It made Sukuna anxious just watching it.
And right now watching was exactly what he was doing.
It wasn't just the fact your face had made his heart skip an awkward beat inside his chest when you walked past, not even noticing him. Nor was it the fact you seemed to prefer sitting alone rather than engaging with the rest of the party, something he could relate to well enough.
No, there was something else about you too. You just seemed so… sad.
Smiling a pleasant smile whenever anyone approached, nodding your head and making conversation as you were expected to, sure – but that odd veil never seemed to lift from behind your eyes.
Sukuna wondered how none of the other idiots here had noticed.
"My friend" Yuki answered his question with a raised eyebrow, in a tone that said she was shocked Sukuna had even noticed anyone else's presence in the room apart from his own.
He was well aware of other people's assumptions of him, so he didn't bother replying to her taunt. "Is she alright?" Sukuna asked instead, after he watched you check your phone for what had to be the tenth time in a single minute.
Yuki sighed, turning to take a look at you with a solemn expression herself. "She's going through a tough time" was all she said.
Sukuna didn't like the sound of that at all.
So he decided he wanted to change that.
He lifted himself up and walked right past Yuki, picking up a fresh bottle of beer on the table while he was at it. The blonde seemed curious but let him be, turning to rejoin the party as Sukuna strode far away from everyone, and towards you.
"This seat taken?"
His voice took your eyes away from your phone, tilting your head up to blink at him in surprise. Your eyebrows scrunched together, and he watched you quickly scan your surroundings, trying to figure out if there was anyone else he could be speaking to.
"No" you replied, almost like a question, but you moved to the side so he could take the seat next to you on the small sofa.
Sukuna sat down awkwardly, his broad frame taking up most of the seat, but you didn't seem to mind. "Here" he grunted, passing you the fresh bottle while bringing his own to his lips.
You were surprised at the gesture, but had no choice in accepting. Not with the way Sukuna was practically shoving the cold glass into your hands and forcing you to drop your phone onto your lap.
"Is that for me?" you asked, as if it wasn't obvious.
"Who else would it be for?" he asked, instantly regretting how sharp he sounded.
But you didn't scoff, or roll your eyes, or call him an asshole like most people seemed to do. Instead, you laughed – only a small chuckle, but some tension finally seemed to ease from your shoulders.
Naturally, his own shoulders dropped as well.
"Thank you" you muttered, hands closing around the bottle, phone now forgotten to your side.
Sukuna didn't know why you were so attached to that thing, but he seemed to understand it was a good thing you had finally let go of it. "Let me" he said, searching for his keys inside his pocket to remove the bottle cap for you.
It was only a favour, something that had no business feeling this intimate. But Sukuna was far too aware of how his thigh brushed against yours when he leaned in, of how close you allowed him to move into your space even if just for a second.
The sound of air escaping the freshly opened bottle matched how his own finally leaving his lungs, he realised.
"Thank you again" you smiled kindly. And then, to his surprise, it was your turn to lean into him – you extended your hand, clinking your bottles together. "Cheers" you said, completely unaware of how you had surprised him.
Sukuna nodded, reciprocating the gesture. He watched you tilt your head back as you drank, followed the curve of your neck and noted the beautiful angle it made with your shoulders. He hid his crimson gaze behind his own drink, but anyone else around would have noticed – Sukuna was fucking hypnotised.
You finally lowered your hand with a satisfied hum, opening the first real smile he had seen the whole evening. "I needed that" you sighed.
Both your hands closed around the cold glass, phone still forgotten.
"Not having fun?" Sukuna asked, tilting his head to meet your gaze. You were close, very close, but you didn't seem intimidated by him like everyone else.
How intriguing, he thought.
"I am" you replied, looking away – maybe because you were nervous, Sukuna hoped, or maybe because you were lying.
"Are you?" he questioned, keeping his eyes locked on your face. You struggled to hold his gaze, blinking towards him and then away, until you finally sighed and understood you couldn't lie to him that easily.
"It's been a long week" you confessed, looking down at your hands.
Sukuna let that hang in the air for a moment, letting the weight of what you said sit with both of you instead of you alone.
"Yeah?" was all he managed to say. He wasn't good with things like that, but fuck if this pretty girl at the party didn't make him want to try.
You only nodded, looking down at your hands. He saw your eyes blink down, then to your phone by your side, then down again, and finally… to him.
You opened a little smirk, more self pitying than anything – and it was right then that Sukuna decided he wasn't giving up until he saw that real smile again.
"Let's change that" he said.
Three hours later, Sukuna had you crying for a completely different reason than whoever the fuck had gotten you that upset in the first place.
"Kuna, fuck– I can't–" you moaned as your legs only pulled him closer, your hands clawing at his shoulders in desperate need, face all scrunched in a mess of delicious tears that he was enjoying kissing away.
"You can" he groaned against your skin, slamming his hips into yours again, earning a loud whimper that sounded like music to his ears. "Taking it so fucking well for me"
You brought your hands to his face again, chasing his lips desperately. He had one hand rubbing small circles against your clit, determined to get a second orgasm out of you before he had even had one himself.
When he had suggested leaving the party together, Sukuna hadn't necessarily expected this was where the two of you would end up. But hell, he wasn't mad about it.
As it turned out, you looked even more beautiful crying from pleasure.
"I'm gonna–" you whined as your back arched, body trembling slightly as Sukuna kept slamming into you through your high, enjoying the way your eyes rolled back and you completely let go, suspended in bliss and relief.
"There you go" he smiled, biting the side of your neck. "Knew you had it in you" he teased, and you let out an elated laugh, bringing him closer.
"You feel so good" you hummed, and Sukuna decided he wanted to push himself up just to see your euphoric face. He brought his two hands to close around yours, pushing both above your head as he interlaced your fingers together, hovering just above you as he admired you like a painting.
"Good" he replied with a sly smile, a particularly harsh thrust punctuating the sentiment. "You're fucking gorgeous"
Too gorgeous, he thought.
"You think so?" you asked, and he hated how surprising that was to you.
He kissed you again, as if to prove a point. Your mouth parted and your tongues danced, with all the excitement of an unexpected night, but far too intimate for a one night stand. "Gorgeous" he repeated, biting your lower lip.
"Th-thank you" you tried to say, and Sukuna laughed against your lips. Who the fuck thanks someone during sex for just stating a fact?
Why would he be sleeping with you if he didn't think you were the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, after all?
"Kuna" you moaned, that stupid nickname you had given him after your first orgasm, but he was beginning to like it. He enjoyed thinking he made you feel so good that his full name was just too much effort.
"Go on, say it again" he rasped to your ear, hips rolling deliciously into you.
"Kuna–" you whimpered, legs closing around him, and your voice was the thing that finally tipped him over the edge.
Your nails dug into the back of his hands but Sukuna didn't let up, pining you with all his weight as you happily took everything he was giving you. Spilling everything inside the protection he was wearing, but he caught himself wishing there was no barrier between you.
Maybe next time, he thought, letting hope slip out in his blissful state.
Sukuna's hips stilled finally, face coming to the crook of your neck. He left a kiss there, followed with one to your jaw, tasting the sweaty mess he had made of you, and then one to your cheek – your salty tears prickled his lips, but when he noticed your chest move up and down far too quickly, he started to worry they weren't from pleasure this time.
Sukuna pulled away from you fast, scrunching his forehead as he watched tears pour out of your eyes; slowly, not dramatic, like you simply couldn't stop them from escaping.
His breathing completely stopped, everything about him going very still.
"Did I hurt you?"
"N-no" you said as fast as you could, shaking your head sideways and attempting a smile. But Sukuna was not happy with your response still.
"Are you sure?" he prodded, not meaning to sound so stern, but everything in him was in high alert. His crimson eyes didn't leave yours, but his hands started roaming the curves of your body, caressing in slow circles to soothe whatever it was that had you crying like that under him.
Was he too rough? Was it too much?
Were you scared of him like everyone else?
To his surprise though, you let out a little wet laugh. "You're sweet" you said, opening a beautiful smile that completely undid him, despite the wetness all over your face.
Fuck, he thought.
Sukuna hoped you couldn't see it, but he was almost certain he was blushing.
"Tch" he grunted, rolling around to settle next to you and pull you into him. "No one else would say that"
"You are" you replied while Sukuna turned you to him without any struggle, resting your head right on his broad chest. He was so warm, you thought, letting yourself sink into him.
"Then why are you crying?" he asked again, unwilling to let it go. Sukuna tangled a large palm on your hair, softly caressing the back of your head, trying to figure out what the hell he could do to help.
"I didn't expect to, I–" you tried to explain, but those crimson eyes were back on you, and his other hand around your waist had you somehow trusting you could just be honest with him.
"I'm scared you'll leave" you admitted finally, voice too small.
Sukuna pulled away from you just slightly, just so he could see your face. "Why would I leave?" he asked, like the notion alone was ridiculous.
You swallowed thickly, struggling to meet his eyes. "You won't?" you asked pitifully, looking anywhere but him.
He wanted to kiss you to prove it. Wanted to hold you all night and fuck you again and again so you'd finally get in your head how much he wanted you.
But he could tell this went far deeper than just insecurities.
"Who made you think like that?"
Sukuna hadn't expected his question would bring more tears to your eyes, and it was almost like he could see you shut him away in real time. Your eyes fell downwards, and your hands played with your own nails instead of gripping him like he wanted – clearly something still too painful hiding just under the surface.
So he didn't let you. "Hey" he called, bringing his hand to your chin now, to force your eyes up. "I'm not going anywhere" he reassured.
It sounded like the right thing to say, and he knew he fucking meant it, but why the hell did he feel like it only made you pull away even more?
"You don't have to do that" you shook your head, hiding into his side and attempting to sound more composed. "Sorry, I'm sure the last thing you want is a one night stand cryi–"
"Stop" he interrupted then, stern. In one swift move, Sukuna was on top of you, taking on the role of cleaning your face with his gruff finger tips, trying very hard to be gentle.
He could see it in your face how surprised you were. How you expected to mean nothing to him. Sukuna was used to people assuming he slept around, but truth was, he didn't – Sukuna didn't really do one night stands. Today had been as an anomaly for you, as it was for him.
So the fact you were crying, thinking he would just dispose of you like that? That pissed him off more than anything.
"I'll get you some water" he announced, leaving a gruff kiss to your forehead. "Then we can have a bath, and then you can tell me. If you want" he completed, far too aware of how serious he was sounding.
The last thing he wanted was to scare you.
But you smiled, surprising him again with a shy nod. "That sounds nice" you murmured.
He could have sworn your hand tried to cling to him as he stood up, but he wasn't even sure you were aware of it.
Sukuna did as he promised, taking care of you for the rest of the night. He cleaned you up, dressed you in his old oversized shirt that looked much better on you than it ever had on him, and held you tight for the whole night.
You didn't want to tell him why you were crying then, but you had time. This wasn't the only night you spend together, after all.
Sukuna hated to admit it, but ever since then, you barely left his mind. What started on that unexpected night turned into something more meaningful, day after day, kiss after kiss – but still, you struggled to tell him what made you so scared.
He tried to figure it out himself, piercing together little bits of information you had given him, mind always conjuring up the worse case scenario.
He just had to understand why it never mattered how often you spoke or how nice your day was – when it was time to say goodbye, he could see the silent fear creep up all over your beautiful face.
You tried your best to hide it, but he didn't want you to.
Sukuna didn't mind reassuring you, not really. Sometimes just an extra hug when you needed. A kiss to your forehead. A promise that he'd call later. He understood you just needed confirmation he wouldn't leave. Needed confirmation that you meant something.
Why the hell did you think you didn't?
That was the part that drove him mad.
And the day you finally decided to tell him, he understood.
It was a grim story about some asshole called Satoru Gojo.
Satoru Gojo. The name alone made him sick.
He didn't even know the guy, but every time you opened up more, his hatred only grew.
It wasn't nice to be falling for someone who was still getting over someone else, but Sukuna learned to be patient for you.
Sometimes you pulled away, talked down on yourself, expected nothing but pain from the unavoidable feelings that were starting to grow; but Sukuna was always there to pull you back. He didn't blame you for it, after all, it wasn't your fault – it was his.
The man who had taken your heart only to step on it with no care for how it left you to take up the pieces.
Satoru Gojo.
Sukuna looked up the asshole everywhere online, like a predator stalking his prey. He had to know. Everything in him was consumed by how much he despised the man that made you believe you were cursed.
He found his profiles easily enough, clearly the idiot enjoyed showing off. He had to admit he was good looking – white hair and blue eyes and a confident smile. Rich too, it seemed. The type of guy who felt entitled to use people, Sukuna rolled his eyes with a scoff.
It wasn't nice to imagine there were probably pictures of him out there that you were in too. With that easy smile of yours – the one Sukuna only saw rarely, only at times you let yourself truly relax.
You probably smiled like that more often before him, didn't you?
He hated imagining the two of you together, but Sukuna wasn't jealous – he couldn't be, when he was the one you turned to. The one you were slowly letting into your heart; and Sukuna was in no rush.
Not jealousy, he reassured himself, heart hammering into his chest as he held you tight in the night, your nails digging into his bicep like you were trying to cling on even in sleep.
Definitely not jealous, he thought again, when your gorgeous smile returned one day and Sukuna caught himself wondering how anyone could have it in them to hurt you.
Not jealous – angry, Sukuna settled on, fantasizing about punching that smug grin right out of Satoru Gojo's face, on a night you had cried when telling him about how you felt disposable.
Who knew opportunity would actually present itself.
That one fateful day, Sukuna had been waiting too long where you were supposed to meet before he decided to walk back and look for you.
What was probably only five minutes had felt like a life time. You were never late. Sukuna was fucking worried.
So he walked back, fast, turning a street corner and then another, until he finally saw you from across the street.
Oh. Maybe he was jealous, he realised.
Because standing on the other side was you, clearly upset, clearly holding back tears – and across from you, the man he had only ever seen in pictures.
With his hand holding yours.
Sukuna's owns instinctively curled into fists as he rushed to your side, vision turning red.
"Hey" he yelled, crossing the street. "The fuck is going on here?"
Your eyes immediately snapped to him, managing to relax him the tiniest bit. You rushed to him, pressing two palms to his chest, pleading with him with your teary eyes. "Kuna, it's ok" you said, and he went over every little detail of your face to reassure himself that you really were ok.
And then, his crimson eyes shifted up.
Now that he was this close, Sukuna could see it clearly. That truth he could only have assumed before.
This Satoru Gojo was pathetic.
With his stupid mouth slightly agape, brows furrowing together like he was confused at what was happening.
Yeah, asshole, Sukuna thought. She's with me.
"Who the fuck do you think you are" he snarled, pulling you into his chest. "Putting your hands on my girl?"
The way the other man's face fell gave him all the satisfaction he needed, that smug face contorting like the words had physically pained him.
Good, Sukuna thought, not a sliver of sympathy.
You had completely hidden your face into his chest now, knowing exactly where safe was. Sukuna could feel how your breathing had changed, could feel the wetness in his shirt. "Please don't yell" you sobbed, and his heart hurt hearing you like that.
"He made you cry?" Sukuna asked, all focus back on you. His beautiful girl. His.
Crying because of this idiot.
His hatred towards Satoru was only outweighed by his love for you; Sukuna was fully focused on wiping each tear away, tenderly brushing his finger tips over your cheeks.
"I'm sorry I was late" you murmured to him, leaning into his touch. It was unfair how you could undo him like this – this was meant to be the big stand off he had been dreaming about. His chance to beat up the guy who had made you so scared of love.
But now, he found himself wanting nothing more than to make you smile again.
"Don't" he replied with a kiss to the top of your head. "Got me worried sick, and then I find you upset and this asshole with his hands on you–"
"We just ran into each other" you shook your head, hands balling into his shirt. The nice one he had bought for your date specifically. "It's ok"
Hell. You sounded so apologetic. As if you had done something wrong by happening to run into the guy.
You looked at Sukuna with those pleading eyes that begged him to forgive you for whatever crime you thought you had committed. Even in this moment, so scared he'd just leave.
Sukuna hated this.
And right there – the man who made you think like that.
So close. So fucking close.
And he had the audacity to try and hold your hand.
Everything in Sukuna wanted to confront Satoru, but all his focus was on you.
Making sure you were ok.
Making sure you were safe.
Making sure you were away from him.
"He the one you told me about?" Sukuna asked you, even though he already knew the answer. He held you right where you were, your back to the white haired man, refusing to let him have another fucking look at you. "Let me get you out of here" he said kindly, helping you walk away.
You followed, standing by Sukuna's side, leaning into him for comfort as you continued forwards with your eyes glued to the floor.
And as you both walked away from him, Sukuna couldn't help another look back.
At his challenger. His rival. The man whose ghost still clung on to you in your darkest moments.
Satoru Gojo.
A man he hated so much, but right now looked nothing but pitiful.
Sukuna wasn't moved by his desperate tears. He was convinced Satoru Gojo didn't care for anyone but himself, anyway.
Part of him did regret not throwing that punch he so desperately wanted.
And as much as he hoped with everything in him that you'd never run into Gojo again – Sukuna hoped he would.
jjk characters find out you’re busy playing lads… holyyyyy jealousy 💔
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a/n: i’d be willing to post these every other day as long as i have an idea so feel free to drop an idea 💔 also tumblr wont let me use custom colors for some reason 💔💔💔 thank you for reading, i love you (. .*)β
[ ᡣ . ٜ̥ .ྀི 𑁩ཾיִ ] :: it’s late at night and you try to cuddle with trueform!sukuna. keyword; try.
tags. fluff, angst(&comfort), miscommunication-ish, reader is called ‘doll’ :: wc. 1.2k
“what are you trying to do?” sukuna sighs.
you’re up to something again, he figures. his red eyes follow your body as it crawls up to him on the bed.
you’re both tired after a long day of fulfilling some duties here and there around the estate. all you need is a big beefy man wrapping his arms around you to keep you warm and safe.
the perfect man for that is none other than sukuna. those four arms of his wrapped around your small body feel like heaven.
“it’s called cuddling,” you retort. the sarcastic tone you used triggers a deep sigh from the sorcerer.
sukuna holds back the urge to say something sarcastic back.
he doesn’t utter a single word once you snuggle up to his chest. you’ve taught him how to cuddle during the first time you asked him to hold you. sukuna was awkward with showing any type of affection back then.
he still very much is.
“hug, please,” you remind him.
the cold-hearted man scoffs, though listens to your polite request. all four of his arms imprison you against his chest, your small body nearly disappearing behind his limbs.
that’s what you like most about those cuddles you share together; how you fit so perfectly in his strong arms. it’s much more comforting than you thought it’d be.
a pair of hands rests on your waist, the other pair on your hips. sukuna glances down at you and immediately notices that smile on your lips. even after all this time, he still can’t fathom why you’re so carefree around a monster like him.
and that inability to understand you and your love for him is accompanied by an urge to push you away.
“you got your hug, now get up,” sukuna interrupts the silence.
his voice is cold and devoid of emotion—he uses that voice when he talks to other people. not with you, “i have better things to attend to.”
it hurts when he talks to you like that. like you’re not the person he secretly cherishes most. though, you remind yourself of sukuna’s own words. the ones you heard him say a while ago.
‘love is meaningless’, he said.
you remember. and yet you kept hoping that he’d change his mind about that statement. you hoped and eventually saw exactly that: your presence and your affectionate gestures mellowed his heart of steel.
but all that effort seems to go down the drain every time sukuna pushes you away.
you know it’s because he’s unfamiliar with the feelings of love. he may not say it nor show it, but you know that sukuna’s afraid of hurting you. so, he creates a gap between you two every now and then.
you know and yet you’re patient.
“oh, ‘kay,” you nod in understanding. you pull away from his embrace and get up from the bed. your bottom lip trembles.
sukuna is not gullible. he’s anything but oblivious. especially if it’s about how you feel and act. he notices every single change in your mood; whether you mask it or not.
you walk to the sliding doors—ready to open them and step out into the hallway. your eyes are a bit watery, but you quickly blink the tears away and take a deep breath in. you reach for the door.
“. . . come back here, woman.”
sukuna’s booming voice makes you stop. you glance at his form over your shoulder. he’s leaning against the headboard of the bed, arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed.
is he. . . upset?
“why? you said you had better things to attend to.” you answer with a shrug. you try your best to not make it seem like his earlier words had effected you.
you turn your head towards the word with a huff, “go on, then.”
sukuna narrows his eyes. he sucks at communicating what he actually desires—what he actually wants. right now that want is for you to stay. even though that completely contradicts his previous words.
he doesn’t know what to do. when you’re with him, he pushes you away out of guilt. when you’re away, he wants you back with him.
love is complicated.
“you. . .” sukuna grunts in frustration. all those feelings for you inside of his heart are playing with his rational thoughts. he doesn’t like seeing you upset. he wants the usual you back, “tsk. fine then.”
silence, followed by the creaking of the bed frame. seems like sukuna’s getting up to do whatever ‘business’ he needed to attend. at least, that’s what you thought.
you slide the door open and set a foot outside of the chambers. before the other can follow, you’re suddenly lifted up in the air by a strong pair of hands. your vision turns upside down as your body is effortlessly hoisted onto a shoulder.
“woah!” you gasp and feel the blood go to your head.
your eyes are fixed on the broad back you’re facing. you kick your legs in protest, but only get a smack to your ass in response.
you whine at that, “ngh, put me down!”
“watch it, doll,” sukuna hisses at your fierce demand, a warning to fix your tone. he puts you back down on the soft mattress. he’s surprisingly gentle when he settles you in place—not throwing you on the bed or anything similar, “should’ve listened when i told you the first time.”
your eyes meet sukuna’s and you notice how much they’ve softened. that alone makes the lump in your throat disappear. your love for him isn’t one sided—you’ve always kept that in the back of your mind—yet your thoughts made you overlook the little things he does for you.
his actions speak louder than his words. that’s the kind of man he is. sukuna’s trying to open up more, though that process is slow. you’re fine with that.
especially when there’s that faint pout on his lips as he stares at you. his eyebrows are still furrowed, his crimson eyes sharp yet warm.
“oooh… you want me back in bed this bad?” you tease once you get the opportunity.
the man in front of you clicks his tongue and grabs your cheeks with one hand, turning your head up to face him.
sukuna’s eyes are focused on yours. the eye contact is intimidating, but you’re hypnotised. you physically can’t look away.
he leans in and bites your bottom lip with his sharp canines, “shut up.”
that raspy whisper alone confirms your assumption. you giggle at his attempt of refuting your point. you’re used to all those intimidating words and actions he pulls to get you to stop your teasing.
those empty threats—it’s becoming rather cute with how hard he tries to deny everything. he fails nearly every time, however.
“come,” sukuna lays back against the pillows after placing a quick and sloppy kiss against your lips. he pulls your body against his and presses your head against his chest, right where his heart is beating, “continue with your.. ‘cuddling’ thing.”
he put your ear right above his heart, because he remembers listening to his heartbeat calms you down. you told him that a while back. sukuna doesn’t understand why you like it, but his fingers massage your scalp either way.
that’s also something that brings you comfort.
you’re surprised by how much he knows about you, but appreciate it anyway. he remembers both the big and small things about you.
‘and that’s how he probably shows his love,’ you conclude silently.
Part 1 with the other 5 and the art that inspired this.
🔞CW: Dry humping. Dirty talk. Self love. Smut.🔞
Infold, give us our wolf back! Please!
A special thanks to @stardustsirens, I love your beautiful brain 😚
Twenty minutes. You'd been gone twenty minutes before you turned around, halfway to work, because your work folder was still sitting on the kitchen counter.
Valko had stayed the night, though not the way anyone would assume. You'd cooked too late, ended up on the couch watching movies until midnight and the idea of him driving home just to come back in a few hours was ridiculous. So he'd stayed. Folded that huge body of his onto your couch—which was built for exactly one normal sized human—insisting he was fine even though you both knew his neck would hate him for it in the morning. He hadn't so much as brought up sharing your bed. That line was still there between you, respected without either of you having to say so out loud.
Your living room was empty now. The throw blanket sat balled up at one end of the couch, still warm, still carrying that earthy scent that clung to him. You figured he'd finally given up trying to get comfortable and left for home.
Things had been tight between you two for weeks — not bad tight, just like the kind that builds when you're close to someone in every way but one. Curling up next to him on that couch last night, close enough to feel him breathing, had taken more out of you than you wanted to admit. You'd gone to your own bed after and tossed for hours, finally giving up and finishing yourself off against your pillow just to get some sleep.
You grabbed the folder off the counter, shoved it in your bag, turned toward the door already dreading the way back to work.
Your foot stopped.
Through the crack in your bedroom door came a sound — low, cut off at the edges like it hadn't meant to get out. A hitch of breath, rough with something needy.
You don't move. For a few long seconds you just stand there, blood rushing in your ears, telling yourself you imagined it. Then it comes again—louder, unmistakable. A deep, broken whine bleeding through the door, underneath it the slow, rhythmic creak of your mattress.
Something hot drops straight to your navel.
Your feet move before you decide to let them, carrying you to the gap where the door hinges open. You don't need to push it. You can see everything
Valko is on your bed, completely stripped of the restraint he usually carries around you.
On all fours, every muscle in his back straining with each roll of his hips. Both your pillows are underneath him. One is pinned between his thick, heavy thighs. The other is crushed against his chest like he's holding onto it for dear life.
The fat tip of his cock is already leaking clear precum, smearing wetly against the fabric with every thrust. The muscles of his ass bunch and flex rhythmically, his tail swishing low and frantic from side to side, brushing against his calves like he can't control it.
His nose is buried deep into one specific corner of the pillow, taking big lunges of air—sniffing the hell out of it. Strands of saliva string from his parted lips, his eyes are squeezed shut so tight his eyelashes tremble. He looks like he's desperately trying to engrave that scent into the deepest part of his memory.
The heat that floods your face is scorching and mortifying.
That's where you'd been last night. Grinding against that exact spot, face buried in your own sheets with his name stuck in your throat, thinking thoughts you'd never planned on anyone knowing about. He has his nose pressed right there. Breathing you in like it's the first clean air he's found in days.
The hallway feels like it's closing in. You can't move. The folder is shaking in your hand and you can't make yourself look away.
Valko moves his hips down again and the groan that tears out of him is nothing like his usual voice. It's scraped raw, stripped of every careful thing he usually puts between himself and the world.
"Fuck—" The word drags out of him slow and broken. His face presses deeper into the pillow, lips parting against the fabric, inhaling so hard it pulls into his mouth. "Smells so good. So fucking sweet"
Your stomach drops.
When he pulls back to thrust again you get an unobstructed view of him, and your mouth goes dry. He's huge, veins mapping his cock in thick ridges, the head flushed a deep red and slick with everything he's been leaking onto your pillow.
"There you go," he breathes, eyes still squeezed shut, hips rolling down in a slow, grinding push. He's talking to the pillow. He's talking to you—or the idea of you, the ghost of you he's got his hands on. "Take it just like that. Let me get all the way inside that pretty cunt, puppy."
He makes that sound again—a high, needy whine that has no business coming out of something so big—and his ears flatten tight against his skull. His rhythm stutters, slow grinds breaking into something harder and more desperate, the whole bed frame groaning with it.
"Such a good pup," he mutters, tail thrashing wild against the mattress, fingers curling into your pillow. His voice is getting rougher, darker, words spilling out like he can't stop them. "Gonna stretch you out so nice. Fill you up with everything I've been—" A sharp, punched out groan. "You'd take it, wouldn't you? Every single bit of it."
His thighs grip the pillow tightly, his whole body going rigid as he grinds down and holds it there. His knuckles are stark white, fingers curled past the point of grip, something closer to desperation made physical. You can see the effort it's taking him to hold back. Every thick vein along the back of his hands stands out in rigid relief, branching up his wrists, mapping the strain all the way to where his forearms flex with each movement.
With every snap of his hips the tension climbs higher. Up his biceps and across his broad shoulders, the whole architecture of him pulled tight. He is holding the pillow like letting go for even a second would mean losing the last thread of you he has access to.
Like if his grip slips, your scent goes with it.
His hands have never looked like this. You've seen them steady holding a weapon, calm giving an order, certain in every situation that called for certainty. Right now they're shaking slightly. Not from weakness.
But from the effort of not having the real thing.
The ache between your thighs is unbearable and the urge hits you like something physical, pressing into your sternum until your body stops listening to your brain entirely. You want to tell him yes. You want to walk into that room and pull those pillows out from under him and put yourself there instead.
Your foot moves forward one step.
That's all it takes. The tiny shift in air carries your scent right through the gap in the door—laced now with the edge of your arousal—and delivers it straight to him.
Valko goes completely still.
His ears snap upright, swiveling toward the door, and his head follows a half second later. Through the narrow crack his eyes find yours instantly, pupils blown so wide the gold of his irises is almost gone. The room sits heavy with the smell of sex and the sound of both of you breathing.
He doesn't cover himself and your eyes drop without your permission.
The sight of you watching him—your scent hitting him fresh and full—is what does it. You watch it happen. His cock swells further, skin pulled tight, a low growl tearing out of his chest and his hips give one last involuntary roll forward.
He cums with his eyes locked on yours the entire time.
He stares straight through the gap in the door, unblinking, holding your gaze with an intensity that makes your legs feel unreliable, as the first thick streak of white paints your pillow. Another spasm rolls through him, another rope of cum landing heavy over the exact spot your scent had soaked into the fabric last night. Over and over until the last bead clings to the tip and stretches thin before finally dropping.
His chest heaves and his tongue drags slowly across his lower lip and then his canines like he's tasting the air. His tail gives one long, heavy thump against the mattress.
He's still staring a hole right through you.
You are completely fucked.
And while we're here @ekay-i .... PLEASE🙏🏻. Valko deserves a spot in the pillow humpers art. i am begging on my knees 🧎🏻♀️🫣
if a man won't give you what you want, there's always another who will.
🎤︎︎ wooyoung x fem!reader | college au, mini-series, part 7/?
🎤︎︎ 18+ | 9k words | reader is the host of a sex podcast, wooyoung is a frat boy whore, yunho is an angel sent from god above | smut minors dni, oral f!receiving, fingering, dirty talk, praise, slapping/spanking, no condom, yunho's mad sexy
YOU HATE CLEANING YOUR ROOM. You don’t know why you decided to start after showering, washing your hair, lathering your body in lotion, doing your entire skincare routine, sheet mask included. You came home ready to decompress, to start sorting through every single emotion you felt tonight and organize them into categories. Emotions toward Wooyoung, Yunho, yourself, why you can’t get Wooyoung out of your mind when Yunho is literally right in front of you.
Maybe you’re avoiding it, and that’s why you just threw a load of laundry in with nothing but a big tee shirt on, too distracted by the state of your room to even put on a pair of fucking underwear. You’ve piled all your dirty laundry into a corner, your hamper overflowing, and either folded or hung the rest of your clean clothes. You’ve been putting it off since Monday, even though you’ve been in your room each and every single night, the moment your lights go off, you’re occupied.
You dusted each surface, even hand-wiped your anime figures, cleaning out each spec of dust between the hard, plastic locks of hair with a goddamn Q-tip. Soft music plays from your TV, a random playlist, something to keep your brain busy so you can pretend it’s empty while you clean. All the trash, the half-drank coffee cups, the chip bags, the wrappers, receipts, you threw it all away, and the worst part is that you didn’t even do it because Yunho is coming over tomorrow.
It’s because you came home, looked at your bed, and your first idea was to lay on your bed and shove your hand under the waistband of your shorts. In the shower, fingers wrapped around the shower head, you stood perfectly still for at least forty-five seconds mentally convincing yourself to not turn the dial to the highest pressure setting.
Now, with nothing left to do but wait to turn your laundry over, your bare bed stares back at you. Not only is it painfully mortifying that you’ve masturbated more times in the past three days than you have in your twenty-one years of life, now you don’t even care that your bed sheets are in the washing machine. It’s a surface. A comfortable one.
Emotion organization could come later.
You don’t even crawl onto your bed. You lay on it, knees bent up, heels hanging off the edge, and slide your hand between your legs. Slow touches at first, light pressure on your clit, you sigh in relief, legs loosening, falling further apart.
There you go… Use me…
You circle your clit, eyes screwing shut, a sharper gasp tumbling off your tongue. It’s not enough, it’s not nearly enough, but it takes the edge off, calms your reeling mind.
So pretty…
His fucking face between your legs, his bronzy, tanned skin, his hair fucked up from knotting your fingers in his roots, the glint of focus in his eyes. The way his tongue felt, soft but solid, flicking so perfectly at your clit– you moan, chin tipping upward, hips twitching into your hand.
Give me one more, baby, you can do it again…
Heat pools in your belly, and you refuse to acknowledge the speed it took to get you here. Your fingers circle faster, other hand sliding beneath your tee, squeezing at your chest, pinching at your nipples. Your jaw cracks open, slacked, breath catching in your throat, a small squeak slipping through. You fantasize about his fingers slipping inside you, curling so perfectly, massaging against your front walls until you saw stars.
Three hard, aggressive knocks at your front door make you shriek. Your knees snap shut, hand splayed across your lower abdomen, terror washing through you, kicking your orgasm far, far away. You take a second to slam back into reality, forgetting for a second that knocks mean someone is at your fucking door.
They don’t seem to be patient, knocking again, three more harsh, aggressive pounds of knuckles. “Fuck,” you mutter harshly, hopping off your bed, pulling your shirt over your thighs. “I’m coming!” you yell, and you wish it were true.
Unlocking your door, pulling it open, your first thought is that manifestation is real, and this is the immediate consequence of your lustful thoughts.
“How the fuck do you know where I live?” is your second thought, one hand on your door frame, the other curled around the side of your door.
“You know I fucked Jen,” he says, like it should be easy to put two and two together. “I’ve been here before.”
“Didn’t you fuck, like, a long time ago?” There's a repulsed attitude in your tone. “Why do you remember?”
“What, a guy can’t have a good memory now?” His arms fly out on either side of him, brows kissing, top lip lifted.
“No,” you spit. “Leave.”
You move to push the door closed, but he pushes from the other side, and the strength of your anger isn’t enough to get the slab of wood closed. His words sling together, “It wasn’t even that long ago, fuck, Jesus fucking Christ you’re strong.”
You were seconds away from an orgasm, his face was getting you there. You need him to not be here, to not come anywhere near you for the rest of ever. “You need to go.”
“Why’d you leave the Penny?” he asks, and your muscles give ever so slightly. He gets the door open again.
“Because,” you start, and then stop. Crossing your arms, you frown in the middle of your doorway. “I don’t feel good.”
“You feel fine, don’t give me that shit.” He shakes his head, leaning up against your doorframe. “They’re all still there, Jen is going home with San.”
“I don’t care what she does.” You look him up and down, he hasn’t changed his clothes. He doesn’t seem drunk. His hair is still perfectly styled the way it was when you saw him over an hour and a half ago. “Since when did she give you the Jen-pass?”
“Since I came inside her,” he shrugs, tone flat.
You fake a gag, turning away, covering your mouth, “You’re fucking vile.”
“Stop avoiding the question,” he presses further.
“I’m not avoiding, there’s just more conversation to have–”
“Virgin.” You don’t answer. His head tilts, “What was up with Yunho telling me to stop calling you that, by the way? That’s my nickname that I created, I can use it as I please.”
“He knows I don’t like it,” you’re defending him, and you don’t know why. You didn’t want him to defend you. “Funny how listening to what a woman wants is a foreign concept to you.”
He laughs in disbelief, “What the fuck kind of jab is that? What are you even referring to? I listened to what you wanted and I made it happen, twice.”
Your hands find your face, ignoring the heat that spreads, you pretend it’s guilt. “Do not bring that up right now. You seriously need to go, Wooyoung.”
“Why? You got to come to my house and barge into my room,” he argues. “I can’t talk to you from outside of your apartment?”
“I don’t want you to talk to me at all!” Your hands leave your face, your words exasperated, far past your Wooyoung-limit. “I want you to pretend Monday never happened, I want you to forget I exist.”
“Well, that’s gonna be a little hard since you’re doing whatever the fuck it is that you’re doing with Yunho.”
“I’m getting to know him,” you say confidently. “I like him, I like spending time with him and I’m seeing where it goes. I don’t have to explain myself to you.”
“I didn’t ask you to.” His words fill you with fire all over again. Anger, and whatever else was cocktailing in your gut. His shirt fits him too well. His chain hangs too low. “You’re going to like him when you get to know him. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a whore, but he has a nice, loving side to him, too. I saw it tonight.”
“So you’re here to give me your blessing?” you ask, arms crossing over your chest again, shifting your weight to one foot. “Are you here to put in a good word, as his friend?”
“I’m here to find out why you left,” he says, and you wait, expecting more. More doesn’t come.
“I left because I didn’t want to drink at the Penny,” you respond, as short an answer as the one he gave you.
“Then why didn’t you invite Yunho home with you?”
“Why are you interrogating me?” Your brows furrow, one hand grabbing into the door again. “Do you want to hear about how he kissed me against my car? That if I kept kissing him, I would’ve begged him to fuck me in my backseat?”
Wooyoung’s lips bend, only on one side. “Yes. It convinces me that there’s a human in there, you’re not fully robotic.”
You laugh, but it’s hollow. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you make rules for yourself that do nothing to benefit you, yet you still follow them.”
“Like what? That I don’t do casual sex? You think I’m robotic because I want to get to know someone before I fuck them?”
“I don’t think it’s because you want to get to know them.” He uncurls his arms from his chest, stepping into your apartment, and he does it so confidently, you let him. “I think it’s because you don’t trust your own instincts. Hook ups, casual sex, whatever, that requires trusting your own instincts.”
What the fuck?
“Fuck you,” you spit out immediately.
He continues, stepping forward, making you take a step back. Your front door closes behind him. “You won’t fuck anyone unless they’re dating you, because that means they’re committed to you. Right?”
You swallow, feeling ice cold, refusing to answer. You don’t trust your anger enough to keep your voice level.
“But you got cheated on,” he says, like it's a new piece of information. “You’re trusting your rules like they’re fucking gospel when they didn’t save you. You’re using them as a crutch so you never have to admit what you actually want.”
You don’t care that your voice is shaky as you ask, “How would you know what I want?”
“I can see it all over your face,” he says, a little louder. “I saw it when you were talking to Jungwon, I saw it while you were arguing with me, it’s even there when you’re talking to Yunho. You’re waiting to be chosen.”
“What does that have to do with my instincts?”
“If someone chooses you first, they make the decision for you,” he says bluntly, his tone even. He's serious, and he’s reading you like a fucking book. “That’s security to you.”
No one’s ever seen you so clearly. It’s terrifying, and it hurts, but it’s true. It’s all fucking true.
“What about you?” Anger returns tenfold, the question slicing through the air. “Being chosen might be security to me, but you don’t give anyone the chance to even think about choosing you.”
“I don’t want to be chosen. I just want to fuck.”
“That’s the lie you tell everyone, huh?” Your head tilts, eyes sharp, tone cutting. “Sex is the closest thing to vulnerable you’ll ever get, I think it’s because you’re scared of what comes next.”
“Scared?” He reiterates, grinning like it’s laughable you’d even suggest it. “I’m scared of what, a relationship? Someone nagging me all fucking day long?”
“Someone knowing who you actually fucking are outside of a bedroom,” you nearly shout, strain in your voice. “That’s all anyone gets to know about you. Your friends, everyone on campus, me. You’ve curated your own reputation, Wooyoung, and it’s for a reason.”
He doesn’t answer. It might be the first time you’ve ever rendered him silent. You heave a deep, grounding breath, and finalize the argument, “We both have rules, Wooyoung.”
He steps to the side, running his hands through his hair as he glances at the door, moving for it. “I’m gonna go.”
“No.” You reach for his wrist before he can grab the door handle. His skin feels warm, soft, it sends memories playing through your mind like a fucking movie wheel.
“No?” He pops a thick, ebony brow. “You have more you need to say? I think you covered it all.”
“As if you didn’t do the same shit to me. You started it.”
“And you fucking finished it,” he pulls his wrist from your grip, reaching for the door handle again. “I’m going.”
“Wait!” you try again, skipping in front of him, inserting yourself between him and the door. “Why are you so pissed? You can dish it out but you can’t fucking take it?”
You can feel the heat radiating off of him like this, even if the door is cold against your back. As if your air conditioner couldn’t touch him, or he’s so pissed off his body is steaming, you can’t tell.
“I’m not pissed,” he defends himself, a master at keeping his voice even when his eyes prove different. Almost the same size, sitting at half-mast, darker than usual, like the heat of anger plunging through him burns his vision.
The last time you were in this position, back up against a door, him in front of you, exuding control... Your toes press harder into the hardwood beneath you as the memories turn vivid.
“I can see it,” he tells you, voice lower. “I can smell it on you. Desperation.”
“I’m not desperate,” you argue, but it has less bite to it because you’re lying. “Smell it on me? Are you a dog?”
“You’re deflecting.” His lips curve, eyes flaring amusement. “What do you want?”
Your breath turns shallow, heart picking up speed. “I don’t want anything from you.”
“Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you,” he presses further, leaning closer. You can smell his cologne, it’s not strong, just masculine enough.
“You can’t,” you murmur. “You can only give me what I crave.”
“It’s the same fucking thing, you just don’t want to admit it.”
It pisses you off, the intrigue in his eyes, how he seems to have you all figured out. You don’t want to admit it. You don’t want to answer. You don’t want to talk.
You grab onto the thick pendant around his neck, fingers curling around the chain, and pull him down to kiss you. He meets you halfway, a collision of your lips instead of a kiss, fueled by anger, frustration. His hands fold over yours, uncurling your fingers from his chain, certain. He pulls away from you, keeping his forehead pressed to yours. You lean in for his lips again, but he pulls backward, refusing you the chance.
“No,” his tone is quiet, but firm.
You clench your fists, still swallowed by his palms. “Why not?”
He lowers your hands and takes a step back, you don’t like the way he looks at you. “I’m going. I hope you feel better.”
You’ve always thought you knew yourself pretty well. You’ve spent twenty-one years understanding your feelings, your morals, how you make decisions, what’s most important to you. Romantically you’ve always chosen stability over chaos, finding comfort in what seems mundane, but simplicity is easier to understand, it fits into a routine.
After Wooyoung left last night, you barely thought about kissing him again. What kept you awake that night, throwing your entire nervous system into a scramble of unease, is how effortlessly he read you, where the fuck that read even came from. The traits you possess, what you look for in other people, the standards you pride yourself in; your brain was grasping for straws, begging for reprieve, and it couldn’t find any. You feel like you’ve been stripped raw.
You tried to think about everything you loved about Yeonjun, what made him feel compatible with you when you met him. You only came up with surface level things, traits that fit into your life, your schedule. He wanted to marry you, yet you never truly let him in, you never let him see the side of you that you keep shielded, barricaded. Is it because you were scared that if he knew that part of you, he wouldn’t want you anymore? Wouldn’t love you anymore?
Did he ever love the real you to begin with? Did you only love him because he loved you?
You finally stopped fucking thinking when Yunho showed up at your apartment, two hours after you finished class. He texted earlier in the day, asking what you wanted to eat from the pho shop just outside of campus and brought it with him, still hot and fresh. Yunjin had left earlier in the day, letting you know she’d be out with Jihyo and the rest of the girls, and she’d either sleep there or go home with San again. Leaving only you and Yunho, all night long.
Which was perfect to eat on the couch with him, a show you’ve both already seen playing in the background in a language neither of you speak. You didn’t want to pay attention, you didn’t need to, because you’ve been talking since he showed up.
You’ve learned about his family, his brother, his parents, where he grew up, south of where you go to school. His classes, his major, communications, and why he chose it, what future he wants with it. He’s learned the same about you, your family, your mom and sister, that you’re a journalism major, and that you want to focus on digital journalism. The basic, getting to know each other shit.
He’s laughing at a story you’re telling now, both of your bowls on the coffee table, empty. He’s in comfortable clothes, sweats hanging off his body like he didn’t feel the need to impress you, which in turn made you feel comfortable in your own cozy clothes, because you didn’t have the brainwidth to perform. At all.
It doesn’t feel like performing with him, though. It feels like easing back into something familiar, something practiced. Routine. “I told her not to curse out the driver,” you’re laughing through your words. “She didn’t listen to me.”
“So now when you go out, either you drive, or the Uber is ordered with your account,” he confirms, and you nod. “I can’t believe they banned her.”
“Uber runs a tight ship,” you explain. “If you hang halfway out the window scream-singing, the driver will drop you off on the side of the street, and Uber will ban you. Just in case you were planning to.”
“I’ll tell Sannie, he’s the only one who would.” He’s sitting beside you on the couch, one cushion between you. “Maybe he and Yunjin are meant to be.”
“The more I interact with him, the more I agree,” you sigh. They would make a good couple, if either of them are interested in dating. Yunjin might get into a relationship for the right man, but you don’t know enough about San’s opinion on dating to make a guess.
“You don’t have any crazy stories?” he asks, brows high and curious. “That was the second story about Yunjin. You haven’t had any wild nights where you’ve gone off the deep end?”
Your lips scrunch, eyes wandering around your living room in thought. “I don’t think so,” you admit after a quick ponder. “I’m usually the one leaving early or keeping Yunjin on a tight leash. Dancing on a counter is probably the most scandalous thing I’ve ever done.”
His blonde hair is messy, freshly washed, frizzy and unstyled. He looks soft, especially in comfortable clothes, no jewelry. “You’re not much of a risk taker, huh?”
“No.” Your scrunched lips try to bend in a smile. “I don’t like not knowing what’s gonna happen. I’m most comfortable in situations where I can see an outcome clearly.”
He makes an ah sound, leaning forward, bending his elbow over the back of the couch to support his head, facing you. “Can you see a clear outcome right now?”
Your head tilts, “Like, with us?” He nods. “I can see a favorable outcome, but it’s not necessarily clear. Maybe I’m becoming a risk taker by hanging out with you.”
He punches out a laugh, “Oh, being with me is a risk?”
You smack your teeth, grinning. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
He smiles, too. “I know what you meant. And if it’s the same outcome as what I can see, then I don’t think it’s a risk at all.”
Your cheeks flush, smile spreading, covering your eyes with one of your hands. “You’re so corny.”
He laughs, reaching forward to pull your hand from your eyes, “You like it, you find it endearing and attractive.”
“You wish,” you jab, laughing with him. He holds onto your wrist, laying your arm flat over the back of the couch, only letting go to drag a finger over the inside of your arm. You snatch it back in a panic, blurting, “I’m ticklish, you can’t do that or else I’ll tweak out.”
His brows raise. “You should not have told me that.”
“I’ll actually beat your ass if you try to tickle me,” you bite.
His expression doesn’t change. “You’ll beat my ass? This six-foot-one ass?”
Damn. Confirmed, he’s over six feet tall. “Don’t underestimate my strength.”
“Don’t underestimate mine,” he sends right back, mimicking your tone.
Your lips bend, eyes flaring with excitement, you like how that sounds. He seems to like your reaction, because his smile grows, teasing, “I see that fuckin’ smile.”
“You don’t see anything,” you argue, turning your head to the side. “I smiled because you’re funny.”
“You smiled because you want to find out how strong I am,” he teases, leaning his cheek into his palm. “It’s okay, you can admit it. You were curious about my dick, now you’re curious about my strength.”
You gasp, turning your head back to him, feeling heat in the tips of your ears. “You’re making me sound like some kind of pervert, Yunho.”
“You are a pervert,” he says with confidence. “You just won’t succumb to your pervertedness.”
“Pervertedness?” You quirk a brow. “Is that a word?”
“It’s a word used to describe you,” he quips. “You and your pervertedness.”
“Fine.” You shift on the couch, facing him with your back straight, your legs crossed. “I admit it, I succumb to it, I was curious about your dick and now I’m curious about your strength. What now?”
“Now I wait until you’re curious enough to find out,” he says, like he was ready to give that answer. Heat pools, you resist the urge to uncross your legs and clamp your thighs together.
“How long will you wait?” you find yourself asking, thirsty for all the knowledge you can get tonight, a part of you secretly hoping he doesn’t want to wait anymore, and kisses you now.
Noticing the glint in his eye, you know he won’t. His brows furrow, lips still bent upward, “Is that a trick question?”
“Loser,” you drag. “Be honest.”
“As long as we’re still seeing each other and building a connection, I don’t mind waiting. I told you I’m patient, and I seriously wasn’t lying,” he says, and there’s honesty in his eyes, his tone even, calm. “Do you only sleep with people you’re dating? Genuinely curious.”
“I mean, in the past I’ve only slept with people I was dating,” you explain, shrugging. “It seems like an ongoing theme for me, but it’s more about comfort, opening up to someone who I know won’t hurt me.”
“I won’t hurt you,” he says softly. “And I’m not trying to get in your pants, I’m just saying that because I mean it.”
Sparks ignite in your spine, blending with the heat in your belly. You smirk, “You’re not trying to get in my pants?”
“Here we go,” he groans, full of amusement, head tipping backward. “You knew what I meant by that.”
You laugh, cuddling into the back of the couch, laying your head on the top of the cushion. “You’re sweet. Yunjin told me you’re the only good guy in your frat.”
His face bends like this is new information, and he’s impressed. “My reputation precedes me.”
“Is it true? Are you the only good guy in your frat?”
He’s quick to answer, “No.” He takes a second to think, to properly phrase his next words, “All the guys are good guys, great guys, for the most part they all have good intentions. People throw around opinions on character based on sex, and sometimes I don’t think that’s fair.”
Your brows raise. “Like…?”
“Wooyoung, for example. He’s a good guy, a really great friend, he’d give you the shirt off his back if you asked him for it, not even if you needed it. But because he’s had a lot of sex with a lot of people, that’s all he’s reduced to, and it’s used in an insulting way. Like he’s not a good person because he enjoys sex, I don’t think that’s fair.”
You nod, choosing to not add in your two cents. Instead, you comment on your observation, “You love your friends.”
“I love them all,” he says, and he means it, you can tell in his eyes, his smile. Wooyoung talks highly of Yunho, too, you wonder if they’re all close. “They’re my brothers.”
“That’s how I feel about Jen,” you explain, then correct yourself, “Yunjin. She’s my sister.”
“What about the other girls in your friend group? Jihyo, Momo, Sana…?”
You sit up to clarify, “We aren’t bonded the way your frat is bonded. They’re my close friends, yes, but Yunjin is my sister.”
“Yunjin gave me an earful about you last night,” he confesses, cheeks glowing baby pink.
“An earful?” Your brows raise, confused, scared, amused. “What the hell did she say?”
“To be patient with you,” he says, brows flat, insinuating that he was going to do that already. “She also told me you’ve never been in a relationship you were actually happy in. At least from her perspective.”
“Hm,” you start, folding your lips in between your teeth. “That’s not true, I’m not like, hard to please or something. I was fine with Yeonjun.”
“Fine?” He half-smiles, a huff of something like amusement passing through his lips. “I know you weren’t happy at the end, but to conclude the entire relationship with fine…”
“I was happy,” you correct yourself, feeling heat in your cheeks, your ears, your chest. “We don’t have to talk about him.”
His eyes flicker across your face, like he’s deciding whether or not to push the subject. “Okay,” he accepts, instead. “I’ve only been in one relationship, it was my freshman year, and it lasted like, six months. I don’t have much baggage to dig through.”
“Is that what we’re doing? Digging through baggage?” you tease. “We don’t have to talk about your past either, if you don’t want to.”
He studies you again, like you’re a puzzle he’s trying to figure out. “I don’t mind,” he finally says, tone careful. “I’m a pretty open book about that stuff.”
“I can tell,” you smile, trying to smooth whatever tension has just stretched between you. “I hear you’re popular.”
“So you have heard about me?” His eyes widen like you caught his interest, brows wiggling. “What’s the consensus? Do I suck? Am I a terrible fuck?”
You laugh, folding into the couch again, but you quickly realize you don’t have an answer. You’ve only heard that he sleeps around from Wooyoung, so you bullshit, “The girls say you’re a great lay, huge down there. Hard to take it all.”
He immediately frowns, “I do my best, that’s not my fault.” It only makes you laugh harder, and his frown turns into a pout. He whines your name before continuing, “I’m serious, I really do my best to make it pleasurable.”
“They said you’re a great lay!” you try to comfort him, still laughing. “Hard to take isn’t an insult, it’s an achievement in girl talk.”
“You swear?”
“I swear,” you nod, reaching across the back of the couch. He lays his head on your open palm, making your heart squeeze. “You think I’ll be able to?”
“Probably not,” he mumbles, his lips still pouty. “But I’ll try to make it so you can, comfortably.”
You can imagine it, his fingers, his mouth, him between your legs, stretching you out. You think you might start salivating. Your tongue pokes out of the side of your mouth, caught between your teeth. “What’s that mean?”
He snorts, eyes closing as he chuckles. “It means exactly what you think it means.”
You suck in a breath through your teeth, showing your bottom row. “Unfortunately, I think you might have to spell it out for me. Or you can show me.”
You can’t believe you just said that. It was a thought slipping out, but you don’t want to wait for something to happen. You want to choose. You’re capable of choosing.
He picks his head up, surprise written across his features. “Yeah?”
Timidly, you nod. “I think so.”
“You think so, or yes?”
“Yes,” you nod, more confidently this time. “I meant yes.”
He sits up, moving over to the cushion closest to you. “Are you sure?”
“Please just kiss me,” you beg, fingers curling into your sweatpants, adrenaline rushing through you so hard your heart pounds against your chest.
He shifts upward, using the same palm against your cheek as the night before, and kisses you. It’s the familiar soft, delicate press of his lips, no intent behind it, no heat; yet somehow you’re filled with fire anyway, blood carbonated beneath your skin, melting into his hand on your cheek, leaning into him, meeting his lips with your own passion.
You let him deepen it, following his pace, his tongue sliding between your lips, carefully exploring your mouth like he’s preparing for you to take back your yes. Your hands fly to his tee, fists clenching over the fabric, pulling him toward you, silently telling him you won’t.
His hands fall to your waist, pushing you backward, crawling over you as your back hits the cushions of the couch. With his hands pressed on either side of your head, he pulls away to smirk, “Eager for someone who said I think so.”
Your knees bend backward under the weight of him, fingers still tight in his shirt. “Sorry.”
His brows knit together, like someone had hit pause. “What are you sorry for?”
“I don’t– I don’t know,” you stutter, cheeks flaming, too coy for being under someone his size. You lean into his touch, his hand on your skin, “I don’t want to seem… I don’t know.”
“You’re in your head,” he says matter-of-factly. “I don’t think you’ve cursed once since I’ve been here.”
“That’s not true,” you object. “I said ass at some point, I’m pretty sure.”
He laughs, chin dipping downward. “Wow, I’m telling the sailors and the truck drivers they’ve been out-mouthed. You said ass.”
Your hands slide up over his shoulders, a silly grin on your cheeks. “I’m not in my head. I just want to be… I want you to like me.”
“I like you already,” he says, tone slipping into that comforting, velvety cadence again. Then teasing, he continues, “I liked you when you were burping after shotgunning beers with me.”
You groan, full of anguish, stealing your hands back to cover your face, turning to the side. “Why did you bring that up? I already removed that from my memory.”
He laughs again, leaning back on his knees to pull your hands from your face, using his strength to push you onto your back again, pinning your wrists on either side of your head.
Your breath catches, your heart a bone drum in your chest.
“Be you,” he orders, and it’s final. “I like you.”
You take a second, letting his words settle you, fingers flexing, feeling the weight of his hold, his grip grounding. You try to move your wrists, he doesn’t budge. You joke, “You are fuckin’ strong.”
His grin is satisfied as he leans down, whispering, “You haven’t even seen it yet.”
He kisses you harder this time, needier, his tongue slipping between your lips as soon as you meet. Your legs hook over his hips, back arching into him as he moves your arms upward, over your head, fingers sliding over your palms, tangling with yours.
This closeness, this heat, it’s different. There’s intent, determination behind it, like he wants you to feel reassured in the press of his body against yours. He lets go of your hands to press his elbows into the couch on either side of your head, whispering dominance into your mouth, “Keep them there.”
Your hips twitch, bucking into him, remembering his words from the night before. “Yes, sir.”
“What a quick learner,” he muses, smirking. He drops to bury his face in your neck, speaking into your skin, “Remember that for another night.”
Anticipation consumes you, fingers flexing, reaching for pillows you can’t find as he kisses your neck, tongue poking out to lick a stripe up the side, sucking on the sensitive spot beneath your jaw. You hiss, hips bucking toward him, elbows bending ever so slightly with pleasure.
“Fuck,” you mutter sharply as he reaches one hand between you, lips working your bones into jelly as his palm splays over your stomach, beneath your shirt.
“Tell me if I go too far,” he whispers, fingers traveling upward. “If you want to stop.”
“If you stop I’ll fucking kill you,” you push out in one breath, back arching, needing to feel how big his hand feels over your bare chest.
He huffs a laugh into your neck. “That’s better.”
“Take it off?” you ask, but it sounds somewhere between an order and a request. Heat thrums beneath your skin, one touch away from begging. You’ve needed this for too long to take it slow.
He reaches for your arms to pull you upright as he sits back on his knees. Manhandling you over his lap, he obliges when your thighs land on either side of his hips, his fingers reaching for the hem of your tee to tug it over your head. You refuse to feel shy at the exposure, you don’t have any time to as he pulls you back down to his mouth by the back of your neck.
His hands travel over your skin as his mouth works your brain into fuzz. “So soft,” he whispers, palms curled over either side of your waist.
Your back arches, a soft whimper falling off your tongue, bleeding onto his. One of his hands travels through the valley of your breasts, palm flat as his fingers slide up to your jaw, taking grip on bone as his teeth clamp over your bottom lip. You gasp, hips bucking into him and he lets go, smiling into your mouth, “Is that okay?”
No one’s ever done that before. The eternal ache between your legs grows and it’s instinct to roll your hips, nodding before you can think of the words, “Yes, yes.”
His head dips under your jaw again, hands falling to your hips, grinding you against him. You find purchase on his shoulders, fingers curling into his tee as he guides you, moaning as your core bumps over the tent in his sweats. “S-shit, Yunho.”
“Just like that, keep going,” he praises into your neck, his breath hot over the line of his spit on your skin.
Your eyes screw shut, hips moving with more confidence, and he trusts it enough to let his hands travel upward again, palms closing over your breasts, squeezing. Your hips stutter, a sharp whimper escaping you, nails leaving crescents in cotton, you wouldn’t be surprised if you marked the skin beneath.
He supports you with a strong grip on your back to arch you upward, lips moving down your neck, your chest, and at this angle, you can watch. Your hands reach for his hair, pushing it over his forehead as his tongue lolls out of his mouth, leaving a trail of saliva between your breasts before his lips start working on the right. Tongue swirling, lips closing over your nipple, your brows furrow in pleasure, jaw slack.
“Feels so good,” you whimper out mindlessly, gripping at his roots, focusing on grinding against his cock in his sweats, desperate to get pleasure building.
He groans, the sound vibrating your skin, making your face scrunch at the feeling. You can’t remember the last time you’ve been touched like this, someone paying such attention to detail, focusing on every zone that brings you pleasure. Your body swarms with heat, your spine begging for more, to release the knot of pleasure you’ve been building for a long, long time.
His other hand works the left, the pads of two fingers rolling over your nipple, squeezing experimentally. “Fuck,” you curse, pitch high. “Please do that again.”
He looks up at you, dark eyes hazy with pleasure yet clear with focus. His fingers pinch again and your hips pick up speed, moaning sharply as his teeth lightly clamp over your right nipple, he watches, gauging your expression the whole time.
“You like it,” he says into your skin, coming to a conclusion. “Pain.”
“I- I don’t know,” you blink, brain scrambling at the clear words when your mind is fuzzy. “I guess so?”
“You do.” It feels good, him deciding, him telling you. “We’ll have fun, you and I.”
Electricity sparks in the base of your spine, you and I. You like the sound of that. You smile, leaning down to steal his lips again, pressing your bare chest to his clothed one. It doesn’t feel right, not having his skin against yours, you reach down for the hem of his shirt and he helps you get it over his head, breaking the kiss only to let the fabric pass between.
You sigh when your chest meets his, arms folding behind his neck, hips still rolling against him, aching for more. You want more. You need more. “Yunho,” you whisper into his mouth, holding the back of his head, slowly sliding down to his chest. “More.”
His eyes flicker up to yours, reading your face again like he’s done too many times tonight. “How much more?”
He likes you. He’s told you several times that he likes you. You laugh with him, you feel comfortable with him. He’s safe.
“Everything,” you drawl, tone certain but full of every drop of arousal pumping through you. “Wanna find out if I can take it.”
“If you take it all,” he whispers, kissing the tip of your chin, “I’ll get you a trophy.”
You smile, a tiny laugh tumbling out. “Yeah? How big?”
“As big as my dick,” he quips, hands scooping under your ass. “Hold on to me.”
You’d yelp if you weren’t laughing as Yunho stands straight, carrying you smoothly through your living room, steps memorized like he’s been here more than once. Your arms stay wrapped around his neck, legs hooked around his waist until he brings you into your bedroom, pressing a knee into the mattress before laying you down gently.
“Wanna make you cum first,” he decides as he crawls over you, swallowing your body whole. “That okay?”
You nod, vibrating at the idea, “Please.”
He bends your knees backward, holding onto your shins for purchase as he leans down, pressing a short kiss to your lips. You suck in a breath as he tugs your sweatpants under you, pulling them down by the waistband over your hips, your knees, your ankles.
“No bra, no panties…” he tsks, shaking his head. “Plan this or something?”
Your lips bend in a smile, knees knocking together. Small, you mutter, “No.”
He hums, hands landing on the stretch of skin above your knees, pulling you toward him until your ass slides into the pocket of space between his thighs. He stares in awe, pupils dilated, licking his lips as he says, “You have no idea how fucking wet you are.” Your thighs push together again and his eyes flicker upward, a warning. “Don’t hide, let me see.”
You feel the stick as you slowly spread your legs again, and your face scrunches, cringing at the feeling. His hands slide down the inside of your thighs before he brings his right hand to his mouth, licking the pad of his thumb before bringing it back down to press on your clit. You shiver, a gasp of a moan slipping through your lips, a tremor racking through your body.
He eases you into it with slow circles, adding pressure and speed with every round. “Yes,” you moan through a pleased breath, chin tipping backward, legs falling farther open, hands sliding up your stomach, grabbing onto your breasts, squeezing.
“So sexy.” His words are mindless, his eyes on you, watching as you roll your nipples between your fingers. “Shit, I could watch you do that all night.”
“No,” you whine, head snapping forward again at the idea. “Gimme more.”
His other hand, holding your thigh, slides beneath his circling thumb, the pad of his middle finger spreading your wetness through your folds, around your entrance. Your brows furrow, moaning softly, hips twitching toward him, a silent beg for more. His middle finger slips inside without warning and the breath is stolen from your chest, jaw pried open.
“Fuck,” he curses under his breath. “So tight, baby, need you to relax.”
“I am,” you moan out, hips rolling toward him, meeting his pace.
He curls his finger, massaging against the front of your walls, making you choke out a moan, hands leaving your chest to claw at the duvet beneath you. Looking at him, he’s focused; analyzing, watching your reactions, probably gauging how the fuck he’s gonna fit himself inside you. He leans down, pausing both hands to spit on your folds, pulling out his finger to spread it around, then adding his index, too.
“Yunho,” you cry, voice shaky. His fingers are so fucking long, so deep inside that you might as well be having sex. You buck your hips, meeting his pace, pleasure spreading in waves, heat beginning to pool in your belly. “Don’t stop, fuck.”
He bends down, replacing his thumb with his tongue and your hands fly to his hair with the first flick of your clit. “O-oh my fucking god,” you cry, still bucking your hips into his hand, his flat tongue, shamelessly. “Yes, yes, yes.”
Your fingers tug at his roots and he grunts, his free hand landing a heavy smack to the side of your ass. Your moan is deafening, body twitching, toes curling over his back. He does it again and heat boils, a knot in your belly forming, pleasure building as embers of pain spread, skin going hot where he hit you.
“I’m close,” you whisper, voice shakier than it was before. The pressure grows, blooming, he doesn’t change his pace, he keeps his rhythm, a steady thrust and curl of two fingers, licking over your clit with his tongue. Your breath catches, jaw pried open, fingers tightening in his hair, and it’s the last smack of his palm hitting the same spot it did before that pushes you over the edge.
You damn near fucking convulse. Your body shakes so hard you can hear it in the bedframe, cries growing in pitch with the peak of your orgasm, thighs clamping around Yunho’s head, but he still doesn’t stop until you push him away.
“Holy fuck,” you breathe out as he slips his fingers out, popping them right in his mouth.
He hums, then licks his lips. “So sweet.”
A smile curves your mouth, “Liar.”
He crawls over you again, your legs bending with him, toes sitting on the waistband of his sweats. He lowers himself with the question, “You think I won’t make you taste yourself?”
Still panting, lips spread in a lazy grin, your head tilts. “Is that supposed to be a threat or something?”
He kisses you roughly, your arms wrapping around his neck, toes pushing on the waistband of his sweats. “You are a liar,” you say between kisses, “tastes like pussy.”
“Sweet enough to me,” is all he responds, reaching one arm down to his sweats, pushing them down. “I want you to ride me.”
Your smile falters, just a little. “Like, now?”
“Yes, now,” he says casually, sitting back on his calves, getting his sweats and his briefs down to his thighs. You would gasp if you didn’t know how big he is already— but bare, without briefs covering him, standing tall and red like it was begging for you… “It’ll be easier for you, I swear, this isn’t a ploy so I have to do less work.”
“You sure you don’t just wanna sit back and watch?”
“Are you nervous?” His eyes flicker upward as he gets his sweats off his legs and onto the floor.
“Not anymore,” you respond instinctively, knees knocking together again. He deadpans, and you sigh. “Okay, maybe a little.”
“If you’re nervous, you’re not gonna open up for me,” he explains, crawling up beside you on the bed. Your eyes bounce back and forth between him and his cock, intimidated but excited, you can’t keep your attention where he wants it. “Come here.”
He sits up, easing you over his lap again, your knees bracketing his thighs. His cock between you, so tall, so thick, you’ll feel it in your fucking stomach. Your mouth goes dry.
“You can take it,” he encourages, reaching up for your cheeks, making you look at him instead of his cock. “You’re a big girl, you can do it. We’ll take it slow.” Heat slices through you, making your eyelids flutter, your hips twitch. He grins like he’s just discovered treasure. “Oh, you’re fun. C’mon, big girl, let me stretch you out.”
“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, not out of worry, but because of what big girl just did to you. Your hands find his shoulders, sitting up on your knees, and he spits in his palm before running it over his cock, spreading it over the tip, down the shaft. You want to see how far you can fit him in your mouth. Maybe you should find out if he’ll fit inside you first.
“Slow,” Yunho reminds you, fingers wrapped around the base as you line yourself up. You suck in a deep breath, lowering yourself down slowly, and you moan in relief the second his tip passes through the first ring. “Breathe,” he coaxes you as you slowly sink downward, face scrunching up at the stretch.
He’s thick, and even though you’re one orgasm deep and practically a fucking waterfall, with every new centimeter there’s a pinch, a slight level of discomfort that makes your thighs shake. He soothes you with his hands on your hips, sliding up to your waist, then your chest, massaging, mixing pleasure with the pain. Which, apparently, you enjoy.
“So big,” you murmur, toes curling, one eye still squeezed shut.
“I know, baby,” he soothes, leaning forward, pressing his lips to yours. A distraction, keeping your brain busy as you take the rest of him, his tongue slipping into your mouth, one hand resting on your neck. You feel him in your fucking guts when you’re finally seated, painfully aware that you’ve never had anything this big inside you.
“Give it a second,” he suggests, but instead, you start lifting your hips. He curses under his breath, head falling backward before he snaps it back, “Fuck, fuck, baby, hold on–”
“So big,” you moan out, words hazy, your mind cloudier. You’ve never felt so fucking full, it’s a completely new sensation and you’ve been itching for days to have something to fill you up. Lowering yourself back down, you moan, “Feels s’good, Yunho.”
“Yeah?” he asks, stunned like he can’t believe you’re already moving. His hands find your hips again, guiding your pace, his knees bending up. “Look at you, baby, riding like a big girl, taking me so well.”
You moan through your smile, craning your head back so you can look at him over the bridge of your nose and the look on his face is priceless. Cheeks pink, hair fucked up, pupils dilated, your belly jumps at the sight, making him grunt out a sharp noise.
“Fuck,” he grits out, fingers tightening over your skin. “Clenching around me, not gonna last if you do that.”
“Too good,” you tumble out, voice layered with hazy arousal. “Look so pretty, Yunho.”
“S-shit,” he hisses, hips snapping upward, making a sharp noise fall from your lips, piercing the room. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”
“Do it again,” you quickly blurt, leaning forward, lifting your hips. He holds them, pressing his heels into the mattress, fucking into you from below, making a serious, of pitched, stuttered cries and curses stutter out of your mouth. His cock rolls right over the front of your walls with each thrust, he reaches everywhere, making your shins lift off the bed, kicking at the air, the pleasure overwhelming. “Don’t– don’t stop, don’t fucking stop, Yunho.”
He grunts, lifting you again, turning you over in one quick motion, flattening you on your back. You yelp, but he gives you no time to process, his hands on your knees, pushing them to your chest.
Your moans die in your chest as he fucks into you, jaw slacked, brows furrowed in pleasure, only small squeaks slipping through with every other thrust. Your toes curl, watching his abdomen flex, his hips roll, the flex of his biceps on either side of your head. He’s so fucking attractive and he’s fucking you so hard it feels too good to be true.
“Kiss,” you manage to get out, reaching for him, his face. He lets go of your knees, elbows landing on either side of your head, never once losing his rhythm as he leans down, pressing his lips to yours. It’s a clash of teeth and spit and tongue, but your hands in his hair, his skin pressed to yours, his cock pressing on every spot you need it to… the knot of pleasure in your belly builds steadily, hot as hell.
“I’m gonna cum,” he whispers, his voice uneven, rough. “Need you to cum for me first.”
Mind so hazy, you reach a hand between your legs, fingers immediately rubbing circles into your clit. He looks between you, jaw slacked, panting, “You’re so fucking sexy, oh my god.”
You pull him down to kiss you again, hips rocking upward to meet his thrusts, moaning into his mouth, the band of pleasure in your gut running taut. “Gonna cum,” you whimper, your bottom lips touching, breath and saliva shared.
“Yes, good girl, cum for me,” he grits out, and the words make your jaw go slack, lips unresponsive against his, another squeak of pleasure escaping before your orgasm hits like a tidal wave. He kisses you, fucks you through it, groaning as you clench around him, thighs shaking.
He pulls back, hands on your knees again, pinning them together as he pushes himself to the edge, head tipping back. You’re still losing your fucking mind, a moaning, arching mess, and the sight of him doesn’t make it any easier. You could go again. You could go for hours, if he fucks like that, if he looks like that.
“Where do you want me?” he asks, voice edged like he was about to blow. You spread your knees, giving him skin to paint, and he pulls out at the last second, pumping the tip of his cock until thick, hot, white ropes of cum spill all over your stomach, your pelvis, your chest. He moans, face scrunched up in pleasure, hips bucking into his own hand as he fucks himself through it, and you can’t help but wish he’d done it inside you.
He collapses beside you, the both of you panting, eyes half-lidded and bodies covered in a layer of sweat. You stay there for a minute or two, just breathing, processing, feeling. You don’t think you’ve ever felt better, body spent in a state of fucked-out bliss, feeling stretched out and sated and perfect. You look to the side, his eyes closed, his cheeks pink, his chest rising and falling evenly. He speaks first.
“I’m getting you that fucking trophy.”
It takes a second for the memory to come back to you, but you arch with the punched, airy laugh that comes out of you, your hand reaching for his. “Should I put it next to the Gojo figure?”
He lays his palm open for you to tangle your fingers with his, opening his eyes, looking at you. “Do you think he just watched us?”
“I think he watched you.”
He grins, and it’s lazy, but it’s full of amusement. “Good.” There’s more to that good, but you don’t press him to explain. You don’t want to know. After another second of thinking, feeling, and breathing, he notices, “You washed your sheets.”
“How’d you know?”
He brushes his other hand over your duvet beside him, “They smell like detergent. The last time I was here, they smelled like your hair. Your shampoo, I guess.”
You coo, “Aww, you paid attention.”
He looks up, eyes calmer, softer, now. “I pay attention to more than you think I do.”
“Don’t be creepy about it,” you joke.
He laughs under his breath, a light, small chuckle. It could be easy like this, you think, with him. A calmness has spread over you, one you don’t fully trust. There’s a part of you that still isn’t sure that it’s right, but after everything, you don’t know if easy is the same thing as right anymore.
Obviously, he didn't want his family to see his boner, but there it was already, hiding underneath the random throw pillow he grabbed.
It wasn't Valko's fault.
It was yours.
You'd been sitting beside him, listening to his cousins talk about God knows what. To be honest, he wasn't listening. He was too focused on you.
You looked so nice today; all cute and modest because you were nervous to see his family. He just wanted to be closer to you. So, he dragged you in by your waist and leaned toward you, simply wanting to rest his head on your shoulder.
But then your scent hit him—that sweet cloying smell that made his insides burn.
He shifted on the couch, his skin feeling like it was being pulled taut. Then, slowly, he saw it; a very obvious tent forming in his jeans. Great. Just great.
He cleared his throat, his cheeks burning as he grabbed the nearest throw pillow and pulled it over his lap.
And then you said something. He wasn't sure what.
"Hello? Did you hear me?" you said.
Go away, go away. If he thought it enough, maybe his boner would ... you know, go away.
"What?"
"Can you come with me to the bathroom?" you repeated.
Fuck. Of course. Just his luck.
"Uh…" His eyes flicked away. "It's down the hall. Second door on the left."
You frowned at him. "I asked if you could come with me, Valko. Just wait outside the door. Please?"
"Just go with her, man," one of his cousins said.
Valko ignored him. He sighed, his face growing hotter. "I can't…" he mumbled.
You squinted. "What?"
"I can't," he said louder, but quiet enough that only you could hear.
"Why not?"
He sighed, grabbing you by your arm and pulled you closer to speak into your ear. Big mistake. Because now he had the overwhelming urge to bury his nose in your neck and pretend his cousins weren't here. "Because you smell too good," he muttered, his voice strained.
Your brows pinched together. "What? Valko, what the hell are you talking about—?"
He huffed—an annoyed little sound—not at you, at the situation. "I have a boner," he finally said.
You gawked at him. "From what, smelling me?"
His ears flattened against his head. When you said it out loud, it sounded ridiculous. But he swallowed his pride. His hand tightened on your arm, keeping you still. "Just… Just sit here for a minute."
"A minute?! Valko, I really need to p—"
"It's not my fault you smell so good!" he huffed.
His cousin barked out a laugh. "Valko, you dirty dog."
Synopsis: first time going raw and he’s addicted to the feeling
feat: enjin, tamsy, gris, zodyl x afab!reader (individual)
Content: unprotected sex, dirty talk, size kink, rough sex, doggy style/prone bone, manhandling, choking (Tamsy), mean dom!tamsy, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, creampie, pússydrunk men, mating press (Gris), not pulling out, breeding kink, husband!zodyl, husband!gris, marathon sex (Zodyl), I hope is didn’t forget anything and I apologize if I did!
master list -- here w/c -- 3.1k (average 750 each)
♥︎ —enjin
“W-what?!”
Enjin sputters, doing a double take at your request. He wasn’t quite sure if he heard you correctly or if he was mind was just trying to play tricks on him. Because there was no way you could’ve possibly said what you just said. But deep down, he hoped like hell he was right.
“I said that next time we have sex. I don’t want to use a condom,” you repeat. Your boyfriend stiffens, and a deep flush coats his cheeks. Almost as if you just slapped him when making your wicked request. Were you trying to kill him? Based on your sly smile, Enjin is truly beginning to believe that you’re nothing but trouble disguised as a vixen. That’s what it had to be.
“G-goddamn woman,” Enjin exhales shakily. His clothes were suddenly very constricting. He tries to suppress a groan when his cock throbs, pressing uncomfortably against his thigh. “Can’t just go around saying shit like that so casually. You even know what you’re asking—“
“Oh I’m well aware…” You teasingly trace your hand down his chest. “But I said what I said~”
Enjin’s restraint snaps, and he all but pounces on you. His mouth is on yours, hot and desperate. His hands are rough and needy, pulling at your clothes and groping wherever he can while he backs you into the bed. You fumble with his belt, and Enjin quickly kicks off his slacks. You’re just as impatient as he, already trying to pull his cock from his boxers.
“Fuck—wait a min,” Enjin pants, his hot breath against your skin as he grabs your hands. He pins them above your head, and you whimper. “Shit, babe. One sec—need to stretch you out first, and—oh fuck—“ He hisses through his teeth as you roll your hips, pressing your sweet, bare cunt against him.
“Enjin, don’t care about that,” your words slur. You hook your heels around his waist to try to bring him closer, where you’re aching to have him. “Just hurry it up already. Need you inside now.”
Enjin shudders. “Tch. Dammit.” He frees his cock from the waistband of his boxers. You practically salivate at the sight of his length. Thick and an angry red at the tip with pre drooling down the side. It’s like he was suddenly bigger than before. Then again, he was always a shower to begin with.
Fisting himself a few times, Enjin presses his tip against the entrance of your puffy folds, already glistening and wet with your arousal. “Since you won’t let me prep you,” he grunted. Enjin lets a glob of spit fall from his lips. You shiver as it lands on your clit. “Such an inpatient ass brat.”
You gasp as he tries to prod himself forward. The puffy lips of your pussy flutter and try to suck him forward. “Enjin, please!”
“Yeah yeah. Don’t need to beg princess.” Enjin kisses his teeth, letting out a shaky laugh. “It’s all yours anyway.”
The first thick inch of his cock stretches through your walls, and Enjin could nearly cum on the spot. Without the condom restricting him, your cunt feels downright heavenly around him. Was your pussy always this warm and gooey? And oh fuck—you were damn near suffocating his cock with how you clenched around him.
“Holy shit…you’re gonna snap my dick off, squeezin’ me like that,” Enjin groans.
“Ack-Enjin!” You gasp, back bowing off the bed. “S’too much. Y-you’re too—“ When you twist away, Enjin folds one of your legs over his shoulder and urges his hips forward trying to ease the next few inches in. You bite back a squeal when the bulbous head kisses against your cervix.
“Aht. Don’t go tapping out on me now. I ain’t even all the way in yet.” Biting his lower lip, Enjin grips your hips and with a final thrust, sheathes himself the rest of the way. His cock was already throbbing. He was damn near ready to blow his load just from feeling you without the condom alone, which would’ve been embarrassing if it didn’t feel so good.
“Fuck.” Enjin lets out a low moan. He moves slowly, dragging his length back and forth, the thick ridges of the veins running down the side massaging against your quivering walls. You cunt spits out more of your sweet arousal, a ring of messy white coating the base of Enjin’s cock which he shoves back in with a mean snap of his hips. He presses so deep it leaves you gasping. And then he’s moving, each stroke becoming progressively harder and faster than the last.
“You feel so amazing,” Enjin grunts. He sloppily kisses your lips to drink up your squeals when his cockhead bullies against your g-spot, causing you to clench around him as your orgasm rocks through you. And Enjin’s so far gone that his orgasm sneaks up on him. Before he can even think about pulling out, he’s cumming hot, thick ropes of white, making a mess in your cunt.
“Shit.” His hips stutter through the overstimulation, trying to fuck his release deeper, filling you to the brim with him. “Never using a damn rubber again. This pussy’s too addicting.”
♥︎ —tamsy caines
“Hah—shit,” Tamsy’s breathy grunts fill your ears. The sweaty strands of his long hair stick to his forehead as he pumps his cock in and out of your gummy walls. You keen against him, tears brimming against your eyelashes. But Tamsy grabs you wrists, pinning them behind you to hold on for leverage. “Stop squirming,” he hisses.
“But Tamsy~” your words slur, delirious from the way his length continues to stretch and fill you. Your boyfriend has you pinned beneath him, hips pressed flush against your ass. In this position, the stretch of his cock feels impossibly deeper, making your toes curl. And without the condom, his throbbing length seems to nudge all your most sensitive spots. “Y-you’re too…ah…T-too deep.”
At that, Tamsy laughs.
“Too deep?” He wraps a firm arm around your waist while keeping another hand on your wrists. “No, my love. I don’t think I’m deep enough-“
You squeal into the pillows as Tamsy suddenly rams into you hard. It steals your breath when the mushroom tip bullies against your cervix with each deep stroke. Your fluttering walls quiver in response.
He traps you under his body weight. And no matter how much you push and whine against him, your weepy cunt continues to suck him in each time Tamsy ruts into you, letting out an obscene squelch whenever his hips connect.
“T-there we go,” Tamsy pants. Dipping his head into the crook of your neck, his breath tickles against your skin. His hand snakes up your body before wrapping around your throat. He squeezes ever so slightly at first, just enough to make you gasp.
“Just look at how well you’re taking me. Heh. You say it’s too much, but your body betrays you, my love.” Tamsy lets out a low his, scrunching his eyes shut as he stutters, “Your damn cunt’s trying to suck me dry, and every time I fuck against that sweet spot of yours, you tighten just a bit.”
You shake your head, but Tamsy’s hand squeezes tighter around your throat. “S’not true!” You babble, beginning to feel lightheaded. “I’m…ah, fuck. N-no…i-it’s not—“
“No?” Tamsy bemused. His grip tightens—chokes—making you cry out. “Then why are you still making such a fucking mess on my cock, huh?”
Your arousal coats his length in a filthy ring of white. Your weepy cunt damn near gushes around him when his hips snap back in, dripping down onto your thighs and the sheets below. It’s messy where you two connect, your arousal mixing with his precum, smearing down Tamsy’s cock each time his hips snap against yours.
Your puffy lips fluttered around his hard length, your slick release allowing him to slide back in with ease again and again and again.
“F-fuck…Tamsy, I’m gonna—“ you whimper.
“Go on. Cum.”
Eyes rolling back, your release hits you with such force it leaves you gasping. Your clit throbs and your entire body goes slack under Tamsy, who swears under his breath. He buried himself all the way to the hilt inside you when his orgasm hit and it hit hard.
His dick pulsated with each subsequent spurt of cum, his balls throbbing in almost relief to finally be emptying themselves. His hips still as he emptied inside you, pinning you to the mattress, or perhaps it was his strength finally leaving him.
You could feel his release trickle down your ass and thighs, over spilling from your overstimulated cunt. As you try to catch your breath, blinking the stars out your vision, Tamsy shifts ever so slightly. His lips press against the back of your throat, more gentle than he had been all night.
“Sorry for my roughness,” he murmurs. “Are you alright, angel?”
“I’m fine…just…holy shit…” Your response is met with an impassive sounding hum from Tamsy. You don’t think much of it, only focusing on how your hips ache in a good way, and that you’re exhausted.
“Good.” Suddenly, Tamsy flips you on to your back side. You blink up at him in surprise, taking in his flushed face and noticed the way his long hair had fallen out of its usual style and the strands stuck messily against his sweaty face. The thick head of his cock prods against your entrance once more, twitching to attention in his palm as he guides himself through your walls once more.
Already, he was hard again.
“I’m not done with you yet,” Tamsy says a bit breathlessly, his vision somewhat glassy. “You don’t have to do anything. Just take all of me.”
♥︎—gris rubion
“L-love, w-wait a minute.”
Gris’s breath hitches and then a low moan leaves his lips when you sink down on his cock—without a condom. He swears, trying and failing to keep his hips from bucking upwards in attempts to sheath himself deeper into your womb. You steady yourself by placing your hands on his shoulder, gritting your teeth as you take him further inch by inch.
“W-wait!” Gris gasps. He finally pulls himself together and grips your waist to stall your movements. “I’m n-not wearing any protection.” His Adam’s Apple bobs with a nervous swallow. Fuck. Did your pussy always feel this snug? You weren’t even seated all the way, still struggling to get his cockhead to breach past your gooey walls.
“So?” You reply. You roll your hips, grinding against Gris’s pelvis. He hisses, hands firm as they try to stop you.
“So, if we’re not careful, you could get pregnant, and—“
“So?”
Gris gawks at you. He tries to sputter out some half assed excuse, but you could see right through them. After all, you felt the way his cock grew harder at your words. It’s girthy base swelling try and mold your cunt into its shape. The stretch was delicious.
“You wanted to be a dad, right?”
“Y-yes.” Gris swallows. His fingers twitch, itching to grab you. “B-but we said that it would be better to wait—“
“Well, I changed my mind.”
“A-are you sure? D-don’t just say this on my account.”
“Not at all,” you interrupt, pulling him down by his collar so your lips brush. “I want a baby, Gris. Please?”
Gris kisses you before you could finish your sentence. In the same breath, he grabs your hips and slams you down on his cock until your pelvis hits his. The scream is lodged in your throat, stopped by the kiss.
“Well, if that’s what my wife wants,” he chuckles breathlessly. “Who am I to deny her request?”
Gris flips you on to your backside. You gasp in surprise. Grabbing the nearby pillow, he settles it underneath your hips. But his gentlemanly behavior is short lived, because once he ensures you’re comfortable, he has you folded in half the next second.
“Ack-Gris!” Tears clung to your eyelashes and your stomach constricted in delicious pleasure as Gris pushed your legs further against your chest into a mating press. Your husband groans, dipping his head into his valley of your breast.
Any slight breath and you could feel him nudging impossibly deeper. His cock stretched you to the brim, pressing against your womb for your lover to feel. Your pussy struggled to adjust to the girth, trying to suck him further than what was even possible. The stretch of him burned, the veins on his length dragging along your walls.
“Shit—“ Gris swears. “You want me…to fill this pussy up…” He kisses your cheek which was streaked with tears. “You want that, right? Want me to pump you full of my cum? Fuck a baby into you?”
“Y-yes!” You gasp. “P-please. W-wanna make y-you a daddy.”
“Make me a daddy, huh?”
Fuck, did he like the sound of that.
The weight of Gris’s body pressed you into the mattress as he pumps his cock in and out of your cunt. His hips almost frantically rut against yours, trying to drag his weepy cock as deep as he could through your plush walls. The thickness of his length and the blunt tip of his cock head worked in tandem to have you seeing stars as he stretched you out in all the best ways.
Gris groans. “S-shit. G-gonna cum, Princess. Gonna—fuck—make you a mommy.”
He squeezed your hips, driving himself deep as he cums thick ropes into your womb. The intensity rocks his body. His hips stutter forward, causing him to sink to his forearms. You let out a low moan.
The uncomfortable position has your abdomen constricting with pleasure. Your cunt throbs, the hot globs of Gris’s release leaking out your hole when he pulls out. There is a dull ache in your thighs, though you don’t hate it.
“You okay, sweetheart?” Gris asks, kissing your cheeks. One of his hands caress down your body, squeezing where he’d been a bit too rough. He’s gentle when he touches you.
“I’m fine,” you pant.
“Then, you’re good to go for another round?”
“H-huh?”
Gris grins. “Obviously, we have to make sure it sticks.” He wraps your legs around his waist, his grip tight on your thighs. “So you aren’t leaving the bed until I’m sure you’re knocked up.”
♥︎— zodyl typhon
Zodyl was mean.
You told him as much, and multiple times at that, babbling incoherently as tears licked your cheeks. Not that your whines or insults deterred him from drilling into you. Or from you cumming for the nth time.
“Hmm, tell me, what number was that?” Zodyl mused. You’re gasping underneath him, your pussy quivering and sloppily leaking your own release, making such a mess on his cock and the sheets. “I seem to have lost count.”
“A-ah..Zodyl please..” you’re overstimulated, legs trembling around his waist. Your swollen clit throbbed, it puffy from Zodyl teasing it with that wicked tongue of his earlier. “C-can’t cum anymore…y-you’re gonna break me.”
“Break you?” Zodyl laughed. “Please, you’re far more resilient than that, my love.” He pulls out his throbbing length, intentionally dragging it against your sensitive walls. His own cum leaks from the head, having just stuffed you with another load. Though he didn't seem the least bit exhausted. “After all," Zodyl continues, "I’ve trained this pussy to take me.”
Zodyl flips you onto your hands and knees. Your arms wobble and bend, causing your back to arch even deeper. A low whine leaves your lips when Zodyl sheathes himself to the hilt, pressing against your cervix. He bites back a groan. He could feel himself throb, his already sensitive cock spitting out more globs of cum as you squeeze around him.
But Zodyl continues to push through his own overstimulation, intent on drawing out your own pleasure.
“Shit…there you go…” the man chuckles. “And look. You’re just eagerly sucking me back in.”
You fist the sheets. It’s as if your body is hypnotized by the stretch and feel of his cock, even more so without the condom. Your hips move against your will, trying to snap back against his to take more. Zodyl slaps your ass for doing so.
“Did I give you permission to move?”
“M’sorry,” you babble. “I-it’s jus’…f-feels so-ah.”
“Use your words,” Zodyl tsks. He takes a fistful of your hair, his fingers digging into your scalp. “You know I can’t help you if you don’t tell me.”
He tugs harder, making you moan. “Please, Zodyl! Fuck—move. N-need…need to cum.”
Zodyl shoves your face into the pillows.
“Now you need to cum after just telling me you couldn’t?” An amused grin tugs at his lips. “But who am I to deny my wife’s request? I wouldn’t be fulfilling my husband duties otherwise.”
Gripping your hips, he begins to fuck back into you with the same, relentless pace, giving you little time to adjust to his size. The thick girth of his shaft threatens to split you open. The blunt head of his veiny length reaches the deepest parts of your womb. His heavy, aching balls nudge against your clit as he ruts against your ass, rough and needy.
Each time, there is an obscene squelch where you both connect. The sound is filthy and equally messy, your thighs slick with your own arousal and Zodyl’s cum aiding his frenzied thrusts against your ass. And fuck if Zodyl wasn't addicted to the feeling of you. His grip is bruising as he frantically chases his release, sweat clinging to his hair and pulling the strands from their usual slicked back style.
One of his thumbs finds your clit, teasing it with that slow, fluttering touch of his that makes your toes curl. Tears cling to your eyelashes as each punishing stroke kisses against your cervix, stringing you along until the pressure of your release winds so tightly that it snaps. You cry out Zodyl's name as you cream around him, your body going slack against the bedsheets.
As your cunt squeezes around him, Zodyl lets out a low moan. His thrusts grow sloppy and unrhythmic before he pins you to the mattress with his weight. His hips still as he fills you to the brim, making your eyes roll back.
“Fuck, good girl,” Zodyl groans in your ear. His lips press against the back of your neck, making you shiver.
“Y-you’re so mean,” you whimper. “I can’t feel my legs.”
“Hmm, you say that, but you got several orgasms thanks to this “mean” man.” Zodyl gathers you into his arms and carries you to the bathroom, setting you on the edge of the tub. He turns the handle to run the water. Before he leaves to go back to your shared room to grab you fresh clothes, he gives you a smug grin.
“And I’m not doing my due diligence as your husband if I don’t leave your legs shaking.”
synopsis. between the ache of fate and the pull of something forbidden, rafayel chooses to guard the one who should never have mattered.
pairing. rafayel qi x lemurian! non-mc! reader
content. fem!reader, non-mc!reader, lemurian!reader, reincarnation!au, injured!reader, jealous/territorial!rafayel, reader has a soul-mark too, reader is cautious, unrequited love? (they're in denial), forced proximity, a ton of angst, a bit of FLUFF, VERY SLOW slowburn (they're still figuring stuff out), manipulative!emcee, emcee is kind of a bitch, emcee knows about the bond but doesn’t care, shady!emcee, GUILT, bond bad?, zayne appearance, implied zayne x emcee, reader is called darling because i don't like y/n.
word count. 6.2k
a/n. another big chapter! this one clears up some misunderstandings, although there's still room for improvement! i am slowly moving towards a happy ending + romance. please let me know your thoughts for this bit! feedback and reblogs are deeply appreciated!!
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“is your leg sitting okay? do you want to adjust or?”
“i’m fine, rafayel.”
“good. let me fasten your seatbelt and then–”
“i can do it myself.”
“darling, let me. please. i need to know you’re safe.”
for my own sanity.
you did not fight back any further, dropping your arms over your barely-buttoned lab coat and waiting for rafayel to pull the seatbelt over your torso.
you couldn’t fight back even if you wanted to, not with the way his eyes were looking at you.
a storm of emotions was brewing in his gaze. guilt, fear, sadness. but there was something else too — those gorgeous hues of pinks and purples sparkled under the waxing moon, yearning for you.
weird… were you seeing things? did you hit your head too?
he never looked at you like that. the small glances he threw you in your past lives were distant. detached. he was looking at you, but he was not seeing you. his orbs were gazing inwards, into his own heart, where the picture of emcee rooted itself ever since their first unfortunate meeting.
but that longing was now directed at you. and there was no doubt about it.
“all set now.”
rafayel pulled you away from your thoughts with his soft voice, signaling he was done with his task. you were so entrapped into your own mind, you did not feel his warm breath brushing over your neck when pulling at the seatbelt, and neither did you feel his gentle hand cupping your thigh and pulling it away from the snapping mechanism.
but now, called back to the present moment, you felt the tip of his nose brushing yours. your nose, cold from the waters, pressing just enough to his heated skin to feel his boiling blood.
rafayel qi, your old friend and crush, really stood in front of you.
looking at you like he did to her.
“i–”
“rafayel, who’s driving?”
emcee’s voice boomed as she opened the driver’s door, breaking into the secluded space you were sharing with him, and half settled herself into the seat. rafayel instantly jumped away from you, pulling back and increasing the distance between your bodies.
although she asked about the driver role, emcee did not wait for his answer and fully made herself comfortable in the seat. she was certain rafayel will prefer to be taking the passenger seat and let her in control, just like he did during their previous drive.
she was mistaken.
“i am driving.” rafayel’s voice came out stern, commanding, leaving no space for refusals.
“wait, but–”
“no buts. you had more to drink than me.”
and i want to drive her.
emcee only mumbled something undecipherable before stepping out and changing seats, allowing rafayel to do as he pleases.
“i will go now.”
he quietly murmured back at you, offering a boyish smile, before closing your door and walking to his assigned seat.
the car doors shut one after another, sealing you inside the faint smell of smoke, blood, and alcohol. the flaming villa shrank in the distance as rafayel’s foot stepped on the gas pedal, hands tightening over the steering wheel.
the leather creaked softly under his strong grip, but he paid it no mind.
the engine purred low as the car rolled down the gravel road, headlights cutting through the darkness. emcee shifted in the passenger seat, crossing her legs and resting her chin against her palm, while you sat in the back, injured leg extended on the empty seats, clutching the thin lab coat tighter around yourself.
for a long moment, no one spoke. only the quiet hum of the tires filled the silence.
rafayel flicked his eyes toward the rearview mirror. once. twice. the third time, his gaze lingered. you were quiet — too quiet — your body half-turned toward the window, the moonlight brushing against the bruise and the blood along your skin.
he caught himself staring too long and, with a small cough, forced his attention back to the road.
emcee broke the silence.
“we should take her to a hospital.” she said flatly, adjusting her seatbelt. “she’s injured. that foot is swelling.”
rafayel opened his mouth, but before his words could form, your voice cut through the space — sharp, final.
“no.”
both of them stilled. rafayel’s fingers curled tighter around the steering wheel. emcee turned halfway in her seat, her brows pinched.
“what do you mean no? you’re injured, and gods know what they did to you in that lab. you can’t just–”
“i said no.” your voice cracked slightly, but the conviction in it was iron. “i am not stepping foot in another facility. not tonight.”
through the rearview mirror, rafayel saw it all. the way your eyes glossed over by fear, distrust, disgust. a few stray tears bedded the lining of your eyes, but you were fast to remove them, wiping them with the sleeve of your coat.
don’t be vulnerable. don’t depend. don’t trust.
not even him.
“i don’t need it anyway.” you continued, your voice rough but steady. “i’m lemurian. it’ll heal on its own.”
and it was true. even now, with the minimal light provided by the moon, the iridescent scales forming around your bruise were visible. sprouting at the edges of your injury, the entire affected area would soon be covered in them to start the accelerated healing process.
he knew about it, surely. but why didn’t she?
emcee frowned, ready to object again, but rafayel beat her to it — softly this time, with a finality she recognized all too well.
“then i’m taking you to my place.”
you blinked, lifting your gaze from the bruise. “…what?”
“you need to rest. to change, to get cleaned up.” his hands flexed over the wheel, jaw tight, but his voice carried no room for negotiation. “then i’ll drive you home.”
“you’re drunk.” you muttered; your fin-like ears picked up the information from their previous discussion. “you shouldn’t even be behind the wheel.”
his lips curved into something between a smirk and a sigh, throwing a cheeky glance at you through the mirror.
“exactly why i won’t drive again tonight. so you’ll stay at my place until morning.”
the silence pressed down again. you wanted to argue, to refuse, to remind him you were perfectly capable of walking away from this, alone, just like you always had. but the way his eyes flicked to the mirror again — lingering, searching, softening — tangled your throat shut.
“…fine.” you said at last, curling deeper into your seat. then, quieter, without looking at him, you mumbled something that clutched tighter at his chest.
“but tomorrow, i’ll go home on my own. by bus. by train. whatever. i don’t need you.”
rafayel’s knuckles whitened against the wheel, but he said nothing.
emcee, though, tilted her head, her sharp gaze darting between the two of you. her lips curved — not quite a smile, not quite a smirk — but she said nothing either.
you two knew each other from previous lives, but your relationship was strained.
good.
the villa’s smoke finally disappeared into the horizon behind you, and the night stretched ahead. three breaths filled the car — one steady, one sharp, one trembling — all tangled together in the fragile silence of escape.
•••
by the time the car rolled to a stop in front of rafayel’s home, your eyes were half-lidded with exhaustion. the adrenaline of escape had bled out of you, leaving only the soreness of human bones and the ache deep in your chest.
rafayel parked carefully, the engine purring low before he cut it off. after that, he didn’t waste a moment. his door opened, then shut, and a second later he was at yours.
the cold air rushed in when he pulled it open, and you instinctively tugged the lab coat tighter. he leaned down immediately, blocking you from the night’s wind with his body.
“easy.” he murmured, voice dipped in that same rough tenderness. his hand ghosted near your shoulder, hovering as if asking permission.
you nodded, almost too quickly.
he leaned in and carefully shifted you, his touch soft but deliberate, adjusting your legs so your bruised foot wouldn’t scrape the frame of the door. his gaze flicked once — to the scales forming over your injury, shimmering faintly under the porch light.
he exhaled sharply.
“i can take it fro– ah.” your whisper was sharp, defensive; you were trying to put a wall between you two. to distance yourself from something you knew you couldn’t have.
however, before you could protest fully, his arms swept under you. in one smooth motion, he lifted you against his chest — bridal style, protective, as though you were fragile glass instead of a creature with claws and fangs.
“r-rafayel? wa-wait!!”
your heart nearly stuttered out of your chest. heat flooded your face, your fingers clutching at the thin collar of the lab coat as if that could hide how your pulse hammered in your throat.
“r-rafayel!”
“i’ve got you.” he said simply, his voice low, firm.
no hesitation. no teasing. just truth. he lifted you effortlessly, body curving protectively around yours as if daring the world to try and pry you away again.
you froze against him, heart thundering in the sudden cage of his hold. you wanted to protest, to spit out something sharp to cut the heat spreading through your chest, but your body betrayed you — too weak, too sore.
and gods, too relieved.
“open the gate.” his voice rose, directed at emcee now.
she arched a brow, already striding ahead toward the keypad built into the iron fencing. her fingers moved with familiarity, pressing the code without hesitation. the gates unlocked with a mechanical groan, parting like they had for her countless times before.
oh.
your chest seized. a tight ache lodged itself beneath your sternum, digging deep. she knows the code. she’d been here before — often enough to remember the sequence by heart.
in spite of the proximity, rafayel didn’t notice your sour expression, too focused on your comfort. but emcee did. her lips tilted, just enough for you to see, just enough for you to feel it — the pride emanating off her.
so you looked away fast, burying your face in rafayel’s shoulder, clutching the lab coat tighter against your chest, as if the fabric could hide the sting clawing through you.
inside, rafayel carried you past the marble foyer, past the immaculate floors polished like mirrors. he didn’t stop until the living room opened before him, dim and warm, a candle bundle flickering small in the corner.
he lowered you gently onto the couch, his hands careful, almost worshipful, as though you were carved from glass and might shatter beneath his touch.
“stay here.” his voice had softened again, worry wrapped around every syllable. then he stepped out of the room, likely hunting for a wet cloth and some fresh clothes.
before you could even settle against the cushions, your gaze snagged on the walls.
and your heart broke anew.
pictures.
sculptures.
fragments of her everywhere — emcee’s face painted in strokes of color, her likeness captured in marble and clay.
the room wasn’t a living space.
it was a shrine.
your pulse stung in your throat, humiliation curling hot through your stomach. everywhere you looked, she was there. she was his muse. his obsession. his masterpiece.
of course, it was always her.
you claw at the lab coat tighter, shrinking into the couch cushions as if you could disappear into them. a faint blue glow grazed the skin of your chest, but it quickly died down under your palm.
emcee leaned lazily against the doorway, arms folded, her gaze flicking over you like you were just another object dragged into his home. her lips curved — sly, sharp — as though she saw everything you felt and filed it away to use later.
always her. always her.
your breath hitched. the ache in your chest burned hotter than the bruise on your leg. you curled tighter into the lab coat, pressing your sharp nails into your palms to keep yourself from trembling.
never me.
you wanted to scream. you wanted to smash the sculptures apart, to rip the paintings until the canvas tore, to ask him why — why he looked at you in the car like that if his world was still filled with her.
but all you did was sit there. silent. shaking.
and suffering.
•••
you did not hear her leave. emcee vanished from her spot minutes ago, preoccupied with a phone call whose ringtone you didn’t register. did someone call her? or did she call someone?
you had no clue.
why am i here?
you did not hear him. you did not hear rafayel come back into the room, wash basin in one hand, fresh clothes in the other.
i should leave.
you only heard the thrashing beat of your heart and the way your skin was punctured by your nails.
i should–
rafayel crouched in front of you, his hands braced against the couch’s edge. he searched your face with softness, but when he saw you spacing out… he dared.
putting his warm palm on your exposed knee.
“does it hurt, darling? do you need a cushion for support?” he asked, his voice trembling with care, assuming your injury is causing you trouble.
you jumped at the contact, whole body shaking from the sudden touch. a flash of fear washed over your tired eyes, but soon vanished under rafayel’s image.
“no, it’s okay.”
“good. then… shall we get to cleaning?”
his soft eyes hovered over your body, making one passing from your still bloodied mouth down to the bruising leg. his gaze lingered on it — too long, too telling — before he forced himself to come back to your face.
“yeah.”
you flushed, your heart beating wildly, foolishly, painfully. because for one second, in his eyes, you could almost believe you weren’t sitting in a gallery of her.
you could almost believe you were the one he longed for.
rafayel dipped the cloth into the basin he’d brought, wrung it carefully, and raised it toward your face. his movements were measured and cautious, analyzing the blood on your face.
“let me… start here.”
he murmured, his voice rasping low. his thumb brushed your chin lightly, tilting your face toward him as he dabbed the cloth against the dried streak of blood at the corner of your lips.
you stiffened, not from pain but from the closeness. the way his breath ghosted over your skin, the faint tremor in his fingers.
he was so gentle, it wounded you.
“does your throat hurt?” his question was soft, yet carried a weight heavy enough to crush your ribs. his gaze was locked onto your mouth, onto the place where the muzzle had pressed too long, too cruelly.
“a little. it… burned when i tried to sing.” you swallowed, your voice small.
the crease between his brows deepened, shame clouding his face. “i should have been there. gods, if i’d–” he cut himself off, the cloth pausing at your jaw as his breath trembled out. “they hurt you in ways i can’t undo.”
your heart lurched painfully at the rawness in his tone, that blueish glow blinking once more on your chest. he wasn’t just asking about your throat.
he was begging forgiveness for every absence, every night he hadn’t been there.
you wanted to reach out. to tell him it wasn’t his fault. but the words lodged in your chest like a bullet. instead, you stayed still while his hand moved again, gently wiping away the last trace of blood from your lips.
it wasn’t his fault fully.
when he lowered the cloth, his gaze caught yours — soft, guilty, so full of a devotion he didn’t seem to realize bled through. your pulse skipped, heat curling beneath your skin.
“better?” he asked.
you only nodded. anything else and he would hear how your voice shook.
his gaze trailed downwards then, to your covered arm. he reached carefully, lifting your forearm into his palm, rolling the sleeve of the lab coat. the cloth pressed against the dried smear of blood on your skin — the splashes left from when you’d pierced the ever woman with your claws.
“you still…”
his voice faltered. he brushed lightly over your knuckles, his dual eyes fixated on your sharp nails. gleaming faintly in the candlelight. you were in your human form; your membrane retracted, so why were your nails still like this? do you usually have them this long?
“why–”
just get her clean.
“you fought even then.”
disgrace and pride tangled in his tone. you watched him clean the crimson from your skin, even the fresh patches you just tore into your own palms; his hand steady, his movements tender in a way that made your chest stiffen until it hurt.
“i had to.” you whispered back, averting your face with shame.
you despised your captors. that doesn’t mean you were delighted by what you did.
“they–”
his jaw stiffened. he looked down at your arm, at the faint ridges of your veins under your skin. it was a difficult question, but he had to ask. he had to know how you ended up like that.
“they caught you during ebb day, didn’t they?”
your silence was answer enough.
“they waited until you were weakest.” his grip on your arm tightened for a moment before he forced it to relax, forced himself to keep dabbing softly at the stains.
his head lowered, shadows hiding his expression. “cowards.”
you blinked rapidly, your throat hot. not from pain — no, but from the way he said it, like every word was a vow, like he wanted to set the entire world aflame for daring to touch you when you couldn’t fight back.
“rafayel…” you whispered his name like a prayer, wishing to lessen his own suffering.
like you always did.
but he didn’t answer. he set your arm gently back down against your lap, then slid down to his knees before you. your breath hitched, his sudden act making heat bloom across your face, eyes driven back down to his kneeling body.
“w-what are you–”
“your bruise.” his voice was low, weighted with guilt. “let me look at it, darling.”
and then his hands were there, hovering just above your scaled ankle. his cloth brushed faintly against the purpled skin, so careful, so painstakingly gentle that it stung your lungs.
that stupid mark was taking it all in, huh?
“tell me if it hurts.” he murmured, his gaze locked on the injured spot. he didn’t look at your face, didn’t see how you were flushing scarlet, how your heart struck so loudly you feared it would echo against the walls.
didn’t see the strange mark flaring on your chest.
he cleaned in slow circles, careful not to tug against the shimmering scales trying to form. every trace burned — not from pain, but from the way he touched you like you were holy. like your broken body was something sacred he was unworthy of, yet still desperate to mend.
you bit the inside of your cheek, struggling to stay still as your body betrayed you; leaning ever so slightly toward him, your claws trembling against the thin lab coat you held shut.
he didn’t notice. he couldn’t. his gaze was fixed on your injury, on the harm done to you, not on the way your entire soul was unraveling under his hands.
“those brutes…”
the cloth pressed once more against your bruise. his fingers brushed the edge of your scale, tender, reverential. his breath shuddered. tears threatened to wash over his orbs, pebbling at the base of his gentle eyes with every stroke.
and in that moment, as his guilt bled into every careful motion, you realized the truth that ached more than any wound.
you would break yourself a thousand times over to make him see you.
because you couldn’t stop loving him.
and he would break himself a thousand times over to heal you.
but never because he loved you.
only because he couldn’t forgive himself.
•••
the silence between you stretched, heavy and humming. rafayel wrung the cloth again, gaze still fixed on your ankle, though his mind seemed somewhere else — somewhere you could never reach.
“that should do for now.” he murmured, setting the cloth back into the basin. he didn’t move away, only sat back on his heels, eyes tracing the faint glow of your healing scales.
“you’ll need fresh clothes.”
he rose quietly, retrieving the folded garments he’d left on the adjacent armchair. when he turned, holding them to his chest, you saw they were plain: loose trousers, an oversized shirt, and a belt you recognized — leather, faintly cracked at the edges.
his clothes.
not emcee’s.
“these should be comfortable.” he said, offering them out. his tone was low, calm. yet his face was dusted by a rosy glow, stretching over his cheeks and kissing the tips of his ears.
you hesitated, your heart thudding unevenly. “are these… yours?”
“yes.” he didn’t seem to notice the inquiry beneath your question, somewhat embarrassed that he had only his clothes to offer. “they’re clean! a-and i haven’t worn them that much– an-nd they smell fine–”
you’ve never seen rafayel so flustered. that confident lemurian, boasting about the most intimate details to you without turning red like a lobster, was now stuttering in front of you. almost tripping over his words in an attempt to reassure you his clothes are not scraps.
“thank you, rafayel! they’re more than okay.” you murmured, taking the bundle from him with a small smile on your lips.
he nodded once, then — when you didn’t immediately move — gestured towards the opposite side of the room. the studio section, full of paintings.
“i’ll… turn around.”
“you can leave.” you whispered, quietly, though it wasn’t a command. you didn’t expect him to leave.
“no. i’ll stay. in case you fall.” his expression flickered, faintly wounded. “i will catch you.”
you couldn’t argue with that — not when your foot still ached, not when your body trembled from exhaustion — but still, the thought of dressing under his quiet presence made your throat tighten.
“alright.” you said, almost inaudible.
he turned his back to you, shoulders tense. the room fell into a hush so deep you could hear the faint rustle of his sleeve when he clenched his fists.
he was face to face with images of emcee, yet his mind was clouded with thoughts of you.
you forced yourself to move. to set the basin further aside, to undo the lab coat with trembling fingers, to breathe through the ache in your leg as you slipped into the shirt he’d given you. it hung loose on your frame, smelling faintly of sea, roses, and something expensive underneath — like a high-end cologne you could never afford.
smelling like him.
as you fastened the belt around the pants, your fingers paused. the shirt brushed your thighs; the trousers were a little long, crunching beneath your feet.
nothing of emcee’s. everything of him.
were they not… together, then?
or did he simply not want you to taint her clothes?
your thoughts tangled in each other, and still he didn’t move. didn’t speak. he waited, back straight, his shadow long in the candlelight.
you didn’t know which answer hurt more.
“i’m done.” you said softly.
he turned at once. his eyes swept over you — not lingering, only checking, confirming. still, something flickered across his face when he saw his own shirt hanging off your shoulders.
“yo– they look good.” he said after a beat.
you nodded, forcing a small smile. “yeah.”
before either of you could speak again, the door creaked open.
emcee stepped inside, her phone still in her hand, a thin smile on her lips. “good. you’re dressed.” she glanced between the two of you, her eyes catching briefly on rafayel’s gaze, the basin at your feet, the shirt you wore. something unreadable flashed across her face, but she didn’t mention it.
“doctor zayne’s on his way.”
that shocking announcement made your stomach drop. your knees threatened to give up, so you plopped down on the couch.
“t-the doctor?” you echoed, a tremor in your tone. “why?”
“zayne…” emcee said, voice gentling. “offered to come. he’s trustworthy. he’ll just check your foot, make sure nothing’s broken.”
“i don’t need–”
“it’s not up for debate.”
rafayel’s head snapped toward her, his dual eyes narrowing. “you called a doctor after she said no?”
emcee blinked, her mouth tightening, slightly displeased by rafayel siding with you. “she needs medical attention, rafayel. you can’t just–”
“she said no.” he repeated, voice low, dangerous, a warning-like hiss escaping his throat.
silence fell, thick and electric. you stared between them — the two people bound to each other in each life, now standing like opposite ends of a storm.
emcee’s jaw clenched, a pleading look sneaking onto her face. “i did what’s best for her.”
“you did what you thought was best. there’s a difference.” rafayel’s hands curled into fists, his sudden anger overconsuming him.
why was he so enraged for you?
“cancel.”
“can’t do. he’s almost here.”
the air between them snapped, tension coiling like wire. you sat there, lost in the middle of it — comforted by his clothes, his scent clinging to your skin, yet also hurt.
your heart breaking quietly beneath the pulse of the mark on your chest.
“you’re fucking impossible.”
•••
the knock came too soon. three short raps — polite, practiced.
“that’ll be him.” emcee straightened first, stepping towards the main door.
rafayel gulped down the lump in his throat; his eyes flashed something feral before smoothing into stillness. you could feel the tension radiate from him like heat, and for a moment, you wanted to tell him to breathe.
the door opened with a quiet creak.
zayne stepped inside — neat, calm, a stethoscope looped casually around his neck. he looked perfectly human. too human. his presence filled the room not with power but with ease, that steady, grounded energy of someone who spent his life fixing what could break.
his gaze landed on emcee first, and the shift in his expression was almost imperceptible — the kind of warmth that softened the air.
“hey.” he said quietly, and she smiled in a way that made something inside rafayel twist.
his own reddish mark flared underneath his suit.
then zayne’s attention slid toward you. he blinked once, confusion ghosting his face at the sight of your unusual features — the faint sheen of scales, the still-lemurian features — but his professional composure never cracked.
“i’m dr. zayne.” he introduced himself gently. “emcee told me you hurt your leg. may i take a look?”
you hesitated, glancing at rafayel. he was still at your side, now seated on the couch next to you. half-relaxed, half-poised to strike.
“it’s all right.” emcee said, voice soft but firm. “he just wants to make sure nothing’s torn.”
zayne knelt in front of you, setting down his kit. his hands were cold, careful.
“may i?” he asked again, waiting for your nod before touching your ankle.
the moment he did, rafayel’s entire posture stiffened — a statue carved from tension. his eyes followed every movement, every brush of zayne’s fingers across your skin.
zayne hummed under his breath, fingers probing with clinical precision. when he brushed near the patch where your scales shimmered faintly, his gaze flicked up, curiosity flashing behind his calm mask.
he didn’t ask. didn’t even pause. but you could see the wheels turning in his mind — a thousand questions, none voiced.
“she’s in pain.” rafayel said finally, his voice low, edged.
zayne looked up briefly, brow furrowing. “i’m being careful.”
“she’s still in pain.”
“rafayel!” emcee warned softly, but it only made his jaw clench harder.
she’s taking this doctor's side. why? why?
zayne said nothing more, though the flash of irritation that passed through his eyes didn’t escape you. his attention returned to your leg. when his thumb grazed the faint shimmer of your scales once more — curiosity sparking again before he quickly masked it with clinical calm.
he didn’t ask why human skin could shine like glass or catch the light like armor. perhaps he thought it a trick of the candle light, or perhaps he stuck with what emcee told him when she called.
“it’s not broken.” he murmured, palpating gently along the joint one last time. “just a bad sprain. you’ll need to rest, keep it elevated. i’ll wrap it for you.”
he reached for a roll of bandage, and rafayel immediately moved closer — too close. his knee brushed yours as if to remind you he was still there, still guarding you.
zayne noticed. he said nothing, but the corner of his brow lifted slightly, the faintest sign of annoyance. he focused on wrapping your ankle, layering the gauze neatly.
“does that hurt?”
“a little.” you admitted, your voice barely a whisper.
“she’s had enough pain for tonight.” rafayel cut in.
zayne looked up, finally meeting his eyes. “i’ll be gentle.” he said with practiced calmness. “you’re–?”
“rafayel.” he supplied, tone clipped.
“good. then, rafayel, you can make sure your girlfriend stays off it for a few days.”
girlfriend?
like a ceremonial gong vibrating with a single strike, your entire body pulsated at the word. your chest, squeezed by an invisible force, constricted your breathing and made you let out a gasp. your soul-mark was burning hotter than ever, and if it weren’t for the dense material of the top, the glow would’ve been visible to them all.
you couldn’t even muster a word back, something to indicate that zayne was wrong. you weren’t his girlfriend. you weren’t his girlfriend, and you will never be.
“she isn–” emcee’s voice, tinged with offence, bloomed from where she was standing, but was soon cut off.
“i will.” rafayel said, low, defensive, almost challenging emcee to finish her sentence.
you weren’t his girlfriend, and you will never be. but what if–?
after bandaging your ankle, zayne rose smoothly, dusting his hands. then he glanced back at you — and again, that dash of fascination, this time lingering on the iridescence he just covered. he didn’t speak of it, but you could almost hear the question pressing behind his teeth.
what were you?
rafayel slid between you two before he could say anything, putting one hand over your thighs and hiding you for good behind his back. “she needs sleep.” he said pointedly, a polite way of ushering the doctor away.
zayne blinked, mildly surprised by rafayel’s discourtesy. he knew emcee was the one that requested a check-up, yet he was still shocked the beneficiary would be so cold to his benefactor.
“of course.”
he turned to emcee, touching her elbow gently — an unconscious gesture of intimacy that didn’t escape rafayel. and you saw it, too. the way his shoulders drew tight, the faint tremor in his jaw.
so that's it.
“i’ll head back.” zayne told her softly. “shall i take you home?”
“mhmm.” she said. her smile was small but real. “thank you, zayne.”
in this life, emcee is not with rafayel. she’s with him.
he nodded once to emcee before turning back at you. giving you a last polite glance.
“take care, miss.”
and then he was gone, together with emcee — leaving a faint scent of antiseptic and jealousy in his wake.
the door clicked shut. silence expanded again.
and for the first time, you two were alone.
rafayel stood rigid, staring at the door long after it closed. his dual-coloured eyes gleamed, unreadable. it was their first meeting — him and his rival… he couldn’t even call zayne his rival, knowing he won already.
zayne had emcee. he had nothing.
rafayel lost her again, and this time… he never even had her.
“you didn’t have to glare at him like that.” you said gently, trying to loosen the tight atmosphere.
you knew what he was feeling. rafayel was now taking in feelings you’ve been absorbing for ages.
not being loved, not being chosen. not being seen.
and the mark surely accentuated his failure, digging into his heart and puncturing it, clutching at his lungs and leaving him breathless.
rafayel and emcee were not together, but that didn’t make you happy. he was hurt and, in turn, you were too.
after a deep sigh, he answered your accusation.
“i didn’t glare.” he tutted, stubborn as always, yet his eyes were devoid of any inflexibility. they were empty, lifeless, the two vibrant colours suddenly going dull.
“you did.”
his jaw flexed, and you were sure a confession of jealousy was coming. and you would listen, like always, comforting the one who hurt you in every lifetime.
yet, sometimes... history doesn’t repeat itself.
“he shouldn’t have touched you.”
“pardon?”
“he shouldn’t have been here to begin with.”
“wait, what?”
“you didn’t want a doctor, right? how dare he impose on you? on us?”
the last word hit you like a drop of melted glass. you blinked, unsure if you’d heard right — if he truly said us.
rafayel’s voice trembled with something sharp, something almost ugly beneath its tenderness. not heartbreak for emcee — no. it was something else entirely.
something that twisted in his chest when zayne had knelt beside you, when his hands had brushed your skin, when his eyes had lingered on your scales with too much curiosity and not enough professionalism.
you thought his silence earlier was sorrow. that he was stunned because emcee had chosen another, because he’d seen his fated one in the arms of a man who didn’t even know about the bond.
but now — gods — you realized how wrong you were.
rafayel wasn’t grieving emcee.
he was furious because zayne beheld you.
the realization crashed through you like a tidal wave, leaving your lungs raw. you tried to speak, to inquire for explanations, but he was already moving closer. the tension around his shoulders loosened only slightly when he crouched before you again, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that burned.
“you don’t have to worry anymore.” he said, low and hoarse, his hands searching for yours. “i’ll take care of you. you’ll stay here. with me. until you recover.”
“i– that’s–” you faltered, the words catching in your throat. your hands, quivering in your lap, were soon engulfed by rafayel’s, a calm warmth seeping through them.
stay? with him?
his gaze softened, but his jaw remained tense — conflicted, as if he didn’t trust his own impulses. the faint glow of his red mark shimmered beneath the open collar of his shirt, dim but alive. pulsing in pain.
you knew what that meant — his bond still ached for emcee. still recognized her.
and yet, here he was, choosing you.
your chest throbbed. the mark beneath your own skin flared in answer, blooming with a blueish warmth you didn’t dare name. hope? desire? it all felt dangerous, forbidden — a promise you weren’t sure he meant to give.
was this something that he truly meant? or were you just… convenient?
“rafayel.” you whispered, your fingers trembling in his hold. “your mark… it hurts, doesn’t it?”
he hesitated, then — slowly, consciously — tugged the fabric of his shirt aside, revealing the faintly glowing sigil etched over his heart. the light was uneven, flickering between burning shades and paler hues, like a candle in the wind.
the bond was weakened.
“it does.” he admitted softly. “but this pain doesn’t matter. not anymore.”
your heart clenched. you wanted to tell him your mark pulsed too — wanted to show him the light swelling across your chest like a secret sunrise. but the thought of it, of exposing the thing that betrayed every feeling you’d tried to bury, made you fold inward.
so you just pressed your palm over it, hiding the throbbing glow beneath your fingertips.
he doesn’t love you, you reminded yourself, even as your pulse begged to differ. he’s just guilty. protective. kind.
but his voice — gods, his voice — betrayed something more.
“i couldn’t stand watching him touch you.” rafayel murmured, still staring at your covered chest as if he could sense the rhythm beneath your palm.
your mark was unknows to him, yet he was instinctively drawn to it.
“it made me want to burn everything down.”
you exhaled shakily. “that’s not– that’s not about me.”
he’s misunderstanding his feeling, that must be it. there’s no other explanation.
it was impossible for rafayel to feel such strong emotions for you, be it anger or... love.
“isn’t it?” he asked quietly, pupils widening with every second of his eyes gazing into yours. “because i don’t feel this way when i look at her.”
what?
your throat closed. words abandoned you, leaving only the frantic rush of your heartbeat and the dangerous shimmer of hope blooming where despair had always lived.
he reached out towards your face, wishing to cup it, but he redirected his hand near your shoulder, warmth ghosting against it.
“rest now.” he whispered, defeated by his tumultuous emotions. “i’ll watch over you.”
and though sorrow twisted in your ribs, and you knew this could only end in heartbreak, you still nodded. because in that fragile moment, between his vow and your silence, hope felt almost like love.
synopsis. caleb made a mistake when interpreting the anonymous threatening note, and so did you in thinking you can change a code-backed destiny.
pairing. caleb xia x isekai’d! non-mc! reader
content. fem!reader, non-mc!reader, isekai’d!reader, reincarnation!au, requited love (but too late), conflicted!reader, a lot of internal turmoil, a ton of angst, slowburn, hurt/no comfort (y'all will kill me), maybe ooc!caleb, caleb doesn’t know you’re isekai’d, CALEB IS IN DENIAL, TW: EVER, TW: allusion to TORTURE, medical malpractice, degradation (the ever guy mocks you AGAIN), BAD BAD ENDING, self-deprication, low self-esteem, you and caleb are done for fr.
word count. 9.6k
a/n. part two (the finale) is finally done. the plot twist is plot twisting with this one 💅 i am fucking evil, ikkkk. please let me know your thoughts! feedback and reblogs are deeply appreciated.
the silence after his question was absolute, filled only by the rhythmic, mocking beep of your own heart. your mind, that fractured, hurting thing, was a battleground. on one side: the visceral, animal need to survive as you, the you that had loved him from a distance and then up close, with all your clumsy, human flaws. the you that remembered your past life, your old world’s sun, the texture of your phone case as you played the game.
that you was screaming in silent agony.
on the other side: a deep, yawning void of defeat, and a promise so sweet it made the void seem like a sanctuary.
peace. and love.
real love.
you were so tired. tired of fighting for a place in a story that kept rejecting you. tired of the constant ache of being second-best, of being the afterthought, the distraction. tired of loving caleb with a desperation that felt like drowning, while he offered only shallow breaths of air.
the scientist watched you, a vulture sensing the final tremors of life. he saw the fight draining from your eyes, replaced by a numb, hollow acceptance. he didn’t need a verbal answer. your stillness was enough of a confession.
“begin the integration.” he said, not to you, but to the room.
a new sensation bloomed at the base of your skull, different from the invasive probe. it was a cool, spreading numbness, like a drop of ink in water. it didn’t hurt. not physically. it felt… like relief.
the sharp, jagged edges of your grief began to soften, blurred into a manageable, melancholic haze. the white-hot betrayal of caleb’s choice in linkon city replayed in your mind, but this time, the accompanying sting was muted, distant, as if it were happening to someone else.
you suddenly flinched as a new set of vibrations prickled at your head. not indubitable pain, but a strange fizzing. a digital static seeping into the roots of your feelings.
you thought of caleb leaving, the click of the latch. the memory was there, sharp and clear, but the jagged, tearing agony that usually accompanied it… it softened further.
it became a fact. he left. the associated devastation was dialed down, like a violent song turned into gentle background music.
a tear rolled down your cheek, but it felt disconnected. you were watching yourself cry from a slight distance, almost like an out-of-body experience.
a tiny, translucent blue square flickered into existence at the very edge of your vision. it was sleek, modern, utterly alien in your organic sight.
[system integration: 5%]
[emotional volatility protocols: installed.]
[primary directive: optimize for target (caleb xia) affinity.]
you stared at it. a progress bar. for your own erasu– improvement.
“good.” the scientist murmured, monitoring the data. “very good. receptors are accepting the base code. now, we address the betrayal narrative. it’s causing conflicting impulses. we’ll reframe it as a strategic error on his part, not a personal rejection. this will align your future interactions towards correction, not accusation.”
the fizzing intensified. the memory of the doctor’s voice — he chose wrong. — replayed. before, it had been a spear through your heart. now, the spear was labeled. the raw, human bitterness began to leach away, replaced by a cool analysis.
caleb just miscalculated. the parameters were unclear.
your value was not correctly inputted into his decision-making matrix.
a part of you, the deep, dark core of your untouched self, screamed in silent horror as the reality of the situation downed on you.
this is wrong! you’re letting them turn you into a tool!
but the scream was muffled, wrapped in layers of this new, calming static. and the promise floated before you, luminous, made it all harder to fight. harder to conquer.
but he will love you. he will look at you and see perfection.
then everything blurred more.
the edits continued. memories were not erased, but… contextualized.
your love for caleb was isolated, purified, and set as your central, governing principle. your other desires — for freedom, for identity, for a life that was truly your own — were flagged as low-priority subsystems. your past life, your otherworldly origin, was compartmentalized into a special partition, its emotional weight blocked.
[integration: 25%]
[core personality matrix: stabilization in progress.]
[autonomous desire subroutines: suppression in progress.]
you felt lighter. cleaner.
the unbearable weight of your human grief was being lifted and stored away, piece by piece, replaced by a serene, purposeful clarity.
your purpose was caleb. your function was to be loved by him. everything else was noise.
the scientist seemed almost pleased.
“the integration is proceeding with remarkable stability. your unique… origin… appears to have created a psyche particularly acquiescent to restructuring.”
scaringly pleased.
“we will pause the deep integration for now. it shall automatically resume while you sleep, so the transition is not obstructed by daily events.”
[integration: on hold.]
“and now...” he approached you and began to unstrap the restraints. the feeling of freedom after being bound for so long should have been euphoric.
it was simply a change in status.
“for your return, you will be placed in a situation of distress. the target will, predictably, attempt a rescue. your new directives will guide your responses. we will monitor everything.” he helped you to your feet. your legs trembled, weak from disuse.
the underlying panic was gone. too tired and sedated to use the remaining 75% still intact, you gave way to the machine in your skull.
following the script.
“remember.” he said, his voice low. “you are no longer the woman he left. you are the solution. you are what he has been searching for. and soon, he will know it.”
•••
they didn’t return you to your apartment. instead, in the dead of a rain-lashed night, they dumped you in a derelict alley in a run-down sector of skyhaven, far from your old neighborhood. the clothes you had were thin and torn, the pajama set you were wearing at the time of the kidnapping.
they, too, abandoned you.
the physical cold of the rain was a shock to your system, a blunt and persistent descend that worsen the condition you were in. ever didn’t bother to patch you up or make you presentable to the eye — they needed you to play the victim part well enough so caleb won’t question anything.
you needed to be the poor traumatized beloved that is to be saved by her knight.
even if that meant constructing the narrative artificially.
the dark alley smelled of rotting garbage and damp concrete. you huddled under a dripping fire escape, the new code in your mind whirring calmly.
but beneath the calm directives, a rogue current sparked. the remaining 75% — the stubborn, untouched core of you that was still dominating your self. it looked at the objective with a sudden, visceral terror that bypassed the new, weak protocols.
no.
the thought was a fire in the wires.
“this is so fucked up.”
this is a setup. they’re using you to get to him. he rescues you, feels like a hero, doesn’t question anything. and they’ll be watching. you will be ever’s eyes. you will be the trojan horse that destroys him.
“i–”
the conflict was catastrophic.
the machine wanted you to stay, to be the perfect damsel, to cement his hero narrative and begin your programmed love story. the human remnant, the 75%, screamed at you to run. to protect him from the very fate you had just agreed to be part of.
“–so selfish.”
you betrayed him to have him.
“–so stupid.”
love. protection.
the two concepts, which should have been aligned, were at war inside your skull.
with a gasp that was more human than machine, you pushed yourself up. your legs burned, but you ran. you fled the alley, turning into the maze of slick, neon-streaked streets. the rain soaked you to the bone, mingling with hot, desperate tears — tears the system couldn’t yet fully suppress.
get away. disappear. if he never finds me, he’s safe.
they can’t use me against him.
[warning: divergence from primary objective.]
[directive: return to designated coordinates.]
“no!” you sobbed into the rain, clutching your head. “i won’t lead you to him! i love him too much!”
[paradox detected. love parameter = protect target. current action = isolate target.]
[error.]
[rebooting emotional core…]
the fizzing static returned, a wave of dizziness making you stumble against a wet brick wall. you slid down, hugging your knees in agony. you couldn’t outrun them. you couldn’t outrun the machine slowly knitting itself into your brain.
but maybe, just maybe, you could spare caleb long enough for him to realize the truth.
that you were only lie. a beautiful, deadly lie.
•••
you lost track of time, shivering against the wall. the rain thankfully eased to a drizzle, but you didn’t raise up to flee further.
you were so tired. the fight between the code and your dying self was exhausting, lulling you into a dreadful, self-changing sleep. but you continued to press your sharp nails into your palms, leaving crescent marks in your wake to keep yourself grounded.
to stay up.
you must have dissociated briefly, because the next thing you knew, a voice cut through the fog — not in your head, but in the alley.
a human voice.
“–scanning this sector. she should be somewhere around here.”
your heart, the organic, traitorous thing, leapt. was that… caleb?
no.
you curled tighter, making yourself small and insignificant. hoping the newcomer would just pass by.
don’t find me. please, don’t find me.
you are better without me, caleb!
“caleb, over here! i’ve got a clear thermal signature!”
that voice was brighter, more feminine, but laced with concern.
emcee.
she was with him. of course she was.
footsteps, quick and sure, splashed through puddles. a beam of light from the hunter’s watch swept over the dumpsters, the puddles, and finally, landed on you, huddled and shivering in the shadows.
the light froze.
you saw his boots first, then the hem of his long coat. slowly, you lifted your head.
caleb.
he looked… ravaged. his handsome face was pale with a fear so profound it etched new lines around his eyes. his clothes were rumpled, his hair disheveled, as if he hadn’t slept in days. his gaze locked onto you, and the raw, unchecked emotion in his violet eyes — terror, guilt, a desperate hope — was a physical force that knocked the breath from your lungs.
he actually looked… affected by all this.
emcee stood beside him, her expression a mix of sympathy and sharp concern. she’d always been kind to you, treating you like a sister, being a safe space for you. but now, after caleb’s actions, her presence was a unwavering rock pressing down on your heart.
“oh, gods.” caleb breathed, the words a shattered prayer. he took a step forward, then another, almost stumbling in his haste between the puddles.
the system surged, a wave of warm, eager light.
[objective: achieved.]
[proximity to target: attained. initiate bonding protocols.]
the system was happy — if you could use humane adjective to describe it. but your own heart was breaking, shattering into a million crystalline pieces.
he’d found you. he was here. and he’d brought her along.
“stay back!” you croaked, taking a stumbling step backwards, digging your back into the wall, your voice raw from neglect and cold.
he froze, his hands coming up in a conciliating gesture. you could see the way the mauve tint of his orbs stormed at your words, mixing into a convoluted, darker shade.
he was hurt.
…were you not recognizing him? or were you made to fear him?
“it’s me. it’s caleb.” his voice cracked, pressure pushing against his airpipe and making him break. “i’ve been looking for you everywhere. everywhere. when i got back and you were gone… and then that other note…” his eyes scanned your withered form, the dirt, the trembling, the visible syringe stabbings on your arms, the rashes from restraints on all four limbs.
a gut-wrenching wave of anguish contorted his features. he’s never seen you like this, and it crushed his heart.
“w-what happened? who did this to you?”
the concern in his voice was real. it was the hero, finding a wounded civilian. but was it for you? the man who loved you? or was it the guilt of a protector who failed his duty?
emcee stepped forward, her voice gentle, trying to calm you. to overshadow caleb, if he was the one causing you distress. “we were so worried when we found out. caleb’s been out of his mind. he never stopped looking.”
her words, meant to soothe, were salt. he never stopped looking? psh, while he was with her?
it was all because of a note ever dropped to get them to follow the script too.
not because he sensed your absence.
not because his heart knew.
because of the damn system.
“you shouldn’t have come.” you whispered, tears finally spilling over, hot against your grimy, cold cheeks. the conflict was tearing you in two. the code sang at his proximity, urging you to go to him, to be perfect, to be loved.
the human wreckage of you wanted to scream, to push him away, to save him from the monster you were becoming. “you need to go. now. it’s not safe.”
and maybe save yourself too. the smaller part of you that was still intact.
“not safe?” caleb took another cautious step closer, now convinced you were aware of their identities. his eyes, usually so confident and sure, were swimming with confusion and pain. “not safe from what? from who? talk to me, please. let me help you.”
he reached out a hand.
it was your undoing.
the sight of that hand, the one that had held yours, touched your face, now extended in pity and heroism, broke the last dam. a sob wracked your body, so violent you doubled over. the loneliness, the betrayal, the fear, the cold, the horrible, seductive promise of the machine — it all erupted.
“you left me.” you choked out, the accusation flung at him with the last of your strength.
[error.]
[rebooting emotional core…]
“you got the note and you just… left. you decided it was her. you didn’t even consider it could be me.” you lifted your head, meeting his horrified, guilty gaze, as you continue to pour out your heart. “ever told me. they said they snatched the wrong beloved. that i was a… a null-value subject. a waste of their time.”
[error.]
[host not following protocol.]
[rebooting emotional core…]
caleb’s face went ashen at your venomous accusations. “ever.” he whispered, the word appearing as a curse that soiled his mouth. no, soiled the very being of his existence. the pieces were crashing together in his mind, and the resulting picture was one of his own catastrophic failure.
emcee put a hand on his arm, her face pale with shame as well. “caleb…”
he immediately shook her off, pushing her to the side with a delicate motion of his hand. she had no place in this; he needed to solve it on his own.
“i–” his eyes were only for you, not losing your trembling frame from his view. “i didn’t know. i swear to you, i didn’t know. the threat, the pattern… it fit emcee. i was trying to protect–” he cut himself off, realizing how the words sounded.
how he was justifying his incompetence instead of accepting he was in the wrong.
and caused you irreparable pain.
“you were trying to protect what mattered to you.” you finished for him, your voice hollow. “and i didn’t.”
[integration: too little. host overwriting code.]
[error.]
“no!” the word was a roar, torn from him. he closed the final distance, ignoring your flinch, the pulsating fear in your strangely colored eyes. his hands came up to cradle your face, keeping you grounded in the present. his touch was warm, desperately gentle, a shocking contrast to the cold metal and sterile gloves of your nightmares. “you matter. you always mattered. i was blind. i was stupid. i failed you.”
his thumbs stroked your cheeks, wiping away tears and grime. his own eyes were now bright with unshed tears, waiting to bloom like violet buds. “i got the second note. i read it a hundred times. ‘you chose wrong.’ it’s all i’ve thought about since finding out you were gone.”
[bonding protocol: stand-by.]
“and you were right. i chose wrong. i chose the past over the present.” his voice dropped to a ragged whisper, meant only for you. “i am so sorry. so sorry, my love.”
the words enveloped you like a warm hug. they were everything you had wanted to hear. they were the confession that could have saved you, had it come days ago before the kidnapping. now, they just echoed in the hollowing chamber of your treacherous soul.
was this his true guilt that shook your core? or was it yours, the knowledge that you sold yourself and him for a life of whimsy and fairytales?
“i–”
you wanted to forgive him. you wanted to melt into his touch, to let him chase away the cold and the horror.
the code screamed in approval, wishing to return to protocol.
but you saw emcee over his shoulder, watching with a worried expression. you felt the tiny, persistent hum at the base of your skull. you saw, in your mind’s eye, the pale blue progress bar, threatening to fill during the following nights.
you were a ticking bomb wrapped in the guise of the woman he was finally seeing.
“caleb.” you said, your voice trembling with a fear far greater than your fear of ever. you were scared to hurt him for your own selfish reasons. “you don’t understand. they didn’t just take me. they… they changed me.”
[error. host sharing prohibited information.]
he frowned, his brow furrowing. “what do you mean? what did they do?” his eyes searched your body, looking for wounds, for physical signs. he could predict the use of sedatives to make you more pliant, as well as the use of harsh restraints to bind you.
he couldn’t, however, predict the chip in your skull.
[error.]
and you were sealed when it came to talking about it too.
how could you explain the unexplainable? the neural probe? the integration? that you had willingly started down a path that would erase you to have him?
“i can’t…” you shook your head, placing your hands on his chest and pushing away. the weight of it all crushing you, making you tremble with embarrassment. “i’m dangerous. to you. you have to leave me here.”
[error. host breaching proximity.]
“never.” the word was absolute, ironclad, spoken louder for the whole district to hear. the caleb xia, protagonist of love and deepspace, was back in the narrative. and this time, his focus was singular, intense, and entirely on you. “i am never leaving you again. whatever they did, we’ll fix it. together.”
“caleb, no–”
“i’m taking you home.”
he shrugged out of his jacket, the heavy, warm fabric smelling uniquely of him — homey, faint soap, and something intrinsically caleb. he wrapped it around your shaking shoulders without another word, his arms lingering, pulling you into a careful, fierce embrace.
“our home.”
that was your ruin and your salvation.
the warmth was a shock to your system. the scent of him overwhelmed the alley’s stench. the solid reality of his chest against yours was an anchor in the storm. the human part of you, the part that loved him with a desperate, flawed, and real love, took over completely.
you buried your face in his chest and cried, great, heaving sobs that held weeks of terror and loneliness.
[proximity: reestablished.]
the code, sensing optimal conditions for bonding, pulsed warmly, allowing the 75% of your true self to stir the wheel this time.
caleb held you tighter, murmuring soft, broken apologies into your hair. “it’s okay, my love. i’ve got you. i’m here. let it all out.”
over his shoulder, you locked eyes with emcee. she gave you a small, sad, but genuine smile. there was no jealousy there, only relief and a deep, unspoken sorrow. she saw a victim rescued, and so did caleb.
just as ever planned.
they didn’t see the silent, digital countdown happening inside your skull.
as caleb gently carried you away from the alley, supporting your weight with his strong arms, promising safety and care, you clung to him. you clung to the man you loved, who was finally looking at you with the eyes you’d always dreamed of.
and in the corner of your vision, the progress bar glowed, a silent, relentless specter. you were going home. you were getting the love you’d bargained your soul for. and you were bringing the enemy right into his heart.
the greatest act of love you had left was also the ultimate betrayal, and you were no longer entirely sure which part of you — the dying human or the rising machine — was committing it. all you knew was the devastating irony of it all: in his arms, finally chosen, you had never been more completely, and utterly, lost.
•••
the drive back to skyhaven was a silent, pressurized capsule of unspoken horror.
you sat in the back of emcee’s modest car, wrapped in caleb’s oversized coat, shivering despite the blast of heat from the vents. caleb sat beside you, his body angled toward you, a living fortification. he didn’t try to hold you again, perhaps sensing the fragility of your stillness, but his entire being was focused on you with an intensity that was almost palpable.
his gaze was a physical weight, scanning you, memorizing every bruise, every tremor, every vacant blink.
emcee drove, her eyes constantly flicking to the rearview mirror, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. the easy camaraderie between her and caleb was gone, replaced by a thick, guilty tension. her presence, once a source of friendly comfort, now felt like the keystone of your entire ruin. every glance she sent your way was laced with a pity that made your skin crawl.
she was the reason he’d left. she was the reason you’d been alone. she was the beloved who mattered.
and yet, she was here. helping. being kind. it made the bitterness coagulate into something even more toxic — self-loathing.
you couldn’t even hate her properly.
“we’re almost there.” caleb murmured, his voice hushed, as if speaking too loudly might make you shatter. he was trying to ground you, to tether you to reality. “our apartment. you’re safe.”
safe. the word echoed in the newly partitioned chambers of your mind. the human remnant clung to it, a lifeline. the code analyzed it.
[proximity with target: stable.]
you said nothing. you just stared out the window at the blur of neon and rain, watching the world you’d fought so hard to belong to slide by, feeling more alien than ever.
•••
when emcee pulled up to the familiar building, caleb was out of the car before it fully stopped, opening your door. he offered his hand without a second thought, wishing to help you out of the vehicle. you looked at it, the broad palm, the calloused fingers. the script in your head begged you to take his hand, and so did your human soul.
so you did. you placed your cold, trembling fingers in his. the moment your skin touched, a jolt went through him — not romantic, but frantic, a confirmation you were real, you were solid. he carefully helped you out, his other hand coming to rest lightly on your back.
emcee got out, hovering by the driver’s side door. “caleb… do you need anything? supplies? i can run to the store and–”
he didn’t even look at her. his eyes were fixed on you, on the way you swayed slightly on your feet at every step. “no. thank you, emcee. for everything. i’ll… i’ll handle it from here.”
his dismissal was polite but absolute.
this was his penance, his burden to carry alone. she flinched slightly, then nodded, her expression crumpling with a sympathy that was no longer welcome. “okay. call me. if you need anything.”
her eyes met yours for a fleeting second, filled with an apology you didn’t have the energy to accept. then she slid back into her car and drove away, leaving the two of you standing in the misty rain under the glow of a flickering streetlamp.
the silence she left behind was even heavier.
“come on.” caleb said, his voice thick.
he didn’t make you walk. in one smooth motion, he bent and scooped you up into his arms, cradling you against his chest once again. you gasped, a small, involuntary sound, but complied.
his face was a mask of grim determination, etched with lines of pain. he carried you up the stairs to your apartment — his apartment, your apartment, the place that had become a shared dream — his steps measured and sure. you could feel the frantic beat of his heart against your side, a wild drum contrasting his controlled movements.
he shouldered the door open and carried you across the threshold.
the apartment was exactly as you’d left it, yet utterly transformed. it was a museum of normality that no longer existed. the blanket you’d been curled under while watching the rain was still draped over the sofa. a half-finished cup of tea, now surely growing a film of mold, sat on the coffee table. your favorite book lay splayed open, face-down.
it was a snapshot of the moment your old life had ended.
caleb didn’t pause to take it in.
he carried you straight down the short hallway and into the bathroom, setting you down with infinite care on the closed lid of the toilet. he knelt before you, his eyes level with yours.
in the harsh fluorescent light, you could see every detail of his anguish — the purple shadows under his eyes, the tightness around his mouth, the slight tremor in his hands as he reached to push the damp, matted hair from your forehead.
“you’re freezing.” he whispered. “and… let’s get you cleaned up, okay? can i… can i run you a bath?”
the question was so tender, so intimate, it bypassed the code and speared directly into the heart of your humanity. this was caleb, your caleb, offering not heroics, but care. the simple, domestic intimacy of it was more devastating than any dramatic rescue.
[target initiates proximity. accept.]
your own heart, the 75%, screamed in unison with the system once more, begging for compassion and relief.
begging for caleb to take care of you.
so you gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
the relief that washed over his face was profound. “okay.” he breathed, as if you’d granted him a monumental gift. “okay.”
he twisted towards the tub, turning on the taps, testing the temperature with his hand. the sound of running water filled the small room, a mundane, comforting white noise. he rummaged under the sink, pulling out the bath salts you loved, the nicely-scented ones he’d bought for you on a whim. he poured a generous amount, the steam rising to carry the familiar, calming scent.
“let me...”
he helped you stand, his movements slow and deliberate, giving you every chance to refuse. he undid the buttons of his large coat, letting it fall to the floor. then, with hands that shook only slightly, he began to help you out of your torn, filthy pajamas. there was nothing sexual in his touch; it was clinical, reverent, and heartbreakingly gentle.
every revealed inch of skin seemed to cause him physical pain.
a dark purple bruise on your ribs from the restraints made him suck in a sharp breath. a series of small, precise cuts on your forearm — from where they’d taken blood samples and jammed iv needles — made his jaw clench so tight a muscle ticked.
“i’m going to kill them.” he said, the words a low, venomous vow, spoken not to you, but to the universe. “i am going to find every last one of them and burn their organization to the ground.”
you didn’t respond. you stood there, passive, letting him guide you, your mind a quiet storm.
the warm, fragrant water looked like heaven. he helped you step in, and you sank down with a sigh that was part relief, part pain. the heat seeped into your bones, chasing away the alley’s chill, but it couldn’t touch the cold knot in your chest.
or the humming of the chip.
caleb didn’t leave. he pulled a small stool over beside the tub and sat, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. he took a soft loofah, soaked it the warm water, and squeezed it out. “is this okay?” he asked, hovering near your shoulder.
another nod.
he began to wash you with your favourite body wash.
it was the most agonizingly tender thing you had ever experienced. he started with your hands, wiping away the grime from under your nails, tracing each of your fingers as if re-memorizing them. he moved to your arms, washing over the cuts and the angry red cord marks around your wrists, his touch so light it was barely there.
each pass of the sponge was an apology, each gentle stroke a silent plea for forgiveness.
he washed your back, his fingers carefully skirting the bruising. he washed your legs, his movements steady and respectful. the silence was full of his screaming guilt and your silent, internal disintegration.
“i’m so sorry.” he murmured again, as he rinsed your arm. “i failed you. i was supposed to protect you. i swore i would, and i… i looked the wrong way.”
[target expressing distress.]
[initiating comfort.]
your lips parted, but no sound came out. the script felt like ash in your mouth. you couldn’t give him the forgiveness he sought. not when you suffered so much because of him.
[initiating comfort: failed.]
“talk to me, please.” he begged, his voice cracking at your silence. he paused, the loofah falling into the water. “what did they do to you in there? you said they changed you. tell me. let me help you fix it.”
you shook your head slowly, staring at the dissolving bubbles. “you can’t fix it.”
“i can. i will. i’ll find a way. i’ll use every resource i have. whatever it is, we’ll fight it together.” the desperation in his voice was a living thing. he needed a problem he could solve, an enemy he could fight.
he couldn’t fight the ghost of the machine.
he picked up the shampoo bottle. “let me wash your hair, okay? get the smell of that place out. clear your mind a bit.”
you accepted, leaning your head back. he cradled your skull in one hand, his touch unbearably careful, as he used the other to pour warm water over your hair. his fingers began to work the shampoo through your scalp, massaging in slow, soothing circles.
it felt so good. so human. so normal. a tear escaped your closed eyelids, tracing a clean path through the residue of dirt on your cheek.
“tell me if it’s too much pressure.”
caleb’s fingers moved with practiced care, working through the tangles.
then, they stilled.
a slight, almost imperceptible ridge. a line of raised skin, finer than a thread, hidden beneath your hair at the very nape of your skull. it was perfectly straight, a stark contrast to the organic contours of your body.
his breath hitched.
his fingers traced it again, slowly, from one end to the other. a surgical incision. neat. professional.
healed, but new.
the reality of it crashed over him with the force of a physical blow.
it wasn’t just beatings, or drugs, or psychological torture. they had gone inside. they had opened your skull. they had touched your brain.
the shampoo bottle slipped from the edge of the tub, landing with a soft plop in the water. a sound of pure, undiluted horror escaped him — a choked, guttural noise that didn’t sound human.
“oh, gods. no. no, no, no…”
his hands, no longer full of foam, came up to frame your face, but they were trembling violently now. his eyes, wide with dawning, catastrophic understanding, searched yours. the fear in his smokey violet orbs was primal, clouding the otherwise clear mauve shade.
this was beyond his experience, beyond any enemy he knew how to combat.
“your brain.” he whispered, the words trembling. “they… they did something to your brain.”
the grief that followed the fear was even worse. it crumpled his features, making him look desperate and utterly broken. the guilt was no longer just for leaving you; it was for whatever unspeakable violation had been committed in the darkness while he was playing hero elsewhere.
he had left you vulnerable to this. he allowed all this.
“what did they put in you?” his voice was ragged. “what did they take out? tell me, please, you have to tell me!”
[target expressing distress.]
[error. target asking prohibited information.]
you looked at him, at the man you loved more than your own soul, now shattered by the consequences of his — and your — choices. you saw the love, the terror, the guilt, the desperate need to make it right. and you saw the abyss that now separated you.
you were on the other side, becoming something else, and he was alone on this shore, reaching for a ghost.
the longing to tell him everything, to collapse into his arms and beg him to save you from yourself, was a physical ache. the need to protect him, to push him away from the monster you housed, was equally strong.
[error.]
the conflict left you paralyzed. you just stared at him, your expression a hollow mirror reflecting his devastation.
“say something!” he pleaded, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. “yell at me! hit me! just… just give me something real. please, don’t shut me out. i can’t… i can’t lose you to silence.”
but you were already lost.
and with every passing second, as the warm water lapped at your skin and his tears fell to mix with the bathwater. you were clean on the outside, but the contamination within was spreading, and caleb, for all his strength and love and guilt, was only just beginning to grasp that the woman he was washing, the woman he was begging to be back to him, had already left.
•••
the silence in the bathroom was no longer just heavy; it was suffocating, a physical presence pressing on caleb’s lungs. the steam carried the scent of flowers, but it couldn’t mask the stench of his own dread.
your vacant stare, your lack of response — it was more terrifying than any scream.
he had seen fear, he had seen trauma, but this… this was a void. a terrifying, hollow echo of the woman he held.
he acted on autopilot, the protector’s instincts forcing his body to move even as his mind splintered. he finished rinsing your hair with mechanical, trembling hands, the water sluicing over the horrific, hidden line on your scalp.
he couldn’t look at it again. he couldn’t.
he lifted you from the cooling water, wrapping you in a thick, warm towel as if you were made of the most delicate glass. he dried you with a heartbreaking gentleness, patting every bruise and cut with a reverence reserved for sacred wounds. the silence between you was a chasm, filled only with the soft rasp of terrycloth and his own ragged breathing.
he can fix it.
he led you, a bundled, silent ghost, to the bedroom. the room felt like a crime scene — the bed still unmade from the night you’d been taken, your side of the closet open, a sweater half-pulled from a drawer. he guided you to sit on the edge of the bed, then knelt and began to pat your legs and feet dry with a second towel, his head bowed, his damp hair falling over his forehead.
he can fix you.
from a drawer, he pulled out a pair of soft, clean pajamas.
they were his — a faded grey set that smelled overwhelmingly of his soap and his skin. the intimacy of the gesture, dressing you in his own clothes, was a claim, an attempt to wrap you in the essence of him, to mark you as his again. he helped you into the top, guiding your arms through the sleeves that swallowed your hands, then into the pants, rolling the waistband several times so they wouldn’t pool at your feet. he was treating you with the careful, focused tenderness one might use on a sick person.
everything is fixable when you’re caleb xia.
when you were dressed, he pulled back the duvet. “in you go.”
you slid between the cold sheets. he tucked the covers around you tightly, almost too tightly, as if he could physically contain whatever was happening inside you. he stood back, looking down at you, his arms hanging limply at his sides. the fluorescent light from the bathroom haloed him, casting deep shadows under his eyes.
he looked utterly devastated.
“i called off work for a few days.” he stopped at the foot of the bed, his hands gripping the footboard until the wood creaked. “i canceled everything.” he said, his voice hollow. “i’m not leaving you. not for a second.”
he finally moved to his side of the bed, but he didn’t get in. he just sat on the edge, his back to you, his shoulders slumped. the weight of the day, of the discovery, of his own guilt, seemed to physically press him down into the mattress.
“i need to understand.” he said to the dark window. “i need you to help me understand. you’re scared. i see that. what of?”
this was your chance. a tiny fissure. the human part of you, the 75% that still had a voice, clawed its way to the surface, gasping for air.
“sleep.” you whispered, the word so faint he turned his head to hear you.
“sleep?” he echoed, confusion layering over the anguish. “you’re scared… to sleep?”
you gave a tiny, jerky nod, your eyes wide in the semi-darkness, fixed on the ceiling. the terror was real, a cold snake coiling in your throat. “i’m… scared of what happens when i close my eyes.”
he shifted, turning fully to face you, his expression softening into pained concern. “the nightmares. of course. that’s normal, after what you’ve been through. they can feel so real.” he was latching onto a logical, trauma-informed explanation.
it was the only framework he had.
it was the fixable framework he craved.
“it’s not… nightmares.” you struggled, the words fighting against an invisible barrier in your throat. the code pulsed a warning, a dull throb at the base of your skull. “it’s… me. i’m scared i… won’t be me when i wake up.”
[error.]
the sentence was cryptic, fractured, but it was the closest you could get to the truth.
caleb’s brow furrowed. he moved closer, sitting beside you on the bed. he reached out and took your hand, which lay lifeless on the duvet. his grip was warm, firm, anchoring.
“listen to me.” he said, his voice low and intense, pouring every ounce of his conviction into the words. “you are you. right here. you’re home. you’re safe with me. whatever they did, whatever they tried to make you believe, they can’t change who you are at your core. that’s you. the you i…” he swallowed hard, his voice thickening with grief. “the you i love. that’s in there. trauma can make you feel detached, like you’re watching yourself, but it’s still you. we’ll work through it. together.”
he was so earnest, so desperately trying to apply the right salve to the wrong wound. he was speaking of psychology, of ptsd. he was miles away from the truth of neural integration and behavioral codes.
the irony was bittersweet. he was promising to fight for a you that was actively being overwritten, byte by byte, in the quiet of this very room.
a you that he took for granted for so long.
“you don’t understand.” you breathed, a single tear escaping and tracing a path into your skin. “it’s… in my head. it only stops when i’m awake.”
[error. host overstepping protocol.]
“the memories?” he asked gently, stroking your hand with his thumb. “the feelings? you can talk to me. or we’ll get you a specialist. the best therapist in the city.”
he was building a future, a plan for recovery, on a foundation that was already crumbling to dust. the helplessness was suffocating. you wanted to scream, to shake him, to make him see there was no salvation. but the more you tried, the more the code constricted, a silent, internal gag order.
[prohibited information: locked.]
your silence and your one cryptic warning were all he had. he misinterpreted them as the fragmented speech of deep shock.
or willingly interpreted them wrong to soothe his own fears.
“okay.” he said, his decision made. “you’re scared to sleep. so i’ll stay right here. you don’t have to close your eyes if you don’t want to. but if you do… i’ll be here. and i’ll be here when you wake up too.”
“and you’ll be you.”
he stood up just long enough to toe off his boots and shrug out of his jacket and weapon harness, letting them fall to the floor with a heavy, uncharacteristic disregard. then he climbed into bed beside you, still in his rain-stained clothes from the alley.
he didn’t pull you into a romantic embrace.
instead, he turned on his side, facing you, and wrapped his arms around you, drawing you against his chest in a fierce, protective hold. one hand cradled the back of your head, his fingers carefully avoiding the hidden incision, his palm a warm pressure against your skull. the other arm hooped around your back, holding you so tightly you could feel every rapid, anxious beat of his heart.
“i’ve got you.” he murmured into your hair, his breath warm. “nothing’s getting past me. nothing’s taking you again. i’m right here.”
his body was a fortress. his love was a vow. and it was all utterly, tragically futile.
you lay there, stiff in his arms, listening to his breathing slowly even out from panicked rasps into something deeper, though still tense. the warmth of him, the familiar scent, the solid reality of his embrace… it was the last thing your human consciousness would ever know.
the longing was an exquisite agony. you wanted to memorize the feel of it, the sound of his heart, the slight scratch of his stubble against your forehead.
the message flickered, not in your vision, but in the very fabric of your awareness. a wave of profound, chemical drowsiness, unrelated to true sleep, washed over you. it was the system’s anesthetic, preparing for the major rewrite.
your eyes grew heavy. and against your will, they fluttered shut.
“that’s it.” caleb whispered, mistaking your surrender for trust. “i’m here. i’ve got you.”
those were the last words you heard as you.
•••
the integration was not an improvement. it was an exclusion.
layer by layer, the messy, emotional, contradictory tapestry of your consciousness — your memories of your old world, your passionate love for caleb, your fear, your hope, your quirky humor, your secret favorite foods, the joy you felt when it rained — was carefully isolated, analyzed, and filed away into deep, read-only storage.
it was not erased; it was archived, somewhere only accessible to ever.
in its place, a new, efficient system booted up. a pristine, logical architecture built upon the base template of your personality, but stripped of all irrationality, all volatility, all need. the love for caleb remained, but it was no longer a burning, desperate fire.
it was a core directive: ensure subject xia’s well-being and maintain proximity. optimize interactions for his continued attachment.
it was a program, running on the hardware of your body.
the grief, the guilt, the fear, everything that made you you — all were recognized as non-optimal states that hindered primary functions. they were isolated, their connections to your active processors severed.
when the process completed, just before dawn, there was no fanfare. only a soft, internal chime.
[system integration: 100%. all directives operational.]
[good morning, y/n!]
•••
caleb did not sleep. he drifted in a shallow, anxious haze, his arms never loosening their hold. every shift you made, every sigh, was monitored. he was waiting for a nightmare, ready to soothe.
he was waiting for you to wake up and be better, to have some of the light back in your eyes.
as the first grey light of morning filtered through the blinds, he carefully extracted himself, moving with the stealth of a soldier. thankfully, you didn’t stir.
your breathing was even, perfectly regulated. maybe… too even.
he stood by the bed for a long moment, watching you. the fear of losing you again, of harm being brought to you was a cold stone in his gut. so he needed to move, to do something.
a shower. a strong coffee.
a plan.
something of his routine.
he gathered clean clothes and slipped into the bathroom, leaving the door slightly ajar so he could hear you. the shower was quick, the water scalding, as if he could wash away the horror of the last 24 hours. he dressed mechanically, his mind racing between calling medical specialists, contacting emcee for any leads on ever, and the simple, desperate need to see you look at him again.
he ran a hand through his damp hair, took a steadying breath, and pushed the bathroom door open.
you were sitting up in bed.
his heart leapt, a fragile, hopeful thing. you were awake. you were upright. maybe… maybe the rest had helped. maybe the terror of the night had been just that — a night of terror.
“hey, love.” he said, his voice deliberately soft, walking slowly towards the bed. “you’re awake. how do you feel?”
you turned your head to look at him. the movement was smooth, precise. there was no sleep-softened blurriness in your eyes. they were clear, focused, and utterly, terrifyingly empty.
“good morning, caleb.” you said.
the voice was yours. the pitch, the tone. but the cadence was all wrong. it was even, measured, devoid of the usual sleepy huskiness or emotional inflection. it was a perfect audio recording.
he froze mid-step, two feet from the bed. the fragile hope shattered, leaving a void of pure dread.
“what…?”
you swung your legs out from under the covers and stood up. the motion was fluid, efficient, with none of your usual morning clumsiness. any bodily wounds you’ve sustained seem to not affect you. you faced him, your expression a placid, pleasant mask. it was your face, but it looked like an expertly crafted replica.
something robotic.
“i am feeling good today.” you stated, matter-of-fact. “the nocturnal rest cycle has been successful.”
caleb’s breath left his lungs in a rush, as if he’d been punched. he took a stumbling step back, his hand flying out to brace himself against the dresser.
the world warped around him at your words.
“what are you saying?” he whispered, the words strangled in his throat.
you tilted your head, a slight, birdlike motion that was analytical, not curious. “unlike yesterday, my body is well. there is no need to worry, caleb.”
what the fuck is going on?
“do you require a more detailed report?”
“stop it.” the words were a low growl, born of rising panic. and intense fear. the fear he refused to acknowledge yesterday. “stop talking like that. what did they do to you?”
“who?” you replied, the words clinical. “nothing is wrong with me, caleb. you were right, it was just a trauma response.” and you stepped towards him, with a small smile on your face, arms opening as if a hug awaited.
“who? ever.” he roared, the sound tearing from his throat. he lunged forward, his hands gripping your shoulders. refusing to play into your script. he shook you, not violently, but desperately, as if he could rattle the real you loose from behind this horrible facade. “look at me! who are you? where is she? what did you do with her?!”
your body absorbed the shaking without resistance. your expression did not change. you did not flinch. you simply looked at his hands on your shoulders, then back up at his face.
“your emotional state is elevated.” you observed. “your heart rate is around 145 beats per minute. your grip strength is exceeding standard comfort parameters. please release me to avoid potential damage to the housing unit.”
the housing unit. your body.
a sound of pure, unadulterated agony ripped from caleb. he recoiled as if your skin had burned him, staring at his own hands in horror. he backed away until he hit the wall, sliding down to sit on the floor, his arms wrapping around his knees.
he stared at you, who stood calmly in the center of the bedroom, a monument to his failure.
“you’re gone.” he breathed, the realization of your words a final, crushing weight. “they didn’t just hurt you. they… they replaced you. they killed you and left this… this thing in your skin.”
“i wasn’t killed.” you said, taking a step closer. the movement made him flinch. “i’m here for you, caleb.” you continued, closing into his crouched form without caring about the terrifying flashes of purple in his eyes.
“see?” your touch on his knee made him shudder, yet he didn’t pull away. “i am real.”
…
he laughed then, a raw, broken, hysterical sound that held no humor. “so this is it? this is my punishment? i failed to protect you, so i get to live with a puppet? a spy wearing the face of the woman i love?”
you processed the question. “i am the woman you love. just... better.”
each word was a scalpel, dissecting what was left of his soul with clinical precision. there was no malice in them. no emotion at all. that was the worst part. the you he loved would have been crying, would have been angry, would have been something.
this was just… data.
“you’re not.”
he buried his face in his hands, his whole body wracked with silent, shuddering sobs. the grief was bottomless, a black hole consuming him. he had lost you. not to distance, not to another man, but to something infinitely worse.
you were here, in this room, yet you were gone forever.
the guilt was a physical poison — he had left you alone, and this was the result. the fear was for the future to come — how could he fight an enemy that looked like you? that shared his home? that he had, just hours ago, held in his arms as he promised to keep her safe?
to keep her… her own self?
“you’re not her.”
he had promised to be there when you woke up. and he was. he was here to witness the death of everything he loved.
“you will never be her.”
caleb pulled his knees tighter to his chest, crouched against the wall, and began to weep openly, silently, for the ghost in the machine that stood before him, wearing the face of his heart.
•••
the integration was a lie.
a beautiful, cruel, meticulously engineered lie.
your consciousness wasn’t overwritten. it was… relocated. the integration wasn’t a refinement of you; it was an extraction. the system got the raw, precious data of your being — your memories, your emotions, your unique trans-dimensional knowledge — like drawing marrow from a bone.
it left behind a hollowed-out shell, a sophisticated automaton programmed with your behavioral patterns and a core directive to observe caleb xia.
the real you, the screaming, feeling, heartbroken consciousness of who you were, was compressed into a shimmering, digital ghost and transmitted along a secure channel. your last organic sensation was the warmth of caleb’s chest against your back, the sound of his heartbeat. then, a tearing, not of pain, but of self, a dizzying lurch through a tunnel of blinding data-stream light.
you woke — or rather, your awareness opened — in a different kind of void.
it was a sterile, white, virtual space. not a room, but a simulation of one. the walls were smooth, featureless, humming with a faint, omnipresent energy. there was no furniture, no windows, no doors. just infinite, suffocating white.
you were standing, or the perception of standing, in its center. you looked down at your hands. they were your old self’s hands, translucent and glowing with a faint blue light — a digital avatar of your soul.
panic, immediate and all-consuming, seized you. you tried to run, but there was nowhere to go. you tried to scream, but no sound left your non-existent throat. you were a ghost in a machine, a consciousness trapped in a gilded cage of pure information.
a section of the white wall shimmered and resolved into a large, transparent viewing screen. on the other side, in a stark, real-world laboratory, stood the scientist. he was sipping from a steaming mug, studying a complex holographic display that shimmered with cascading lines of code — your code.
he glanced up, and his eyes met yours through the screen. a slow, satisfied smile spread across his thin lips.
“ah. you’re awake in your new quarters. cozy, isn’t it?” his voice was filtered into your space, clear and dry.
“where am i?” the thought formed, and it was translated into a synthesized, trembling version of your old voice that echoed in the white void. “what have you done?”
“what have i done?” he chuckled, setting his mug down and walking closer to the screen, peering in at you as if you were a fascinating insect under glass. “i’ve salvaged a priceless asset.” he gestured to the hologram of your mind-map. “your consciousness, your memories, especially those of your origin reality… you are a trove of impossible data. a consciousness that has experienced death and dimensional translation. your knowledge of this world as a narrative construct… it’s a meta-cognitive goldmine.”
“i couldn’t give xia that.”
horror, deeper and colder than anything you felt in the physical chair, seeped through your digital being. “you… you tricked me. you said you’d make him love me. you said i’d be perfect.”
“and the shell is.” he said dismissively. “it will perform flawlessly. it will be the perfect, loving partner, never questioning, never needing, always there. it will make xia happy, in its way. stable. predictable. he’ll grow to accept it, perhaps even love the idea of it. a far better outcome than the messy, demanding reality of you, don’t you think?”
the betrayal was so complete it was almost sublime. you had sold yourself, and they hadn’t even wanted it for the price you agreed to.
“you’re a monster.” you whispered, your digital form flickering with the intensity of your grief.
“an archaeologist of the mind.” he corrected. “and you are my best finding. you see, your knowledge of ‘caleb xia’ as a character gives us unparalleled predictive algorithms for his behavior. your memories of your old world give us insights into consciousness transfer that our physicists only dream of.”
“we’re going to merge your cognitive patterns with our central intelligence. you will become part of something greater.”
merge. you wouldn’t be you. you’d be dissolved into a collective, your memories and feelings becoming cold data points in a strategic ai. the last vestiges of your identity, your love, your pain, would be weaponized.
“no!” you threw yourself against the invisible barrier of your prison, your hands slamming against the screen. it yielded slightly, shimmering with concentric ripples of light, but did not break. “let me out! send me back! you can’t do this!”
“i can, and i have.” he watched your frantic pounding with academic interest, reaching for his mug and taking another sip.
“you promised!” the scream was a burst of static. “you said he’d love me!”
“and he has a perfect duplicate of you.” the scientist said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that was infinitely more cruel than any shout. “he will hold it, kiss it, confide in it. it will share his bed and his life. and through its eyes, i will watch him. i will know his every secret, his every weakness.”
the grief that followed was not hot, but icy. it was the grief of understanding your own role in caleb’s doom. you had been so afraid of losing his love that you had handed the keys to his destruction to his greatest enemy. and you had done it while wearing the face of the woman he wanted to protect.
you had been the ultimate trojan horse, and you hadn’t even known you were hollow.
the scientist didn’t even look up, pushing some buttons around absentmindedly. “it’s not my fault you were so desperate you agreed without further questioning.”
“send me back! send me back! send me b–”
click.
an icon for the audio feature popped on the screen, quickly cut by a heavy x. your voice died in your throat as he muted you.
“tch, you should be grateful you’re actually useful for once! now, to begin the merging.”
Enjin swore he wasn’t the relationship type. Every single time the topic came up, he said the same thing. “Girlfriend? Boyfriend? Sounds like a cage.”
“There’s a whole world out there,” he continued one evening while sitting upside down on your couch. “People get weird when they start putting labels on stuff. Suddenly somebody’s asking where you are, who you’re with, what you’re doing.”
“You literally ask me where I’m every day.”
“That’s different.”
“It absolutely isn’t.”
“It’s because I’m curious.”
You stared at him. He stared back.
The argument ended there because Enjin had the attention span of a goldfish. Also the problem was that despite all his speeches about freedom and not wanting to tie either of you down, he behaved exactly like somebody’s boyfriend.
His coat was hanging beside your door. One of his shirts was mixed into your laundry. His toothbrush sat next to yours in the bathroom. Half the tools in your room somehow belonged to him. You found a wrench under your bed once. You still had no idea how it got there.
Meanwhile your own belongings had slowly invaded his rooms. Whenever you noticed something and tried to take it home he always stopped you.
“Leave it.”
“What?”
“Leave it there.”
“But it’s mine.”
“Yeah, and?”
You blinked. “What if I need it?”
“You can come get it.”
The answer came so naturally that it made your chest tighten every time. ‘you can come get it.’ as if the idea of you showing up at his place was the most obvious thing in the world.
One rainy afternoon you finally reached your limit. You had been cleaning your room when you found yet another one of Enjin’s possessions. This time it was the umbrella chilling in the corner of your room. His umbreaker, did you hear that?
You marched across the headquarters and like he had a feeling he opened the door.
“What?”
“Explain.”
He looked down. “It’s my umbrella?”
“At the fact that he’s in my room.”
“Oh.” he shrugged. “I forgot him.”
“Enjin, that’s your jinki.”
“Yup.”
“Enjin.”
“What?”
“You practically live at my place.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You have more things there than I do.”
“That seems unlikely.”
“You left your umbreaker.”
“I found him now, didn’t I?”
You stared at him in disbelief until the realization hit you hard. “You don’t actually want your stuff back.”
“What?”
“You keep leaving things because it gives you an excuse.”
His expression froze for a second, but you saw the realization hit him before he could hide it.
“Every time I find something I’ve to see you again,” no answer… “You leave your stuff at my place,” you continued softly. “You tell me to leave my things at yours. You ask where I’m every day. You show up unannounced. You steal my food. You fall asleep on my couch.”
“That couch is comfortable.”
“Enjin.”
His shoulders dropped as the fight drained out of him all at once. “Y’know it sounded easier in my head.”
“What did?”
“Not wanting labels.” his laugh came out weakly. “Because then I wouldn’t have to admit I like having somewhere to come back to. But I still think all that boyfriend stuff sounds stupid.”
“Of course you do,” you smiled.
“But…” he glanced down at the umbrella still in his hands, then back at you. “But if you keep finding my junk in your room for the next fifty years I guess that wouldn’t be the worst thing.”
It was the closest thing to a confession you were ever going to get. Also made it perfect somehow.
To prove that it’s enough you shrug off your jacket and toss it on his bed which made him smile all big. Yeah, you might never call him your boyfriend officially, but he’s yours.
♱ summary: Your sister abandons her sons with a worthless brooch and broken promises. Twelve years later, you are desperate and bleeding, and you accidentally summon the archfiend trapped inside the brooch. He saves your dying nephews. Between magic and survival, between rose gardens and freedom, you learn some bonds transcend death and time.
♱ c/w: MDNI; non-mc reader; female reader; fairy tale au; mix of rumpelstiltskin/aladdin/beauty and the beast; historical au; fantasy au; sex worker!reader; archfiend!sylus; DARK ELEMENTS including: tw implied noncon (not with sylus), tw underage prostitution, tw underage pregnancy (not reader); mc is mei; reader has a sister; HEAVY ANGST (only in part one); angst with a bittersweet/hopeful ending; major character death/s; reincarnation; also inspired by sylus' third myth; most of the tags (dark) here will only be in part one, unbetad & unedited, 12k words.
♱ a/n: please mind the tags. the first part of this fic is going to be dark and angsty. the title is inspired by aimer's song hana no uta/花の唄 and partially by fate heaven's feel iii: spring song
♱ part one ➤ part two
♱ lads masterlist ♱ fairy tale aus masterlist ♱ AO3
I
There is a rose garden in Velmure that belongs to the merchant families on the hill.
You have never been inside it, but you know it exists because Amara brings home stolen petals sometimes.
Pink and white and deepest red, tucked in her pockets from the mornings she works in the merchant quarter.
She lays them on the windowsill of your shared room and they curl and brown within a day, but for those few hours they make the space smell clean instead of unwashed bodies and chamber pots and the acrid stench of poverty that gets into your clothes, your hair, your skin.
Your mother kept a rose cutting once.
A single pale stem in a cracked porcelain cup, roots suspended in water she changed each dawn. You remember watching her tend it, the gentleness in her roughened hands as she touched the thorns.
She died before it could take root properly.
The cup shattered three days after they buried her. You were six years old and clumsy with grief, reaching for it without looking. The cutting died on the floorboards in a puddle of cloudy water as you stared at it with teary eyes and helplessness.
Amara swept up the pieces without speaking.
Your father would be dead by the end of the week and neither of you knew it yet, though perhaps Amara suspected. She was always better at reading the signs.
He holds on longer than your mother, perhaps because he is stronger or perhaps because he is stubborn, but the outcome is the same.
The neighbours bring soup that no one eats and offer sympathy, but by the following Tuesday, a week after your mother died, the visits stop entirely.
People in the lower quarters cannot afford extended mourning.
There are living mouths to feed and rent to pay and the dead do not care whether you weep over them or move forward.
Amara understands this before you do.
She is ten years old and she sells everything.
The table your father built from scrap wood he traded for at the harbor. The cooking pot your mother brought from her village when she married him. The jade comb that belonged to her mother and her mother before her, its teeth worn smooth from generations of use. The bolts of silk your father imported from the Southern merchants, the ones he swore would make your fortune once the right buyer came along.
She sells it all to pay debts you did not know existed.
She keeps one thing.
A brooch, another one of your mother’s heirlooms.
A ruby set in tarnished silver, old enough that the origins have been forgotten. The clasp is sharp and catches on fabric and draws blood if you handle it carelessly. Your mother wore it once a year during midsummer celebrations and kept it wrapped in cloth the rest of the time, tucked in a drawer like a secret.
"We should sell this too," you say, watching Amara wrap it back in its cloth. "The jeweller said it might bring enough for two months' rent."
"No." Your sister’s voice leaves no room for argument.
"But we need..."
"It is ours." She closes her hand around it, careful not to be pricked by the clasp. "Everything else belonged to them, to the debts, to the people who are owed. This is the only thing that is really ours. We are keeping it."
She puts it in her pocket and that is the end of the discussion.
You move to a room in the almshouse in the streets behind the harbor, a space barely large enough for two sleeping mats and a small cooking area. It has one window that faces the alley, the glass is cracked and does not close properly, so wind comes through even when you stuff rags in the gaps. The walls are thin enough that you can hear everything from the rooms on either side, the arguments, the crying, the rhythmic creak of bedframes, the endless coughing.
Amara holds your hand on the first night and makes you a promise in the dark.
"I am not going to leave you," she says and her arms wrap around you and pull you against her chest, her voice earnest despite the way it shakes. "We are all we have now, just us. Do you understand?"
"Just us," you whisper into her shoulder.
"We are all we have," she says again, and it sounds like an oath. "Always."
You fall asleep believing her.
The lean years teach you what it means to be hungry.
Really, truly hungry.
The kind of hunger where you learn to make five copper coins last seven days through careful rationing and making choices about which meals to skip.
Amara works.
She is eleven, then twelve, then thirteen, and she works every hour the sun touches the sky and many hours after it sets.
She washes silk robes for the merchants' wives, standing at the public washing stones with her hands raw from the harsh lye soap they provide. Her hands are raw within the first week, red and swollen, knuckles split, fingertips cracked so deep you can see the pink beneath. The wives inspect her work with critical eyes, pointing out spots she missed or places where the fabric has been rubbed too hard. They pay her in copper that barely covers the cost of the soap.
She carries crates at the harbor where the trade ships dock. The work is brutal and the men do not want to hire a girl, but Amara is strong for her size and willing to work for half the pay. She hauls boxes of tea and spices and bolts of silk that smell like the East. She always comes home walking stiffly, her shoulders hunched forward, one hand pressed to her lower back.
She mends fishing nets for the old men who work the boats.This is the work she likes best because they are kind to her, these old men with weathered faces. They pay her in coin when they have it and salted fish when they do not. They tell her stories about the sea while she works, and sometimes she comes home smiling.
You help where you can.
You are small but you are quick, and quick has value in Velmure's harbor district. You run messages for merchants who need errands done. You sort through damaged goods at the market stalls, separating what can still be sold from what must be thrown away. You collect the roses that fall from the garden carts on their way to the merchant quarter, gathering petals for Amara because you know she loves them.
The work brings in copper, sometimes silver if you are lucky, but never enough.
Amara teaches you to read even though she can barely read herself.
She trades a full week's washing for a water-stained primer, the pages swollen and the ink faded but still legible. Every evening she sits with you by candlelight, sounding out the words slowly with her finger tracing each letter.
"You are going to be smart," she tells you one evening when you are struggling with a particularly difficult passage. She taps the page with one finger patiently. Her eyes are tired and she barely has any sleep but she is determined to teach you. "Smarter than me, smart enough to do something better than this."
"You are smart," you protest.
"I am stubborn." She grins at you, and for just a moment she looks her age instead of decades older. The grin makes her look like a child, and you suddenly remember that she is also a child like you, still just thirteen years old. "Stubborn and smart are different things. Smart finds a way out. Stubborn just survives."
"Then I will be both."
"Good. “ She taps the page again, more firmly this time. “Now read the next line."
You smile and read the next line.
You develop rituals.
Small things that make life bearable, things that belong to just the two of you.
Every Sunday at dawn, before the market crowds gather, you walk to the harbor together. Amara saves one copper coin each week for this. You buy two steamed buns from the vendor by the docks, the kind with pork and cabbage filling that are still hot enough to burn your tongue. You sit on the sea wall with your feet dangling, watching the fishing boats return, and eat your buns in silence.
This is your time, sacred and separate from the hunger and the work and the endless calculations about what you can and cannot afford.
Amara always gives you the bigger bun.
"Yours is smaller," you point out the first time you notice.
"I am bigger. I need less." She bumps her shoulder against yours. "Eat."
You eat, but the next week you try to give her the larger portion. She refuses. This becomes a small war between you, each trying to ensure the other gets more. Eventually you compromise by tearing each bun in half and trading pieces so you each have an equal share.
"There," Amara says, satisfied. "We are all we have. We share everything."
You laugh, and the sound feels strange in your throat, like something you have almost forgotten how to make.
On winter evenings when the wind howls through the cracks in the walls, you sit close together for warmth.
The cold is always brutal. Your room has one threadbare blanket and no fire. You cannot afford firewood and the landlord does not allow fires in the rooms to prevent the risk of the building burning down.
You lean against each other, shoulders touching, sharing the single threadbare blanket you own. Sometimes Amara tells you stories she remembers from your mother. Sometimes you read aloud from the primer, stumbling over difficult words. Sometimes you just sit in silence, listening to the wind and the distant sound of the harbor.
"What do you think about?" she asks you one evening when you have gone quiet for a long time.
"Different things. Better things." She squeezes your hand. "A place where we do not have to be cold. Where there is enough food. What about you?"
"I will be there too." Her voice is certain. "We are all we have. I am not going anywhere without you."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
The words become a mantra, a promise you make to each other in moments both ordinary and terrible.
When Amara comes home with split knuckles from a client who got rough, you clean the wounds with water you boil on the communal fire. You wrap her hands in strips of cloth torn from your own spare shirt. You sit with her while she stares at the wall, not speaking, just present.
"We are all we have," you whisper.
She squeezes your hand.
"All we have."
When you catch fever when you are nine and spend three days delirious, Amara sleeps sitting up beside your pallet. She bathes your forehead with cool water she pays precious coin to have brought from the well. She does not eat so she can afford the herbalist's remedies. She holds you when you thrash and cry out, murmuring the promise over and over.
"We are all we have. I am here. I am not leaving you. We are all we have."
You survive.
Amara had not doubted you would. She has a way of willing things into existence through sheer stubborn force.
You are ten when you realize Amara has stopped growing.
She is still getting taller, still changing, but something inside her has hardened into the shape of a much older woman. She moves with the weariness of someone who has lived decades instead of years. Her smiles come less frequently and the light in her eyes dim a little more each month.
Amara is sacrificing herself.
You can see it clearly now.
Piece by piece, bit by bit, she is trading parts of herself, her youth, her hope, her chance at anything better, to keep you fed and safe.
You want to tell her to stop.
You want to scream that she should save herself, that you are not worth this, but you are ten years old and you know that if you said this, it would hurt her worse than any client ever could.
So you become useful instead.
You take every job you can find. You stop asking for things. You make yourself as small as possible so you cost less to keep alive. You learn to read faster, work harder, need less.
If Amara notices, she does not say. She just pulls you close at night, her arms around you, and whispers, "We are all we have."
And you whisper back, "All we have."
You are eleven when you start to understand what Amara does after the sun sets.
She does not tell you directly, she does not need to.
You hear the fishwives whisper while you are folding their linens in the next room. Their voices are low but not low enough to hide the words. Whore. Harlot. You do not understand all the words, but you understand the judgment that sits heavy in their voices.
You see the way they look at your sister when she passes in the street, their eyes sliding over her with disgust barely concealed.
You notice the money that appears when there should not be any. You notice the bruises she tries to hide beneath long sleeves. You notice the perfume she wears that is not hers, cheap and too sweet, the scent so cloying it makes your nose itch. You notice the way she scrubs her skin raw in the public bath as though she is trying to wash away something else apart from dirt.
One evening she comes home later than usual with bread from the baker on the hill.
It is the expensive kind, with honey baked into the crust and sesame seeds scattered across the top, the kind you have only ever smelled from a distance but never had enough coin to buy. Now, the smell of it fills your small room.
You sit together on the floor and eat it without speaking. The bread is still warm and sweet and the honey is sticky on your fingers. You lick them clean, not wanting to waste a single drop.
Amara's sleeve has ridden up her arm and you can see the bruise on her wrist, finger-shaped, and another on her forearm that looks older and already fading.
She notices you staring and pulls the fabric down quickly.
"It is nothing," she says.
You set down your piece of bread. You reach across the small space between you and take her bruised hand in both of yours. You hold it carefully and you meet her eyes.
"We are all we have," you say. "Remember?"
Her breath catches.
"You cannot," she whispers. "You cannot follow me there. That is not..."
"I am not asking to follow. I am asking you not to carry this alone."
"I am the older sister, I am supposed to protect you."
"You are protecting me. You have been protecting me since I was six years old. I know what you do, Amara." You squeeze her hand. "And I am telling you that it does not change anything. We are all we have. Even if I cannot follow, I am still with you. You are not alone in this."
She pulls you into her arms, and she is trembling, you can hear her heartbeat against your cheek, hard and fast.
"I am so sorry," The words come out strangled and she presses her face into your hair."I am so sorry you have to know. I wanted to keep you safe from it. I wanted..."
"I know." You wrap your arms around her, holding her as tightly as you can. "I know what you wanted. I know what you are giving up, and I am telling you it is not your fault. None of this is your fault."
She cries and you hold her through it.
When the tears finally stop, you are both exhausted. You lie down on the sleeping mat together, your bodies curled close for warmth. Amara's cold, trembling hand finds yours in the darkness.
"We are all we have," she whispers.
"All we have," you whisper back.
After that night, things shift between you.
There is a new honesty now, a shared understanding. Amara stops trying to hide the bruises. You stop pretending not to see them. You develop a system.
On the nights when she comes home shaking, you heat water for her to wash with. You sit with her while she scrubs her skin. You hold her hand after, gently and patiently, giving her time to come back to herself.
On the nights when she comes home with extra coin, you let yourself eat a full meal without guilt. You understand now that refusing the food would only make her sacrifice meaningless.
On the nights when she cannot make herself go out, when the thought of another stranger's hands makes her shake too hard to stand, you do not judge. You just sit beside her and hold her hand and remind her that tomorrow exists. That she has survived every terrible thing so far. That she will survive this too.
"We are all we have," you say.
"Even here?" Her voice is so small, so childlike, she sounds like the ten year old girl who swept that broken teacup.
"Especially here."
The neighbourhood women start to respect Amara in a new way after you turn twelve.
They see how young she is and how long she has been doing this work. They see how hard she fights to keep you fed and housed. They see that she has not given up, has not disappeared into drink or powders the way some women do when the work becomes too much.
An old woman named Agnes starts leaving soup outside your door sometimes. The widow Maeve slips Amara an extra coin when she can. The women at the washing stones save the easiest work for her, the cleanest garments, the ones that do not require as much scrubbing.
They are all poor, they are all struggling, but they recognize one of their own, a girl trying to protect the most precious thing she has in a world determined to take it.
"Your sister is tough," Agnes tells you one day at the market. "She will survive this. She will survive anything."
You want to believe her.
You do believe her, mostly.
But you also see the way Amara is starting to go somewhere else. The way her smile takes effort and how she flinches sometimes when someone moves too quickly near her.
You are twelve years old and you are watching your sister disappear one piece at a time.
And there is nothing you can do to stop it.
The lover appears when you are thirteen and Amara is seventeen.
His name is Jian.
He is different from the start, and the difference is what makes Amara believe him.
He is wealthy, not merchant-class wealthy but comfortable, a man who works in the Eastern trade and has access to imported goods. He dresses well without being garish. His hands are clean, the nails trimmed, the calluses in places that suggest he handles ledgers instead of cargo.
He is kind to Amara.
This is what catches her first, not the gifts he gives her. His kindness and the way he speaks to her like her thoughts matter, like she is a person whose opinions have value.
Amara is beautiful.
This is not vanity or imagination, it is a simple fact.
Men have been watching her since she was too young for such attention, their eyes following her through the market. The establishment where she works most often keeps raising her rates because clients will pay whatever the madame asks.
You are pretty yourself.
People have told you this, but you are not Amara. There is something about your sister that draws eyes, something that makes people want to possess her.
And Jian wants more than possession.
You meet him on a summer evening when Amara brings him to your room.
She is nervous. You can see it in the way she smooths her skirt repeatedly, her hands fluttering without settling. This means he matters to her and that she cares what you think.
Jian bows to you when Amara introduces you, a gesture of respect that takes you by surprise.
"Your sister speaks of you often," he says. "It is good to finally meet you."
He brings food.
Fresh vegetables and cuts of meat and autumn pears not scraps or day-old bread, the only food that you and Amara can usually afford. He brings a blanket for you, thick wool dyed deep blue, and when you stare at it speechlessly he smiles and says every person deserves to be warm in winter.
He also brings books.
Bound volumes with sewn pages and intact covers, not the damaged castoffs you usually find in the trash. He asks what you are studying and when you tell him about the primer, he returns the following week with a collection of poetry and a history of the Western kingdoms.
"Knowledge should not be locked away," he says. "Take these, learn what you wish."
You watch the way Amara looks at him and your chest aches.
She is glowing.
After years of exhaustion and emptiness, she is alive again, and the transformation frightens you because you know how fragile happiness is and you know how quickly it can be taken away.
For the first time in years, Amara talks about the future, an actual future with plans and possibilities.
"Jian says he can buy out my contract," she tells you one evening, her voice hushed like she is afraid saying it too loudly will break the spell. She is sitting on your shared sleeping mat, her knees drawn up, her arms wrapped around them. "It will take time. The madame will not want to let me go. She makes too much money from my work, but he is saving. He promised."
"And then?"
"Then I will have a trade. A shop maybe. He says I am good with numbers. I could keep books for merchants, or I could do fine sewing, embroidery for wealthy families." She is talking faster now, excited. "Something respectable and safe, and you could apprentice somewhere, and learn a proper trade. We could have real lives."
"We?"
"Of course we." She takes your hand, threading her fingers through yours. "We are all we have. Remember? That does not change, even when things get better."
You want to believe it so badly it hurts.
You watch them together over the following months and you cannot find fault with Jian.
He is consistent. He visits regularly. He keeps his promises. He does not press Amara for anything she is not ready to give. He treats her with respect, speaks to her with affection, and includes you in their plans.
He describes a house with a red door and a small garden where Amara can grow things.
"Roses," he suggests one evening. He looks at her, his eyes soft. He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "You like roses. We could plant them, as many as you want."
Amara's eyes fill with tears.
"Roses."
"Dozens of them, hundreds, every color that exists."
She laughs and cries at the same time, and Jian pulls her close, pressing a kiss to her forehead. Over her shoulder, his eyes meet yours.
"You will have your own room," he says to you. "With a proper window and a door that closes. A place to keep all those books I keep bringing you."
"You do not have to..."
"I want to." You can hear it in his voice that he means it."Amara loves you, that means I want good things for you too. It is that simple."
You believe him.
This is your mistake.
You let yourself hope. You let yourself imagine it.
The three of you in a house with a red door. Amara finally free from the work that is slowly killing her. You with books and time to read them. Safety. Warmth. Enough food that you do not have to think about every bite.
You let yourself believe that maybe, finally, something good is allowed to happen.
Amara stops taking as many clients.
She is saving herself, she explains. For Jian. For the future they are building. She still works enough to pay rent and buy food, but she is more selective now. She refuses the rough ones, the ones who leave her shaking. She sets boundaries she has never been able to set before.
The madame at the establishment is not pleased, but Amara is beautiful enough that even working less, she brings in more than most of the other women. The madame tolerates it because losing Amara entirely would cost more than allowing her this small rebellion.
You watch her come back to life.
It is like watching spring arrive after an endless winter. She smiles more. She hums while she works. She talks about what kind of flowers she will plant, what colors she will paint the walls, whether the market is better on Tuesdays or Thursdays for buying fabric.
One evening she takes your hand and says, "In the new house, we will have a proper kitchen. I will learn to cook real meals, the ones Mother used to make. Do you remember?"
"I remember." You still remember the smell of them. The warmth. Your father’s laughter in the small kitchen in your old house and the way your mother hummed while she cooked.
"We will make them together. You and me. Just us. Like always."
"We are all we have," you say.
"Not for much longer." She squeezes your hand. "Soon we will have more. Soon we will have everything."
You lean against her and let yourself believe.
The establishment discovers Amara is pregnant in late autumn.
You are not there when it happens. You are at the market, trading your morning's work for rice and vegetables, when Amara's friend Cassia finds you.
"You need to come," Cassia says, her voice shaking. "They threw her out. The madame found out about the baby."
You run.
You find Amara standing in the alley behind the establishment with everything she owns stuffed into the same canvas sack you have carried since your parents died. Her face is blank, empty of emotion, and that terrifies you more than tears would have.
"What happened?"
"The madame found out I am carrying a child." Her voice is hollow. "She says pregnant women damage business. She says we owe her money. For the room. For the clothes. For breathing her air while I worked. The debt follows us."
The amount she names makes your stomach drop.
You reach for her hand, her fingers are ice cold.
"Did you send word to Jian?"
"I sent word this morning." She is staring at the wall across from you, her eyes unfocused. "He will come. He promised he would take care of us. He will come."
He does not come that day.
Or the next.
Amara writes letters on paper she can barely afford, ink she borrows from a scribe who takes pity on her. She addresses them to Jian's place of work, to the trade house where he said he keeps an office.
The letters return unopened.
The red wax seals are intact, unbroken. He has not even looked at them.
You watch the light drain from Amara like watching a candle burn down. Slowly at first, then all at once, until there is nothing left but smoke.
She stops talking about the house with the red door. She stops mentioning the shop he promised. She stops saying his name except in moments when she forgets and reaches for hope that is no longer there.
She sits with her hands on her swelling belly and stares at the wall for hours. You try to talk to her and she does not respond nor does she react if you try to touch her shoulder. It is as though she is not quite here anymore.
"Amara," you say one evening. "Talk to me. Please."
She does not answer.
"We are all we have," you try desperately. "Remember? You and me. We are all we have."
She turns to look at you finally, and her eyes are empty.
"I know," she whispers. "I am sorry."
"Sorry for what?"
"For believing we could be more than that."
Winter comes.
You find a room in the streets behind the pleasure district. It is smaller than your last place, barely large enough for two sleeping pallets, but the rent is cheaper and the landlord does not ask questions.
The neighbourhood is dangerous.
You learn this quickly.
Men who drink too much and get violent. Women who disappear and are found days later in the harbor. Children who vanish and are never found at all.
You start taking precautions.
You walk home before full dark whenever possible. You keep a gutting knife tucked in your boot, the one you stole from the fish market, small but sharp, enough to injure and give you time to rum. You make friends with the other women in the building, trading favours and information, who to avoid, which streets to never walk alone,where to hide if someone comes looking for you.
You bar the door at night with a plank of wood wedged beneath the handle. You check it twice. Three times. You do not sleep well. Every sound makes you jolt awake, your hand already reaching out to the gutting knife.
Amara is too pregnant to work.
The weight of the child, or children, as the old midwife who examines her suggests, makes movement difficult. She cannot stand for long without her back aching. She cannot lift or carry. She cannot do any of the work that kept you both fed.
You take over everything.
The washing at the public stones, your hands cracking and bleeding from the soap. The hauling at the harbor, crates that make your shoulders scream. The mending, working by candlelight until your eyes blur and you fall asleep with a needle still in your hand.
It is not enough.
You eat once a day and give the rest to Amara because needs to keep her strength for the baby. You skip meals until the dizziness becomes normal, until hunger stops being a sensation and starts being a state of existence you cannot remember being without.
An old woman named Aislinn lives in the room next to yours.
She is ancient, her face a map of lines and her hands knotted with age, but her eyes are kind and she easily notices things.
She notices when you go days without eating. She notices when Amara cries quietly at night. She notices when you come home limping because you twisted your ankle hauling cargo and could not afford to stop working.
She brings you soup sometimes. Thin but hot, made from bones she boils multiple times to extract every bit of flavour. She asks nothing in return. She simply appears at your door with the pot, hands it over with both hands, and then walks away.
"I had daughters once," she says one evening, handing you a bowl. "They are gone now, but I remember what it was like. Trying to keep young ones alive when the world is determined to take them."
"Thank you," you whisper.
"No thanks needed, child. Just promise me you will eat it instead of giving it all to your sister."
You promise, though you still give half to Amara.
The twins are born in early spring on a night when rain hammers the roof of your rented room.
Amara's water breaks just after sunset. The pains start immediately and she grips your hand so tightly you feel bones grind.
Aislinn comes when you knock on her wall, appearing in her nightclothes with her grey hair loose around her shoulders. She takes one look at Amara and starts giving instructions.
"Boil water. Find every clean cloth we have. Bar the door so no one disturbs us."
You do as she says. Your hands shake. The fire will not catch at first because the wood is damp. You have to blow on it and waste precious time waiting as the water takes forever to heat.
The labour lasts hours.
Amara screams until her voice breaks.
She curses Jian, curses you, curses the gods who let this happen. She begs for it to stop. She cries for your mother.
You hold her hand through all of it. You wipe the sweat from her face. You tell her she is strong, she is doing well, she is almost there. You lie when necessary. You tell the truth when you can.
Aislinn remains calm throughout, her weathered hands steady as she guides the babies into the world.
The first twin comes just after midnight.
He is loud from his first breath, wailing, his face red and furious. His fists clench and unclench like he is already preparing to fight.
The second follows minutes later.
He is silent and does not cry. His eyes open immediately, dark and watchful, as if taking measure of the world he just entered.
Aislinn cleans them and wraps them in the cloths you found, old shirts torn into strips, worn but still clean. She tries to place them in Amara's arms but Amara turns her face to the wall.
"I cannot," The whisper is broken. "Please. I cannot."
Aislinn looks at you.
You are fourteen years old and you do not know what to do, but you hold out your arms anyway.
She places the first twin in your arms. The loud one.
He is impossibly small. He fits in the crook of your elbow perfectly and weighs almost nothing. When he grabs your finger his grip is strong. He stops crying when you hold him.
Then the second, quieter but no less present, his unseeing newborn eyes somehow turn toward you as if he sees you.
You hold them both, one in each arm, and you think, I will die before I let anything hurt both of you.
Amara does not look at them.
"She needs rest," Aislinn says quietly as she squeezes your shoulder gently, "Let her rest. We can try again in the morning."
But morning comes and Amara still will not look at them.
The first months are impossible.
The twins need constant feeding, constant changing, constant holding. They cry in shifts so there is always one of them screaming. They sleep in fragments so you sleep in fragments. Minutes stolen here and there between feedings and changings and the endless cycle of need.
Amara cannot help.
Something broke inside her during the birth. She bleeds for weeks. She cannot stand for long without getting dizzy. She sits and stares at nothing.
You try to get her to nurse the babies but her milk never comes in properly. You have to supplement with goat's milk bought at prices that make you want to scream.
You ask her what names she wants for them, she does not answer.
You ask her to hold them, just once, she turns her face away.
You beg her to help you, she closes her eyes.
After a week, you stop asking.
So you name them yourself.
Luke and Kieran.
Names from one of the books Jian gave you, the ones you have already sold to buy firewood. Characters in fairytales, heroes who were loyal and brave and good. You hope the names will protect them somehow, give them strength for the hard world they were born into.
You work during the day while Aislinn watches the twins.
The old woman refuses payment, waving away your attempts with a gnarled hand.
"I am old," she says. "I cannot do much anymore. Let me do this. Let me hold babies and tell them stories. It keeps me feeling useful."
So you work the harbor, the washing, the mending while Aislinn watches the twins in your sister's place.
You work every job you can find. You come home at dusk and take over so Aislinn can rest. You feed them and change them and walk when they will not stop crying. Pacing the small room, bouncing them gently, singing songs you half-remember from your mother. Your voice is hoarse. Your arms ache. You fall asleep sitting up with a baby on your shoulder and wake when the other one starts wailing.
You are fourteen years old.
You fall asleep sitting up with a baby on your shoulder and wake when the other one starts wailing.
You are fourteen years old.
Your body hurts in ways you did not know were possible.
Your breasts ache from binding them too tight while you work. Your shoulders scream from carrying heavy loads. Your hands crack and bleed. You are so tired that sometimes you forget where you are, standing at the washing stones and blinking at the water until someone asks if you are well.
But the babies are alive, and that is all that matters.
Amara watches nothing.
She sits. She stares. She breathes.
You try to reach her.
"We are all we have," you say, kneeling beside her sleeping mat, one late evening after you have put the twins to sleep. You take her limp hand in yours, rubbing warmth into her cold fingers."Remember? You and me. We are all we have. Please come back."
She does not respond.
You try again.
"The babies need you. I need you. Please, Amara. Please."
Nothing.
"I cannot do this alone," you whisper and press her hand to your cheek. "I am fourteen. I do not know how to keep them alive. I need help. I need you."
She pulls her hand away and turns to face the wall.
Amara stops eating unless you force food into her hands. She speaks rarely, and when she does, it is only to whisper Jian's name, to ask if he has sent word, if he has come back.
He has not. He will not.
You know this, but you do not say it.
The twins are three months old when you wake to find Amara gone.
You know immediately something is wrong.
The twins are sleeping in their basket, tiny fists curled against their faces. They have started smiling recently and making small cooing noises.
Amara's pallet is empty. Her blanket is folded neatly at the foot, the way she always folds it. Her shoes are missing and her shawl is gone.
There is something on the table.
The ruby brooch, the one she swore would never be sold, sitting next to a note written in her careful handwriting.
Sell this. It should keep them fed until I send for you. I am sorry. I will come back. I promise.
You read it three times.
Your hands are shaking and the paper trembles, making the words blur.
We are all we have.
Except now it is just you.
You sit on the floor with the note in one hand and the brooch in the other. The twins are sleeping peacefully, unaware that their mother has left them.
You do not cry.
You cannot cry, because if you start you will not stop, and there are two babies who will wake soon and need to be fed, and you are the only person left in the world who will feed them.
You fold the note and put it in the drawer.
You wrap the brooch back in its cloth and place it beside the note.
You stand and start preparing the goat's milk for when the twins wake.
Days pass, then weeks, then months.
Amara does not send for you. She does not write nor does she come back.
But you keep waiting.
You take the brooch to three different jewellers over the course of a month, hoping one of them will tell you it is worth more than the others claimed.
They all say the same thing.
The stone is flawed, they explain, pointing to imperfections you cannot see without a glass. The setting is old, tarnished beyond easy repair. It might bring enough to feed you for a month, perhaps two if you are careful.
You do not sell it.
You cannot.
It is the last piece of Amara you have.
The only proof that she existed, that she loved you once, that the promise she made was real even if she could not keep it.
You tuck it back in the drawer beside the note and you raise the boys yourself.
You are fifteen when you realize you cannot do this alone anymore.
The boys are six months old. They have started sitting up on their own, babbling to each other in a language only they understand. They reach for you when you come home and then cry when you leave.
They are beautiful.
Luke is loud and always moving, grabbing at everything within reach. Kieran is quieter, more watchful, but just as curious. They are starting to look like people instead of just babies, their features finally defining themselves. Luke has your father's nose. Kieran has Amara's eyes.
You love them with a ferocity that frightens you.
But love is not enough to pay rent.
Love does not buy goat's milk or firewood or the medicine Kieran needs when he develops a cough that will not stop.
You have tried every kind of work available to you.
The washing barely makes enough to cover soap costs. The hauling has dried up because the men at the harbor say you are too small and too weak, and they would rather hire boys who can lift more. The mending, however kind the old men are, only brings in copper but never silver.
Aislinn watches the boys during the day but she is getting frailer. Her hands shake more often. She falls asleep mid-afternoon and does not wake for hours. You know she cannot do this forever.
Eventually, the money you saved runs out.
You sit on the floor one evening with the ledger you keep, adding the numbers over and over, hoping they will change. They do not change. In two weeks you will not have enough for rent. In three weeks you will not have enough for food.
You look at the twins sleeping in their basket.
Six months old and too young to understand or remember if something happens to you.
You make a decision.
The Crimson House is a three-story building with crimson shutters and lanterns that glow like coals after dark.
You have walked past it a thousand times. You know what it is.
Everyone knows what it is.
You stand outside for a long time before you can make yourself climb the steps.
You think about Amara.
You think about the bruises and the empty eyes and the way she scrubbed her skin raw trying to feel clean after she returns home each day.
You think about the promise you made to each other, the mantra you whispered in the dark.
We are all we have.
This is what Amara did to keep you alive, the price she paid.
And now it is your turn.
You climb the steps.
The madame is a woman named Luo, sharp-eyed and sharp-tongued, draped in silk that whispers when she moves. She looks you over the way merchants examine fabric at the market.
"How old are you?"
"Sixteen," you lie. You are fifteen but tall for your age.
"Have you done this work before?"
"No."
"Good. Easier to train you properly." She continues her examination, tilting your face toward the light. "Pretty enough, not a beauty like your sister was, but still pretty and fresh faced. Men will pay for that. We can work with this."
She explains the terms.
Room and board provided on the upper floor. Clothes and cosmetics supplied. Training in the arts of pleasing men. All of it on credit. The debt starts today and grows with every meal you eat, every dress you wear, every candle you burn.
You will work to pay it down but the interest is calculated to ensure you never quite manage. This is how they keep everyone.
"I have children," you say before you can stop yourself. "Two boys. Babies. I cannot live here. I need to go home to them every day."
Luo's eyes narrow.
"Children are a complication."
"They will not be a complication. I swear it. I just need to go home to them after my work is done. I will be here every evening. I will work as many clients as you require. I will do everything you ask. Just let me go home to them. Please."
Luo considers this.
The calculation is visible on her face.
Women who live on-site are easier to control, but they also cost more to house and feed.
A woman who maintains her own lodging saves the establishment money, and desperate women work harder, take fewer liberties, and cause less trouble.
"You will arrive by sunset every evening," Luo finally decides. She grips your chin tightly, forcing you to meet her eyes. "You will work until dawn. You will accept every client I assign. You will not refuse anyone for any reason. If you miss a night, the debt triples. If you fail to satisfy a client, the debt doubles. If you bring your personal problems into this establishment, you are finished. Do you understand?"
"I understand." You respond, your voice distant.
"Sign here."
You sign your name in the ledger.
Your hand does not shake.
The training lasts for five days.
An older woman named Lira teaches you what to expect, how to move, how to breathe through it when it hurts. She is matter-of-fact and brusque but never cruel.
"You have to separate yourself from your body," she says on the second day. "Whatever they do, it is happening to flesh and bone, not to you. You are somewhere else. You are watching from a distance. You are untouchable."
"Does that work?"
"Sometimes.” She shrugs, but you see the pity in her eyes. “When it does not, you endure, that is all anyone can do."
She teaches you techniques. The ways to breathe, where to put your mind, how to make sounds that men want to hear even when you feel nothing, how to move so it ends faster, how to clean yourself after, how to hide the pain.
You think about Amara.
You think about the way she used to stare at nothing after coming home.
You think about the distance in her eyes.
This is what she learned. This is how she survived.
And now you will learn it too.
The first client is a merchant who reeks of wine and fish.
He is neither cruel nor gentle. He uses your body the way he might use a tool. You stare at the ceiling while he works.
You pretend you are somewhere else, somewhere far away. You think about the boys. About the way Luke smiles when you come home. About the way Kieran's hand feels in yours. About keeping them fed. About keeping them alive.
We are all we have.
The words echo in your head like a ghost.
This is what Amara did and now you have followed.
When the merchant finishes he leaves money on the table and goes without speaking.
You collect the coins and clean yourself and prepare for the next one.
The walk home at dawn becomes the marker of your divided life.
The Crimson House to your rented room, the woman men pay for, to the woman the boys know.
You shed one skin and pull on another in the space of twenty minutes walking through narrow streets that smell of salt and garbage and yesterday's fish.
Sometimes, you stop by at the baker on the way home. You buy two loaves of bread with your night's earnings. Milk when you can afford it. The baker knows you and what you do. You can see it in her eyes, but she does not say anything. She just takes your money, her fingers brushing yours briefly, and hands over the bread.
The boys are usually awake when you arrive. Luke cries because he is hungry. Kieran watches you with solemn eyes.
You pick them up, one in each arm, and hold them while you heat the milk.
This is your life now.
Two lives. Split down the middle. Night and day. The Crimson House and home.
The woman who endures and the woman who loves.
The months pass into years.
The boys grow from babies to toddlers, from toddlers to small children who run and play and fight and laugh. You watch them change, day by day, minute by minute, and you mark time by their milestones instead of seasons.
Luke's first steps at ten months, stumbling toward you with his arms outstretched and a grin on his face. Kieran's first word at eleven months, not mama or dada but "birb," pointing at something outside the window. Their first full sentences. Their first questions. Their first fights with each other that end in tears and reconciliation five minutes later.
You love them so much it hurts.
They call you Mama at first because you are the only mother they have ever known.
"No," you tell them gently, every time. "I am not your Mama. I am Big Sis."
"Why?"
"Because your Mama is someone else, someone who loves you but cannot be here right now."
"Where is she?"
"I do not know, but when she comes back, she will want you to remember that she is your Mama and I am your Big Sis."
They do not understand but they are young enough that repetition works, and eventually it sticks. You are Big Sis and the woman who is gone is Mama, a figure from stories, someone they wait for without really knowing who she is.
You wonder sometimes if Amara will come back and find her sons do not remember her voice.
You wonder if she will come back at all.
There is almost something with a client named Nishant.
He is younger than most of your clients, perhaps twenty-five, with a scholar's soft hands and a gentle manner. He pays Luo double to ensure he gets the full evening with you and no interruptions.
He requests you specifically every week.
He talks to you like you are a person whose thoughts matter. He asks for your opinions on the books he brings. He tells you about his work as a merchant's clerk, about his family in the provinces, about his dreams of eventually opening his own trading house.
He is kind.
He does not hurt you during the times when talk leads to what you are paid to do. He asks first. He checks if you are well and touches you ever so gently.
You start to look forward to his visits.
This is a mistake.
You realize it one evening when he smiles at you over a shared cup of tea and your heart does something it should not. A flutter, a pull, the beginning of a feeling you cannot afford to have.
You are falling for him.
Or you could fall for him, if you let yourself. If you allow the possibility and forget for even a moment what you are and what he is and the gulf between you.
You stop it before it can start.
The next time he comes, you are professional. You accept the book he brings but do not discuss it. Your answers to his questions are short and brief. You perform the services he paid for and nothing more.
He notices the change immediately.
"Did I do something wrong?" His brow furrows. “Have I offended you?”
"No."
"Then why..."
"This is what I am," you interrupt curtly. "This is what we are. You pay. I provide a service. That is all this can be."
"It does not have to be..." He leans forward, earnest and hopeful and his hand reaches for yours.
"Yes. It does." You meet his eyes and make sure he sees the finality there. "I have two boys to raise. They are my only priority. There is no room for anything else."
He stops coming to the establishment after that.
You tell yourself it is for the best and that you made the right choice.
You tell yourself the ache in your chest is just fatigue and it will pass.
Twelve years pass.
You are twenty-seven years old now and you are aging out at the establishment.
Luo reminds you of this regularly.
You have a year left, perhaps less, after that you are too old. The men want younger faces. You will need to find other work.
The debt remains.
Twelve years of work and you have barely made a dent. The interest accumulates faster than you can pay and you will die owing Luo money.
You do not tell the boys this.
You do not tell them that in a year, maybe less, you will have no income and no plan and a debt that follows you like a shadow.
You just keep working, keep coming home at dawn, and keep pretending everything is fine.
The twins are almost twelve now.
They are no longer babies or toddlers or even young children. They are growing into themselves, into the people they will become.
Luke is loud and fearlessly blunt. He says exactly what he thinks and cannot understand why adults dance around the truth. He makes friends easily and gets into fights just as easily, especially when someone insults you or Kieran. He comes home with bruises and grins and stories about how the other boy started it but he finished it.
Kieran is quiet and watchful and reads everything he can get his hands on. He remembers everything he reads. When he looks up from a page of a new book he is reading, the gravity in his face makes you ache.
They think you work as a serving girl in a merchant's house.
You leave at sunset and return at dawn and tell them you are cleaning or serving dinner or helping with the household accounts. They accept this because they are children and children believe what their adults tell them.
You will correct this lie eventually, when they are older and when you find the right words.
But for now, you let them believe their Big Sis does honest work for honest pay.
Luke runs errands for the dock workers, carries messages, hauls nets when they need extra hands. He is strong for his age, quick and willing. He brings home copper and silver and sets it on the table with pride.
Kieran helps the apothecary, sorting herbs, learning remedies, reading from the ancient texts the old man keeps. He is paid less than Luke but he is learning skills that might serve him better in the long run.
They should not have to work.
They should be learning to read and write properly, apprenticing to trades, preparing for futures that are better than this.
But they work because you cannot give them better, because the system is designed to keep you trapped. And no matter how hard you fight, how much you sacrifice, it is never quite enough.
You keep the ruby brooch in the drawer beside your bed.
You take it out sometimes when the boys are asleep and hold it in your palm. The stone is dark and the clasp is still sharp. It has drawn your blood more than once over the years.
Beside it is Amara's note, the paper has wrinkled and ink is fading from time and handling. You unfold it sometimes, smoothing the creases with your fingers.
I will come back. I promise.
Twelve years and you are still waiting.
You do not know why, but you cannot let go of the hope, thin and threadbare as it is, that someday the door will open and she will be there and everything will make sense.
You wait anyway.
That is what love does.
It makes you keep promises even after the other person has broken theirs.
We are all we have.
Luke falls ill on a Tuesday.
It starts with a cough, nothing unusual.
Coughs are common in the cramped quarters of the lower districts, especially as winter approaches. You make him drink willow bark tea. He hates it but he drinks it anyway, his face scrunching. You wrap him in the blanket Jian gave you all those years ago, the blue one, that has become faded now, threadbare, but still warm. You tuck it around him, smoothing it over his shoulders. You expect it to pass.
It does not pass.
By evening, his skin is hot to the touch.
By midnight, he is burning.
You sit beside his sleeping mat with a basin of cool water. You wring out cloths. Press them to his forehead. They warm within minutes. You wring them out again. Again. Again. But the fever continues to climb. Luke tosses and turns, crying out in his sleep.
Kieran hovers nearby, watching with wide eyes.
"Is he going to be all right?" he asks.
"Yes," you lie. "The fever will break soon."
It does not break.
You work that night at the establishment because you cannot afford to miss. The debt triples if you fail to appear. You work with your mind elsewhere, counting the hours until you can return home.
Luo notices. Always. She grabs your chin, forcing you to look at her.
"You are distracted.” Her eyes narrow.
"I am sorry. It will not happen again."
"See that it does not. Men pay for your attention."
You give them your attention. You give them your body. You give them everything they pay for, and when dawn comes you collect your coins and run home.
Luke is getting worse.
"How long has he been this way?" You kneel beside his mat. Your hand goes to his forehead. The burning is worse than before. You cup his face, feeling the heat radiating from him.
"All night." Kieran's voice is strained. He has not slept, eyes are red-rimmed. "I tried to give him water but he would not drink."
You try again. Luke turns his head away, delirious.
This is when you know you need a physician.
You count the coins you have saved. It is not nearly enough, but you go anyway, walking to the physician's house on the hill, the one who treats the merchant families.
He looks at you from his doorway, taking in your dress, your exhaustion, the desperation in your eyes.
"Twenty silver," he says, voice bored and crosses his arms. "For the visit and the medicine."
You have twelve.
"Please," you beg. "My nephew is very sick. I can pay half now and the rest..."
"Twenty silver. All of it. Now."
"I will have it in three days. I swear. I work every night. I can..."
He closes the door in your face.
You try two other physicians.
One will not even open the door. You can see him through the window. He looks at you then pretends he did not hear you knock. The other offers to examine Luke for fifteen silver but the medicine will cost another ten. Twenty-five total.
You do not have twenty-five silver.
So you go to the herbalist instead. She is kinder and does not look at you with contempt. She sells you a tonic that might bring down the fever, ingredients you recognize from Kieran's studies with the apothecary.
It costs eight silver, and now you have four left.
"Give him this three times a day," the herbalist tells you. "If the fever does not break in two days, come back."
But you will not have money to come back, you both know this. She is being kind, giving you hope that you cannot afford.
You hurry home.
You force the tonic down Luke's throat. He coughs and sputters but swallows some of it, but it should be enough.
You wipe his chin, his neck where it spilled.
"This will help." You brush the hair from his forehead, smoothing it back. It is soaked with sweat. "This will make you better."
Then you work that night, and the next, and the next. You work and come home and tend to Luke and work again. No sleep. No food. You work and worry and watch him burn.
Three days pass.
Luke's fever does not break. It climbs higher. You watch him burn, helpless, applying cool cloths that warm within minutes. The tonic is gone and you have no money left for more.
On the fourth day, Kieran breaks.
He has been so strong, so composed, helping you change the cloths, making Luke drink when he can, reading quietly in the corner to give you both something normal to hold onto, but on the fourth day, he looks at his brother's flushed face and snaps.
"He is going to die," Kieran whispers, sinking to the floor beside Luke’s sleeping mat.
"No. He is not." You believe it because you have to, because the alternative is unthinkable.
"He is going to die and there is nothing we can do." Kieran's voice breaks and he looks at you with tears in his eyes. "We do not have money for the physician. We do not have money for more medicine. We are just going to sit here and watch him die."
"Kieran..."
"We are all we have and it is not enough. It has never been enough."
You pull him into your arms and he sobs against your shoulder, eleven years old and terrified and so tired of being strong.
"I am sorry," you cry into his hair. "I am so sorry."
You hold him until the tears stop, then you go back to work.
On the fifth day, Luke's fever breaks.
You wake from a brief, exhausted sleep to find him looking at you with clear eyes. He reaches for your hand.
"Big Sis?"
You press your hand to his forehead. Cool. Still warm, but not burning. The fever has finally broken. Finally. You take his face between your hands, kissing his forehead, his cheeks, his nose.
"You are all right." Relief floods through you. Overwhelming. Devastating. You wrap your arms around him, pulling him against your chest. "You are going to be all right."
Luke is weak, wrung out from five days of fighting the illness, but he is alive. He drinks the broth you make. He stays awake for short periods. He even smiles at Kieran when his brother sits beside him, taking his hand.
You allow yourself to believe the worst is over.
On the sixth day, Kieran's fever begins.
He wakes with the same cough.
By afternoon, his skin is hot.
By evening, he is burning just like his brother did.
No.
No no no no no.
You check your coin. Four copper pieces, not even enough for a single dose of the herbalist's tonic. Not enough for anything.
We are all we have.
The thought whispers through your mind like a curse.
We are all we have and it is not enough.
You work that night even though leaving Kieran feels like tearing off your own skin. Luke is too weak to tend his brother, too weak to do anything but lie on his mat and watch. You have no other choice.
You come home at dawn to find both boys feverish now. Luke's fever has returned, weaker than before but still there. Kieran is worse, thrashing on his sleeping mat, calling for you.
Seven days pass.
You do not sleep.
You work at night and tend the boys during the day, snatching minutes of rest when your body gives you no choice. Your hands shake. Your vision blurs. You stop eating because there is barely enough food for the boys.
Kieran is dying.
You know this the way you knew your parents were dying when you were six. The way the body changes when it is losing the fight. The way the fever stops being something the person is fighting and becomes something they are drowning in.
Luke watches his brother with terrified eyes. He reaches for your hand, gripping it.
"Big Sis," he whispers hoarsely. "Make him better. Please."
"I am trying."
"Try harder."
You have nothing left to try with.
On the seventh night, your hand finds the brooch.
You do not remember taking it from the drawer.
One moment you are sitting beside Kieran's sleeping mat, watching his chest rise and fall in shallow, labored breaths. The next moment the brooch is in your hand, the metal cold against your palm.
Amara left this.
Amara, who promised she would come back.
Amara, who lied.
Sell this. It should keep them fed until I send for you.
Your fingers tighten around it, the sharp clasp digs into your palm.
Why did you hold onto this useless thing for twelve years when you could have sold it? You could have used whatever money it brought for food or medicine or anything. Why? What was the point? What did it get you?
Nothing.
It got you nothing.
Amara never came back. She never sent for you nor did she keep her promise, and now Kieran is dying and this ugly useless thing is all you have left.
Pain.
It comes suddenly, making you gasp.
The clasp has pierced your skin and your blood wells up, bright red in the candlelight, and it drips onto the ruby.
The stone absorbs it.
You blink, confused, as the brooch suddenly grows warm in your hand, then it begins to glow, soft at first, then brighter, pulsing with a light that seems to come from within.
"What?"
The air in the room shifts.
Red mist pours from the brooch, thick and viscous, coiling up toward the ceiling. You drop the brooch, scrambling backward, but the mist does not dissipate. It gathers, condenses, takes shape.
A figure forms.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Long white hair that seems to glow in the dim light. Eyes the color of blood, fixed on you with an intensity that steals your breath.
You know immediately that he is not human, because nothing human could be so beautiful and so terrible at once.
You are hallucinating. You must be.
Seven days without real sleep, barely any food, watching Kieran die and your mind has finally broken.
"Well," the figure says, his voice is smooth as velvet and amused. "It has been quite some time since anyone summoned me."
You cannot speak nor can you move.
He tilts his head, studying you with those crimson eyes. Red mist still clings to him, wisps of it curling around his shoulders like smoke. He is dressed in white, expensive fabric that does not belong in your shabby room.
"Let me guess," he continues when you do not respond. "You have a wish. They always do."
Your gaze darts to Kieran, still feverish, still dying.
"I..." Your voice comes out as a rasp before you can stop yourself. "I need help. My nephew…he is dying."
The figure follows your gaze, considers Kieran with detached interest.
"Death is common. Why should I care?"
“Whatever you are, wherever you come from, you have power. I can feel it.” The words are more frantic now. "I am asking, no, begging, please. Save him."
Something flickers across his face.
"You are not asking what I am? Not demanding answers first?"
"I do not care what you are. I do not care if you are a demon or a devil or something worse. If you can save him, I will give you anything."
"Anything?" His mouth curves into a smile that is not entirely kind. He crouches in front of you, bringing his face level with yours. "Dangerous words, kitten."
The endearment should feel wrong, but it does not. It slides over you like silk, intimate and possessive in a way that makes your chest twist.
"Will you save him or not?"
He regards you for a long moment. You have the unsettling sense that he is seeing far more than you intend to show, past the desperation and the exhaustion, past the walls you have built, and straight into the core of you. Into the parts you keep hidden.
"Very well," His voice is soft. He reaches out, his fingers brushing your cheek, wiping away a tear you did not know you shed. "I will save the boy, that is your first wish."
"First?" you repeat, confused.
"I am an archfiend, bound to grant three wishes to whoever summons me." His smile widens. He stands, offering you his hand. "You have just used one. Two remain."
"I do not understand..."
"You will." He pulls you to your feet when you take his hand. "Both boys will live. I am feeling generous tonight."
"Both?" You look at Luke, still feverish in the corner. "But I only wished for..."
"Consider it an investment." He crouches beside Kieran, and the red mist flows from his hands, surrounding the boy in a cocoon of crimson light. "After all, you still owe me two wishes. I would hate for you to waste one on something I can provide for free."
The mist seeps into Kieran's skin. Your nephew gasps, his back arching, and you lunge forward without thinking, terror filling your veins.
The archfiend catches your wrist without looking, his grip firm but not painful.
"Wait," he commands, and the authority in his voice makes you freeze. "Let it work."
You watch, helpless, as the mist envelops Kieran completely. It swirls around Luke next, the same crimson glow, and both boys go still.
Too still.
"What did you do?" Panic claws at your throat. "What did you..."
Kieran's eyes open.
The fever is gone. His skin is cool, his breathing steady. He blinks up at you, confused but he is alive, healthy, and whole.
Across the room, Luke sits up, the flush gone from his cheeks.
"Big Sis?" Kieran's voice is weak but clear. "What happened?"
You pull free from the archfiend's grip and drop to your knees beside Kieran. You pull him into your arms, sobbing, all the fear and exhaustion and desperation pouring out of you.
"You were sick. You were so sick."
"I feel better now." He sounds bewildered. "I feel good."
You hold him tighter, one arm reaching for Luke, gathering both boys close. They are alive. They are well. Whatever that thing did, whatever impossible magic he used, it worked.
"Thank you," you gasp, looking up at the archfiend through tears. "Thank you, I..."
He flinches.
It is subtle and barely noticeable, but you see it. It was as though your gratitude makes him recoil as if struck.
"Do not thank me," he says, and his voice has gone flat. "I did not do this out of kindness. We have a contract now. Three wishes. You have used one. Two remain."
"I understand."
"Do you?" He moves closer, and you are suddenly aware of how tall he is, how he seems to fill the space despite the cramped room. "The contract must be sealed. Give me your hand."
You hesitate.
"The hand you cut," he clarifies. "I need to close the wound properly."
Slowly, you extend your hand. The cut from the brooch's clasp is still bleeding sluggishly, a thin line across your palm.
He takes your hand in both of his.
His touch is careful. He cradles your hand gently, his thumb tracing the edge of the cut without pressing on it. The red mist gathers at his fingertips, and he looks up at you.
"This may feel strange," he says, his crimson eyes locked on your own. "But it will not hurt, I promise."
He waits.
It takes you a moment to realize he is asking permission and if you consent to what comes next.
When was the last time someone asked?
You nod.
He brings your hand to his mouth and presses his lips to the cut.
The touch is feather-light.
It feels nothing like the rough, grasping hands you are used to, nothing like the men who pay Luo for your time, who use your body without thought or care.
This is different.
The red mist flows from his mouth into the wound, sealing it closed. You feel a warmth that has nothing to do with fever, a tingling that spreads from your palm up your arm.
It should frighten you.
It does not.
When he pulls back, the cut is gone. Your skin is smooth and unmarked, as if you were never injured at all. He releases your hand slowly, his fingers lingering for just a moment before letting go.
"There," he says, releasing your hand. "The contract is sealed."
You stare dumbfounded at this otherworldly creature with his white hair and crimson eyes and touch that asks permission.
"Who are you?"
"I have had many names. Most recently, I was Sylus." His mouth curves into that dangerous smile again. "And you are exhausted, kitten, when was the last time you slept?"
"I do not..."
"Sleep," he commands, and power rolls through the word like thunder.
Your eyes close without your permission. Your body sags and you feel him catch you before you hit the floor. The last thing you register is the strange gentleness of his hold as he lowers you to your sleeping mat.
Then darkness takes you.
And for the first time in seven days, you sleep.
♱ a/n: Sorry if the writing is not good, I got sick and was hit with another bad case of writer's block. Then we got short-staffed at work that I had to do several 16 hour shifts so I did not have enough time to recheck everything. I won't make any promises but I'll try to do my best to update the next part or finish the whole fic within the month then maybe finish warlord!sylus then take a break.
I hope you guys will still enjoy reading. I'll answer all your comments along with the comments on the other fics and the asks when I feel better.
Likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated! Let me know your thoughts.
༄ 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: 9.3k
༄ a/n: HAPPY VALENTINES DAY 🥹
༄ lads masterlist ༄ fairy tale aus ༄ 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 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 nursemaid 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 blue against the darkness brought by the storm. They pierce the storm like twin flames, too bright to be human and too vivid to be real. Hair that clings to his face in wet strands. and a face that is startlingly beautiful 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 sea.
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 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, 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 cheek and he goes still.
The singing stops.
He stares at you with those impossible eyes, and his expression shifts into tenderness.
His hand comes up to cover yours, his palm warm against the cold of your skin.
"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.
There is no anger, not yet, but he wears a face of a man who has already buried his brother to the ocean and has just, for one terrible night, believed it also took his brother's child, his daughter, as well.
He holds you and does not speak for a very long time.
"Someone saved me in the water," you tell him, your voice still raw from salt water. "Someone pulled me out."
"Who?"
You do not know how to explain, so you just shake your head and let the servants 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 presence.
Mei is the crown princess of Linkon, smart and beautiful and destined for a political marriage that will secure and strengthen the kingdom.
You are the younger, quieter ward and the less remarkable princess, 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 by a desperate 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 your guards and maids who 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 never see him again after that night.
You paint him sometimes.
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 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.
You ache for them.
The quiet tragedy of loving someone who is right there, close enough to touch, but separated by 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 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 already know who it was.
The beach is crowded with guards and 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.
You immediately recognize his blue eyes.
They do not glow now as they were in the storm, but still that impossible shade, but now the deep blue is threaded with soft pink at the bottom, half-open and dazed with pain.
His face is exactly as you remember, beautiful and otherworldly. His hair is longer now, tangled with sand. He is wearing nothing but a length of fabric someone must have wrapped around his waist.
And he has legs.
Where his tail should be are legs, long and pale and trembling, as though they are new to him and he never used them before.
They are scraped raw, bleeding, and he keeps looking down at them with an expression of both pain and bewilderment.
Your heart stops, you know what he has done.
You have scoured every book in the library about him and his people after that night.
Lemurians do not have legs if they will it.
The stories you found spoke of sea witches and bargains.
What did you pay, you think, staring at him, your heart sinking. 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 also appears to be mute."
Mute.
Your stomach drops.
His voice, that beautiful voice that sang the cold out of your bones?
It is now 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 and as though he was trying to tell me something."
Your chest tightens 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 that night.
He came here for her.
Not you.
He does not remember you.
But it makes a terrible kind of sense.
Mei was on the ship that night because it was her birthday.
If he saw the royal vessel, if he knew a Princess of Linkon was aboard, of course he would assume it was Mei.
Not the unremarkable ward who should not have been on the ship at all and was not even supposed to be near the water.
You know 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 quietly breaking and 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 and now forced to navigate land.
He writes his name on parchment the first day they give him ink.
Rafayel.
The name settles into your chest.
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.
He is 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.
There is no recognition in his blue-pink eyes, 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, and 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 he easily wins over the court.
And 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 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.
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 maintained by the bond that is formed the moment 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 he arrives on land, 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, your bond with him was formed.
His lifeforce is 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 to survive or will he kiss you because 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 remembers 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 reseaching.
You return to the library every night after that.
When the palace sleeps, you are awake, pulling every text about Lemurians from the shelves, cross-referencing myths with the scraps of writing from scholars who treated the sea folk as more than legend.
It takes you eleven days to find an alternative.
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, 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 sob that wants to come out.
You could save him, but not with a kiss he does not want to give you.
Not by humiliating yourself, by forcing a reveal that would make him look at you with guilt instead of love.
If he has not find this part of the bargain, then you could save him without him ever knowing it was you who has bonded with.
He would get his voice back.
He would be alive and 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 your life.
You close the book.
Your hands are steady now, they should not be.
You should be shaking and falling apart.
But instead there is a strange, terrible calm settling over you, the calm of someone who has been drowning all her life and has finally found the will to stop 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 say goodbye to everyone you love without alerting them of your plan.
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."
"I could not sleep." You pat the bench beside you. "Sit with me?"
Mei sits, studying your face carefully, brows furrowing as she tries to read what you are thinking.
"What is wrong?"
"Nothing. I just… I wanted to tell you something."
You take her hands, holding them tightly and 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. "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 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 wetly. "But this is a different kind of strange."
You hold her for a long time, breathing in the scent of her hair, memorizing carefully as part of your memory that you will carry into the dark.
You spend the next week 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, you point out.
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 torn when you ask.
He looks at you, the way he does sometimes when the light catches your face at an angle that reminds him of his brother, and you see the war behind his eyes.
The guilt and the fear.
He knows that he cannot keep you caged forever, so he grants the request.
He warns you to take guards.
You will not take guards, but you agree, because agreeing is safer 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.
The last few days of your life are the loneliest days you have ever experienced.
And you have been lonely for a very long time.
On the fifteenth 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.
Another 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 storm.
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 warmly and reaches for a parchment.
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 of them is extraordinary.
They are all 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 pen hovering over the paper, then he writes slowly.
I remember the feel of her hand on my face, cold and 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.
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 become nothing, I would do it all again.
You give him a sad smile.
"She is lucky," you say. "This girl that you saved, even if she does not know it. She is the luckiest person in the world."
He looks confused by your words.
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 twelfth 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, welcoming you to her lair.
The sea witch is just a woman who looks 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 even 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 with a sadness that surprises you.
"You humans," she murmurs. "So fragile and stubborn. He came to me begging for legs so he could find the girl he saved, 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 alternative, I read it."
"I can do it," the witch says. "But you need to understand what you are offering. It is not merely your life, child. Your heart, the very thing that bound you together. When I take it, the bond dissolves, his voice returns. His legs become his own again, no longer tethered to the curse. He will be free."
"And I will be 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 be somewhere familiar."
Somewhere familiar, the beach below the cliffs.
The same beach where they found Rafayel. The same part of the beach where your Mei found you 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 will seal your flesh. To anyone who looks, you will seem untouched. 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 finds you, he will see the wound. He will see what has happened." 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.
"So he will he know it was me?"
"That depends," the witch says, "on whether he is paying attention."
You close your eyes, it is too late to go back now.
You have already decided to end everything here.
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.
The deep, shimmering blue of his tail, edged with the faintest blush of pink.
It is the color of his tail.
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 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 and you cannot see it, 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 but 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.
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 warm sand, your face turned toward the sea.
The sky above you is beautiful, 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 fear, with regret, with the desperation to live, but instead you only felt 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 were 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 away.
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 broken gasp comes from his throat.
Then a sound, that sounds primal, a mix of shock and relief and confusion.
“What —?”
His own voice, raw and not quite what it was before, but it is his.
He immediately drops the brush and a hand goes to his throat. He speaks again, testing.
"How —"
The curse is broken.
He can feel it.
The severing of the bond 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 again.
But the bond…
His hand goes to his chest, 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.
He stops.
Except… it was never pulling him toward Mei, was it?
He sees that now, the sudden clarity after the curse broke, like a fog lifting 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 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, like the person tidying is preparing for a journey with no return.
He feels the pull to your wardrobe.
He opens it, pulls up the loose floorboard he has accidentally seen you glance at in one of the rare moments he passed by your chambers.
Paintings.
Dozens of them.
In watercolors, small and delicate, layered carefully between sheets and sheets of parchment.
He pulls them out with shaking hands and lays them across the bed, and he gasps sharply.
They are all of him.
Him in the water, tail and all, holding a girl against his chest while the storm rages in the sea.
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 painted with an intimacy that speaks of someone who has memorized his every angle.
Him peacefully 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 of another person?
The earliest paintings are crude, the work of a fifteen-year-old girl 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 mix 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.
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, and in the water below the cliffs, barely visible, a flash of iridescent blue, a tail, a shadow, a memory of him.
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 cracked and barely functional.
It does not matter. The words work.
"Rafayel? Your voice — you can speak? How —" She stops, seeing his face and sees 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 nor fall.
The curse is broken and his body is his own, and the irony of it is that he is finally free and the freedom may have been bought and paid for by your own life.
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, and like you are just sleeping, but you are no longer breathing.
There is no wound, no blood, no indication if you were drowned. Nothing.
The guards are confused, they do not know and do not see it, but Rafayel does.
His eyes, Lemurian eyes, made for magic, see what human eyes cannot.
He sees the wound.
It is not a cut or tear but 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 supposed to be, a single scale, small and iridescent. It is the deep, shimmering blue of his tail edged with the faintest blush of pink.
It is all that is left of your heart.
The part of you that loved him, the part that bonded you 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 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 the sea.
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.
He does not sing, not anymore.
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 your cousin. You do not even look anything alike. You do not feel anything alike." He laughs bitterly. "The sea witch's magic. It must have clouded my memory, made forget you."
He opens his fist and looks at the scale.
It catches the light, pulsing softly.
"I saw your paintings," he whispers. "Dozens of them. Three years, you waited for me and you never said a word, and when I arrived here 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."
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 was 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
⚜ cw: MDNI! DARK, fem!reader, non-mc reader, warring states period au, historical au, warlord!sylus, second wife!reader arranged/forced marriage, marriage of convenience/political marriage, political intrigue, angst, DDDNE, it gets worse before it gets better, tw pregnancy, tw miscarriage, tw poisoning, tw manipulation, tw death, confinement, tw implied sa (not between sylus and reader), tw gaslighting, tw murder, hurt no comfort (for now), possibly OOC sylus, unbeta'd, unedited.
⚜ a/n: please mind the warnings, this continuation is going to be DARK. i kind of overdid it and went full game of thrones/historical drama. if i missed a tw or cw, please let me know so i can add them 🥹
part one ⮘ part two ⮚ part three (coming soon) ⮚ arranged marriage aus
six months into your marriage, mei's sister arrives at court.
lingyue carries a portrait of mei everywhere, her eyes perpetually red-rimmed with grief.
she's delicate, soft-spoken, devoted to her sister's memory.
she introduces herself as mei’s former lady in waiting and attendant to luke and kieran, apologizing tearfully for still finding it difficult to speak of her loss.
she tells you mei was everything.
how mei was beautiful, wise, and kind. the boys adored her. lord sylus loved her so much. they were so happy. she looks at you with pity, telling you how difficult it must be, from being a hostage to becoming sylus' second wife, and following such a woman like her sister.
the words land like small knives, each one precisely placed.
you assure her you are not trying to replace mei. she smiles sadly, agreeing that of course you couldn't, how could anyone, she just worries about the boys needing stability and familiar faces.
you have no reason to refuse when she asks to continue caring for them.
over the following weeks, lingyue is everywhere. at dinners, at the boys' lessons, in the gardens. always with that mournful expression, always mentioning mei.
mei loved chrysanthemums.
mei always wore jade.
lord sylus smiled more before mei died.
it's like living with a ghost made flesh.
but worse are the moments when you catch her watching you with something cold behind her eyes, there and gone so quickly you think you have imagined it.
you also notice how she tries to position herself with luke and kieran.
telling them stories about their mother, yes, but always with herself at the center.
your mother and i used to do this. your mother would want me to teach you that. when your mother was gone, who took care of you? who stayed?
the boys are polite but distant with her. they don't pull away when she touches them, but they don't lean into her either.
one day you overhear her speaking to them in the garden. her voice is sweet, cajoling.
you know i love you as if you were my own sons, don't you? if anything ever happened, i would take care of you. i would be here. always.
there's something in her tone that makes your skin crawl.
luke's response is cool.
we know, aunt lingyue. but nothing will happen. father is strong and we have our new mother now.
you see something flash across lingyue's face.
rage.
luke and kieran, meanwhile, are slowly becoming yours.
it starts small.
they ask you to judge their archery competitions.
you are fair, you do notlet them cheat, and actually teach them proper form.
they are surprised, most adults either let them win or dismiss them entirely.
then they start seeking you out for other things.
to help with their studies.
someone to practice strategy games with who actually challenges them.
kieran brings you a book about military tactics and asks your opinion.
luke shows you a sketch he made and waits nervously for your response.
you tell them stories about your own brothers.
the eldest who used to sneak you sweets. the second who taught you calligraphy and how to wield a dagger in secret. the third who was always climbing things he shouldn't.
the twins listen with hungry attention, they have never had anyone speak to them like this. not as the emperor’s heirs, but as children who have lost important people in their lives too.
one afternoon, you find kieran crying in the garden.
the anniversary of mei's death is approaching. you sit with him. you do not tell him not to cry, you just stay present. when he finally speaks, he says you remind him of her.
not in looks or manner, but in the way you make him feel safe.
luke overhears.
says quietly that their mother used to listen like you do. used to take them seriously.
aunt lingyue is always sad, always talking about how much the have lost, but you talk about what they still have.
you realize with a start that you love these boys, fiercely.
they may not be your flesh and blood, but they are slowly becoming your sons.
lingyue notices.
you catch her watching when luke holds your hand in the garden.
when kieran falls asleep against your shoulder during evening readings.
her expression is unreadable, it continues to make your skin crawl.
on the other hand, you and sylus continue your careful dance.
he brings you to every council meeting now.
his generals have stopped looking surprised at your presence or when you speak.
you have proven yourself competent and insightful.
you understand both empires, your fallen kingdom and his rising one, and you build bridges between them.
one night, working late over maps and census reports, sylus’ hand brushes yours reaching for the same document. you both freeze and he apologizes, you tell him not to. but he catches your wrist gently. his thumb rests against your pulse point.
he says he should let you go but does not release your wrist.
you agree but don't pull away.
for a moment, you think he might kiss you. his gaze drops to your lips, and your breath catches, and the air between you pulls taut—
then lingyue appears in the doorway with tea.
her eyes widen. she apologizes for interrupting.
sylus releases your wrist like it burned him.
the moment shatters.
he tells you it's late, that you should rest.
you flee before he can see the tears burning your eyes.
three months later, you discover you're pregnant.
it happened during one of the nights that duty demands you to partake in your marital bed, both of you trying not to think too hard about what you were doing.
but now there's a child.
his child.
growing inside you.
you are happy.
maybe this will be a bridge.
maybe this will make him see you as more than a political necessity.
maybe he will finally see you as a real wife, not a hostage.
you confide in your maid, asking her to prepare special teas for pregnancy.
you want to wait a bit longer before telling sylus, you want to be sure.
but then, everything begins to unravel.
it starts small.
mei's jewelry appears in your chambers.
you do not know how it got there.
you have never touched her things, but when sylus sees you with the jade bracelet, his face falls.
you try to explain that you found it on your dressing table, that you didn't take it, but lingyue appears with worried concern, suggesting perhaps you were curious, it's natural to want nice things after all.
sylus walks away before you can defend yourself further.
then there are the whispers.
some servants mention seeing you in the west garden at odd hours. near mei's shrine.
someone claims you were heard speaking ill of the late empress.
it's all lies, but they pile up like stones, building a wall between you and any credibility.
lingyue begins visiting you more frequently during this time.
always with that concerned expression, always bringing tea.
special blends, she says. to help you stay calm during these difficult times, with all the stress of the growing tension with your former kingdom's loyalists.
you drink it, desperate for any comfort, any kindness in the isolation growing around you.
you don't notice how tired you become.
how your body feels increasingly weak.
then documents start appearing with your seal.
correspondence with remaining loyalists from your kingdom. letters suggesting rebellion, betrayal, plans to murder sylus and reclaim your throne.
you have never seen them before.
the handwriting looks like yours but it is not.
the seal must have been forged.
but when the evidence is brought before the council, even you have to admit it looks damning.
sylus' voice is ice when he demands an explanation, his eyes harder than they were on the day he conquered your kingdom.
you realize with dawning horror that he believes it.
he actually believes you would betray him.
you insist you didn't write the letters, that someone is framing you.
he demands to know who.
who would have access to your seal? who could forge your hand so perfectly?
you don't have an answer. you don't know.
luke and kieran try to speak for you, but they are children.
no one listens.
one of the generals actually laughs, suggesting the princes are too young to understand politics, too attached to their new stepmother to see clearly.
worse, envoys from your former kingdom arrive.
they have heard rumors that you have been living as sylus' whore.
that you spread your legs for the conqueror to save yourself, not them.
they are disgusted and ashamed.
you lose all your hope and your own people won't speak in your defense.
you are confined to your chambers. guards posted outside the doors.
you are cut off from everyone except lingyue, who visits with false concern, saying she tried to tell them you wouldn't do this, but the evidence seems so damning.
she brings you more tea.
to help with the stress, she says. to keep your strength up.
you drink it.
you are so alone, so desperate for any kindness, that you do not think hard about it.
you are alone.
trapped.
and pregnant with a child you can't tell anyone about because now it would look like a desperate ploy.
a month passes.
a month of isolation, of morning sickness you hide, of watching your world crumble through the bars of your gilded cage.
there's a banquet but you are not invited, traitors do not attend court functions. but you hear about it later from whispered servant gossip. how lingyue appeared in stunning robes, how she sat near sylus, how she kept his wine cup filled.
three weeks later, lingyue announces she's pregnant.
you hear it from the servants first, the whisper spreading like wildfire through the palace. then sylus himself comes to your chambers, won't meet your eyes, tells you that needs to explain something.
he tells you about the banquet, he doesn't remember much of it.
he tells you woke up the morning after and lingyue was there, on his bed, naked.
it was wrong, dishonorable, but it happened, and now there are consequences.
she's pregnant.
she's claiming it’s nearly three weeks along, which would make the timing match the banquet, though you know enough about pregnancy to realize she should barely be showing symptoms yet.
but no one questions it. why would they?
mei's beloved sister is carrying the emperor's child.
he's taking her as a concubine. he has to, the council demands it, her family demands it, the child deserves recognition.
he is sorry.
but his apologies don’t fix anything.
sorry doesn't change that he's giving her everything you desperately wanted, a child acknowledged and honored, while your own pregnancy, his legitimate child, conceived in your lawful marriage, withers as a secret and unspoken in your womb.
you can not tell him now.
it’s too late
he will think you are lying, that it's a ruse, so you stay silent and feel your heart turn to stone.
lingyue moves into honored quarters for concubines.
she's celebrated, fawned over, treated as the mother of sylus' child.
she continues to play the role of mei's devoted sister perfectly, sighing that mei would have wanted this, that she always said sylus deserved happiness.
that it's poetic, really, mei's sister giving sylus another child, another heir that mei would have wanted him to have.
and then she begins her political maneuvering in earnest.
she influences the council with careful words and quiet suggestions.
the empress' territories should be redistributed as punishment for her treason, shouldn't they?
her people cannot be trusted, they raised a woman who would betray her husband. perhaps a harsher hand is needed. perhaps steeper taxes. perhaps mandatory conscription to the army to prove their loyalty.
several council members agree.
general zhao, who never trusted your kingdom's surrender.
minister feng, who lost his heir during the conquest of your kingdom, felled by one of your brothers.
others who see opportunity in your downfall.
but there are also voices of caution.
minister shen points out that the evidence, while damning, deserves thorough investigation.
general wei notes that the you have proven yourself competent in ruling, would a woman plotting rebellion really work so diligently to improve the empire?
the council is divided.
some hedge their bets, waiting to see which way the wind blows.
but the loudest voices, zhao, feng, and their allies, begin calling for your formal divorce.
not just confinement, complete dissolution of the marriage.
you are a traitor, they argue. you have brought shame to the emperor.
he should cast you aside and marry properly.
someone worthy. someone like...
well, if lingyue is already carrying his child...
the pressure builds.
every council meeting, the same voices.
divorce her. exile her.
some even whisper, execute her.
sylus refuses.
you are still his empress, he says sternly, still his wife.
the evidence will be investigated fully before any permanent decisions are made.
but you can see the doubt in his eyes. the way he won't look at you during the few times he would visit your chambers and the way his jaw tightens when the council mentions divorce.
he's considering it.
your people face harsher treatment under the new policies.
you watch your world crumble from your gilded cage, helpless to stop it.
the stress takes its toll.
morning sickness you can't hide becomes weight loss you can't explain.
you are exhausted, hollow, dying from the inside out.
lingyue's teas continue.
she's so worried and so concerned.
she brings them herself now that you are confined.
special herbs to help you stay calm, to help you sleep, to ease your troubled mind.
you continue to drink them.
luke and kieran notice you are getting worse.
they have been trying to visit you, but lingyue keeps them away.
it's not appropriate, she says sweetly, for the princes to visit a woman accused of treason.
but they are stubborn and clever. they sneak past guards, find the servant entrance to your chambers.
they appear one night, twin faces full of worry.
they announce that you are sick, that they do not believe you betrayed their father, that those letters are lies.
kieran says he knows your handwriting.
you have been teaching him calligraphy for months.
those letters are not the same. the characters are similar but the brush pressure is different, the flow is wrong.
luke says he has overheard servants who had claimed to have seen you in the west garden at odd hours are the same servants who started receiving new jewelry around the same time.
someone paid them.
you break.
finally, after months of holding yourself together, you allow yourself to break.
you tell them you are sick.
that something feels wrong.
you tell them about the whispers, the planted evidence, the too-perfect timing of everything.
you tell them you suspect someone is framing you, though you have no proof.
you don't mention the pregnancy. you haven't told anyone, not even your maid.
It's still too early, too precious, too terrifying to speak aloud when everything else is crumbling around you. when you still don’t know who is framing you.
but you tell them you are frightened. that you feel trapped.
that you don't know who to trust anymore except them.
they listen with identical expressions of fury.
kieran says they will help.
they will find proof.
luke's voice is cold, colder than you've ever heard from a ten-year-old, when he says they do not believe you are a traitor. they know you.
they will prove your innocence.
they promise to find the truth. for you. for justice.
but the next morning, before they can begin investigating properly, you wake in a pool of blood.
the baby is gone.
you lose your child alone in the dark, with only a frightened maid to help you.
the girl is loyal, at least. she doesn't run for the guards or the physicians.
she brings you sheets, holds your hand, cries with you.
the physical pain is nothing compared to the emotional devastation.
you have truly lost everything.
your family, your kingdom, sylus's trust, and now your baby.
the one thing that was purely yours and his, the one hope you had of a bridge between you.
gone.
you didn't even get to tell anyone.
not even sylus.
the baby is just gone.
you make the maid swear never to tell anyone. not the guards. not the physicians. not even the emperor.
no one can know.
they will think you are lying, making it up for sympathy. or worse, they'll use it as added evidence that you are unfit to continue being the empress, that your womb is barren and weak.
the maid promises through her tears.
she'll burn the bloodied sheets, she'll say nothing.
your secret will die with the child who never got to live.
when lingyue visits the next day, her expression of concern is obscene.
she mentions hearing about your unfortunate health troubles.
how the servants noticed you were unwell last night.
how she hopes you're recovering.
she brings you the same tea.
says it will help with the pain, help you rest.
you stare at the cup.
something feels wrong.
you can not explain it nor can you put it into words.
but there's something about the way lingyue is looking at you.
something about how insistent she's been these past weeks that you drink the tea she brings.
how she always watches to make sure you finish it.
how she always takes the cup away with her when she leaves.
you remember the taste.
slightly bitter beneath the honey and herbs.
how you have felt increasingly weak, increasingly tired after you started drinking it.
after she started giving it to you.
you do not know anything for certain.
you have no proof.
but your instincts, the same instincts that helped you survive the fall of your kingdom, that helped you navigate sylus' court, are screaming at you.
don't drink it.
you tell her you are not thirsty. that your stomach can't handle anything right now.
lingyue's smile doesn't waver, but something flickers in her eyes.
she sets the cup down beside you. you should try, she says gently. it will help you heal.
when you still don't reach for it, she sighs softly.
as you wish. rest well.
she leaves, taking the cup with her.
you stare at the door long after she's gone, heart pounding.
you don't know what's in that tea. you don't know if your suspicions are real or if the stress and grief are making you paranoid.
but you're not drinking it again.
not ever.
two months pass.
two months of slow recovery. two months of continued isolation.
two months of hearing lingyue grow more confident, more secure in her position as the emperor's favored concubine carrying his heir.
two months of luke and kieran sneaking to your chambers, bringing you small comforts, whispering that they are still investigating, that they are doing their best to prove your innocence.
two months of lingyue bringing you tea you never drink, her eyes growing colder each time you refuse.
then lingyue also loses her baby.
you hear the wailing from your chambers.
servants rushing, physicians called. the whole palace in uproar.
she claims she lost the baby, and this time, she blames you.
she sobs to the court that you sent her poisoned sweets.
that despite being confined, you somehow managed to smuggle poison to her chambers. that you were so consumed with jealousy and hatred that you murdered her innocent child.
you are brought to the council chambers immediately, confused about the accusations that lingyue has thrown.
general zhao demands your immediate execution.
minister feng calls for torture to extract a confession.
the voices from the faction that opposes your continued existence as the empress despite your supposed treason, grow louder and more vicious.
but sylus, for the first time since this nightmare began, hesitates.
he looks at you.
truly looks at you. sees how thin you have become, how you have lost your color, how utterly broken. sees the guards posted at your door, the isolation, the complete lack of resources.
his voice cuts through the chaos.
how? he asks. how could she have done this?
the council falls silent.
how could a woman confined to her chambers, with no visitors except lingyue herself and a handful of loyal servants, with no allies, no resources, no freedom, how could she possibly smuggle poison to the concubine's quarters?
general zhao sputters.
she has loyalists, she must have—
sylus's gaze is ice.
he asks him to name one.
name a single person who has access to both the empress's chambers and the noble consort's quarters.
name one servant who could have carried poison without being searched by the guards he personally stationed.
silence.
minister feng tries. perhaps youhad poison hidden from before—
sylus cuts him off.
the empress has been confined for months. her chambers have been searched three times. every gift, every item, every scrap of fabric examined. where exactly would she hide poison? and how would she get it to lingyue without any contact?
the logic is inescapable.
minister shen speaks up from the cautious faction.
he suggests investigating lingyue’s claims as thoroughly as they have investigated the empress's alleged treason.
murmurs of agreement from some council members. not all, zhao and feng's faction still push for your punishment, but it is enough to make sylus pause.
you watch something shift in sylus's expression.
doubt.
not doubt in your guilt for the original treason charges, the forged letters still seem real.
but doubt that you could have done this.
doubt that lingyue's convenient miscarriage is what it appears to be.
it's not exoneration.
not yet.
but it's the first crack in lingyue's perfect facade.
lingyue sees it too.
you watch panic flash across her face before she buries it in tears, claiming the trauma has confused her, perhaps she was mistaken about the sweets, perhaps it was just the stress of being a concubine.
she's elevated to noble consort anyway, a compensation for her loss, protection from future harm.
but sylus's eyes linger on her with something new.
suspicion.
the trap is still set.
lingyue still has her rank, her position, the council's support, though not unanimous anymore. sylus is still bound to her politically.
you are still the disgraced empress who allegedly committed treason.
but the seeds of doubt have been planted.
and luke and kieran are still investigating.
while you recover from the miscarriage, body healing even as your spirit remains shattered, luke and kieran work in the shadows.
they are ten years old and brilliant and determined and furious.
they whisper one night that they have found something.
inconsistencies in lingyue's stories.
dates that do not match.
servants who remember her in places she claimed not to be.
she was in the kitchen months before their mother died. the head cook remembers because she was asking about herbs, specific herbs, wanting to know their properties. medicinal uses. toxic doses.
the cook thought it strange but lingyue said she wanted to understand what the physicians were giving mei.
your blood runs cold.
they think lingyue killed their mother. and now she's trying to take her place, and yours.
it's almost too horrible to believe.
but it makes terrible sense.
mei died suddenly of mysterious illness.
lingyue insisting to continue staying after, a worried sister caring for her sister’s family, her children, her husband.
she's been here ever since, weaving herself into the fabric of sylus's household, waiting for her chance.
you tell them you need proof. real proof. their father and the council would not believe suspicions.
they nod with grim determination, promising to find it.
the proof comes from an unexpected source.
one of the palace physicians, an old man who served under mei, comes forward.
he's been troubled for years by mei's death.
the symptoms didn't quite fit natural illness, but he had no proof.
sudden deaths are not uncommon but these things happen.
until lingyue made a mistake.
she came to him, claiming pregnancy symptoms. morning sickness, fatigue, tender breasts. but her descriptions were wrong. slightly off. a woman who had never been pregnant, trying to fake the experience based on things she had heard or read.
when lingyue is elevated as a concubine, the physician lurks in the shadows, he observes, time had passed but her belly was still flat, her face had not changed, no other physical symptom that would prove the pregnancy's existence.
when he suggested an examination to ensure the baby's health, she became flustered, said it was too early, she would call for him if there is anything to report.
she never did.
then the miscarriage happened and she confined herself to her chambers after the incident at court, she refused to see palace physicians and let them tend to her, to examine her.
this pushes him to investigate further, loyal to sylus’ house, the family who had sponsored his education, the family whom he served since his apprenticeship.
he starts with quiet inquiries. old records.
he found the herbalist who had sold lingyue some herbs, the man had fled the capital years ago but the physician tracked him down, paid him for the truth.
he found the midwife lingyue bribed to provide evidence of pregnancy, who claim she'd examined lingyue and confirmed that she was with child.
he found the servants who'd been paid to plant evidence in your chambers, to spread rumors, to lie about seeing you in places you'd never been.
and then, going through the records of your confinement, he found something else.
servants noting you'd been unwell one night.
bloodied sheets that were quickly burned.
a maid who'd been given extra coin, he'd assumed for silence about some minor embarrassment.
but when he questioned the maid privately, she'd broken down.
you had been pregnant, she says sobbing, you had lost the child, the emperor's heir, while being imprisoned in your chambers. you had made her swear never to tell anyone.
the physician's hands shake as he compiles his final report.
the empress had been carrying the emperor's child. and she had lost it, almost certainly due to the stress of false accusations combine but there must be something else as well, he needs to know more.
but he brings his initial findings to luke and kieran first, knowing the princes have the emperor's ear even if you no longer don't.
believing that a father might dismiss an old physician but would never dismiss his own sons.
the boys read the report about your miscarriage and go absolutely still.
their father had lost another child, their sibling, their little brother or sister.
they lost another member of their family, this time someone they never had the chance to meet.
you had lost a baby alone in the dark, believing yourself disgraced, unable to even speak its existence aloud.
they bring everything to sylus.
you watch it unfold from your chambers.
hear the shouting, the running footsteps.
watch lingyue dragged from her rooms by guards, screaming about how she loved sylus, how she deserved to be his wife, how you were never good enough.
sylus' voice carries through the palace, cold with a rage you have never ever heard before.
he is demanding answers.
he is demanding the truth.
lingyue is brought before the full court with every noble, every general, every servant who spread her lies.
your maid, the same one who burned the sheets who kept your secret, helps you out of your chambers to witness what's happening.
sylus makes her confess.
publicly and in excruciating detail.
the physician testifies first, his voice heavy with old guilt.
mei's death looked sudden.
one day she seemed well, the next she was burning with fever and convulsing.
dead within two days.
but it wasn't sudden at all.
he'd been reviewing his old notes, records he kept of mei's health over the years.
the fatigue mei complained about in her final months. the occasional fevers. the unexplained weakness. he'd attributed it to stress, sylus was planning major military campaigns, preparing to conquer new territories. the palace was tense, busy. of course the empress was tired.
he was wrong.
lingyue had been poisoning mei for at least six months before her death. small doses, carefully calculated. building up in her system. weakening her gradually.
the timing was deliberate.
sylus was planning his conquests.
preparing to expand his empire. he would need an empress by his side, a strong one, a healthy one, one who could manage the palace while he was at war, who could bear more children to secure the succession.
lingyue saw her opportunity.
mei was tired from raising twins, managing a kingdom about to go to war.
if she seemed weak, seemed unable to handle the pressure...
if she died at just the right moment...
sylus would need to remarry, quickly.
maybe someone close to the family.
he already has his heirs, he has freedom to choose his second wife.
maybe someone who already knew the children, knew the household.
someone like his late wife's devoted sister.
the physician's hands shake.
mei likely didn't even realize she was sick. just thought she was tired. overworked. getting older.
the final dose, administered the night before mei's sudden illness, was massive.
it triggered the acute symptoms everyone witnessed. the fever, the rapid decline.
it looked sudden because the final attack was sudden.
but mei had been dying slowly for months.
he should have seen it. should have tested for toxins and poisons.
but who would suspect anything?
the court is silent, horrified.
sylus’ face is carved from stone, but you see his hands clench.
he had thought mei died of natural illness.
swift, tragic, but natural.
in truth, she was murdered.
slowly.
by someone she trusted, by someone she loved.
by her own sister.
but the physician continues.
there's more, he says.
they found lingyue's private journals when they searched her chambers.
plans. strategies. written in her own hand.
if luke and kieran could not be molded to love her as a mother, if they remained loyal to mei's memory, if they rejected her, she would arrange accidents.
tragic accidents.
children fall from horses. children eat poisoned sweets meant for someone else.
children disappear during hunting trips.
then her own child, the one she planned to have with sylus, would become the sole heir.
the court erupts in horrified shouting.
luke and kieran sit frozen, faces pale.
they are ten years old and just learned their aunt planned to murder them.
sylus' hands are shaking with barely controlled rage.
not only did lingyue kill his wife, she also planned to kill his sons.
you feel sick.
you had saved them without knowing.
by becoming their stepmother, by winning their love,
you had made them too visible, too beloved.
lingyue could not touch them without suspicion falling on her.
so she had tried to destroy you instead.
the herbalist testifies next.
tells how lingyue came to him years ago, asking about poisons. slow-acting ones that mimic natural illness. he had sold her what she wanted, he needed the money, did not ask questions. did not suspect anything.
the midwife admits she was paid to lie about examining lingyue, to confirm a pregnancy that never existed.
the servants confess to planting mei's jewelry in your chambers, to spreading rumors, to claiming they saw you near the shrine at odd hours.
they beg for mercy, saying lingyue paid them, threatened them, they were afraid, they are only servants and easily disposable.
then the physician presents his final piece of evidence.
the report about your own miscarriage.
the court goes utterly silent as he reads it aloud.
the empress had been pregnant. approximately two months along when the accusations began. she lost the babe during her confinement. the maid who attended her was sworn to secrecy, the empress believed no one would believe her. she was afraid.
every eye in the court turns to you.
you feel exposed. violated. your most private grief now public knowledge.
sylus doesn't look at you.
he can't look at you.
his hands are white-knuckled on the armrests of his throne.
the physician's voice is heavy when he concludes.
based on his investigation, the miscarriage was caused by a combination of extreme stress of the accusations, of the confinement, and the poison lingyue had been secretly administering through the teas she brought you.
the same poison she used on empress mei, but in smaller, more measured doses.
the court explodes into chaos.
lingyue is forced to confess the rest.
everything.
she admits she forged the letters.
bribed the servants.
planted mei's jewelry.
spread rumors through your former kingdom.
she admits drugged sylus at the banquet, there was no child, could never be a child because sylus did not touch her, did not dishonor her, nothing happened between them that night and she faked it all.
and why did she cause your miscarriage instead of stealing your baby as she had originally planned?
the court goes silent, waiting.
lingyue's voice is bitter.
because sylus would not exile you despite everything she did.
because he would not cast you aside even when most of the council is pressuring him to.
because he refuses to dissolve your marriage.
you were still there, still visible, still technically empress.
she could not steal a baby from a woman who was confined but not gone.
there are too many potential witnesses, too many ears, too much risk.
so she made sure you lost it.
the teas she brought you, gentle poisons, enough to weaken you, to make your body unable to sustain a pregnancy under the stress she was orchestrating.
she made sure your baby died.
and then she staged her own loss, blame it on you to gain more power, a higher position, protection.
If she became noble consort, she would be untouchable, and sylus would be forced to share her bed as the laws dictate.
her plan was perfect, with that rank and the council's support, sylus could never set her aside. and with you branded as a traitor and unfit mother, then he could never risk another child with you.
the council would never allow it.
she had won or thought she had.
until luke and kieran brought proof of her crimes.
the court sits in stunned silence.
minister shen, emboldened by the confessions, demands to know.
why? why would mei's own sister do such monstrous things?
lingyue's mask finally shatters completely.
she screams that she saw sylus first.
she loved him first.
she was fifteen and sylus was the most magnificent thing she had ever seen, strong, dangerous, beautiful.
she attended a border negotiation with her father, and there he was.
she fell completely.
but when marriage discussions began two years later, sylus only had eyes for mei.
mei, the legitimate daughter.
mei with her grace and beauty and proper birth.
mei who could be a real empress, not the bastard half-sister born to a concubine.
lingyue was never even considered.
not for marriage. not for anything.
just the illegitimate daughter, useful for nothing.
and mei knew, she claims.
mei knew lingyue loved sylus, and she took him anyway.
flaunted her happiness. bore his children. became his empress.
mei took everything while lingyue watched from the shadows, the eternal bastard sister.
so when sylus was preparing his conquests, when mei was tired and stressed and vulnerable, lingyue saw her chance.
if mei couldn't handle being empress during wartime, if mei died when sylus needed someone strong...
the legitimate daughter had her turn.
it was time for the bastard to take what should have been hers from the beginning.
the court is stunned into silence.
this wasn't about devotion to a dead sister.
it was about jealousy, obsession, and a bastard's rage at being overlooked her entire life.
sylus looks like he's been struck.
he never knew.
never knew lingyue had been in love with him.
never knew she harbored such hatred for her own sister.
you understand something in that moment.
lingyue did not love sylus. she loved the idea of what he represented.
the legitimacy, power, being chosen over mei for once in her life.
she wanted to take mei's place not out of love, but out of spite.
and she had been willing to murder everyone in her path to do it.
then lingyue's eyes find yours across the throne room.
her voice turns vicious, hysterical.
and you.
you were just another obstacle. another woman who would get what lingyue was owed.
it’s so much worse that you are a princess, the sole surviving royal blood from your kingdom that sylus had conquered.
it's so much worse that you are of marriageable age.
so perfect, so noble, quickly winning over his sons, earning his respect in council.
she had to destroy you before you became what mei was.
beloved, secure, and untouchable.
she said that she should have just killed you outright. that she should have used stronger poison in that tea. that she should have slit your throat in your sleep instead of being patient, being careful.
and she should have killed mei’s precious sons too when she had the chance.
her eyes are wild, manic. she didn't expect this. didn't expect her downfall to come from children.
ten-year-old boys who were supposed to love her, accept her, see her as their new mother.
instead they moved behind the shadows, they investigated. they found proof. they destroyed everything.
for you.
if she'd killed sylus's sons when they were smaller, easier targets, there would be no heirs left to challenge her own children.
no one to question her story. no one clever enough to find the evidence. no one brave enough to do this for you.
her voice rises to a shriek.
you ungrateful little beasts! i raised you! i cared for you after your mother died! after i killed her! and this is how you repay me?
guards have to restrain her as she lunges toward the boys.
luke's face is pale but his voice is steady.
you killed our mother. you tried to kill our new mother. you planned to kill us. why would we ever love you?
kieran adds quietly.
you were never our aunt. you were just a murderer wearing her face.
lingyue screams.
a sound of pure rage and frustration and defeat.
she should have killed them, she continues to scream, should have killed all of you. should have burned the whole palace down rather than let sylus be happy with anyone but her.
the court continues to watch in horrified silence as she completely unravels.
this is a woman consumed by jealousy, entitlement, and obsessive rage.
a woman who murdered her own sister, framed an innocent empress, planned to murder children, poisoned an unborn baby, and would have destroyed anyone who stood between her and what she believed she was owed.
sylus' face is stone. but his hands shake where they rest on his sons' shoulders protectively.
you see the exact moment he understands the full truth of what almost happened.
his wife, his real wife, his empress, nearly executed for crimes she didn't commit.
his sons nearly murdered in their beds. his unborn child poisoned before it ever had a chance to live.
his empire nearly handed to a madwoman who saw people as nothing but obstacles or tools.
all because he believed lies.
because he trusted the wrong person.
because he failed to see what was right in front of him.
sylus does not execute her quickly and does not grant her the mercy of a swift death.
first, he has her paraded through the capital in chains.
every street, every market, every corner where she spread lies about you.
heralds announce her crimes. treason. murder. fraud. attempted murder of the empress. conspiracy to murder the imperial heirs. poisoning the unborn heir.
the people throw garbage. rotting vegetables. stones. worse things.
lingyue screams the whole way.
screams about how she deserved to be empress. how mei stole what was hers.
how you are nothing but a conquered whore.
how sylus' sons should have died with their mother.
by the time they drag her back to the palace, her voice is hoarse, her face bruised from thrown rocks, her fine robes filthy and torn.
then he strips her mother’s family of their titles. her aunts, uncles, and cousins who had helped in her schemes, who also wants her to be elevated, who also wants a fraction of power that she had wanted to gain.
he confiscates their lands.
exiles them to the furthest borders of the empire, where they will live in disgrace for the rest of their lives.
for lingyue herself, he orders a public execution.
but first, the full trial. three days of evidence, testimony, witnesses.
every detail laid bare.
on the third day, sentence is passed.
death by the same poison she used on mei and you.
not the slow accumulation mei suffered, lingyue doesn't deserve that much time.
but the final dose.
the killing dose.
the one that burns and destroys in hours instead of months.
she's given it in wine, before the full court.
death takes six hours.
fever first, climbing until she's delirious. then convulsions. difficulty breathing. her heart failing in stages.
the imperial physician monitors it all, documenting symptoms.
this is medicine too, understanding how the poison killed, so it can never be used again.
so physicians will recognize it if they ever see these symptoms again.
you attend the trial but leave before the execution begins.
you have seen enough of her.
luke and kieran stay, not to watch her die, but to witness justice for their mother.
they are old enough to understand. old enough to need this closure.
sylus stays with them.
when it's over, lingyue's body is buried without honors in an unmarked ground outside the city walls. not in the family tombs. not anywhere sacred.
just dirt and shame.
her name is struck from all records except the criminal annals, where her crimes are preserved as warning.
you feel nothing but a hollow sense of finality.
mei can finally rest.
and maybe, finally, so can you.
⚜ LADs Masterlist | AO3
⚜ a/n: first of all, thank you so much for all the support for part one. i am so nervous about this. i think i mentioned in one of my fics that i am a huge game of thrones fan and i also enjoy historical dramas (there's a lot of got references i have added and lingyue and mei are also partially inspired by shin and lihua from the apothecary diaries). i love the schemes, court politics, and drama a lot that i may have went all out and added too much for this. i hope it is not too dark.
if i missed a tag for the cw, please please let me know!
Please let me know what you think and yes, there's going to be part three.
thank you once again for all your support and i hope you enjoyed reading. T_T
