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Now, sitting in the university library three days later, you couldn't focus on a single line of text in front of you. You were supposed to be studying, but the quiet just made the noise in your head louder. Close your eyes for even a second and you felt it again, four fingers buried inside you, stretching you past what you thought you could take, your pussy clenching around them in little aftershocks. The warmth of Zayne’s cum soaking through his trousers against your bare ass.

The library's silence felt exactly like the silence after you'd come.

Dread settled low in your chest. Was this it? Had you wrecked the only thing that ever felt safe? You hadn't seen any of them in days—dodging texts, taking the long way to class, hiding in corners of campus you didn't even know existed. Two years of friendship and you'd thrown it all away because a little bit of alcohol got you horny. Fuck!

You didn't hear the sneaker scuff against carpet a few rows over. Didn't notice the eyes tracking the nervous way your finger kept dragging across your bottom lip.

Rafayel stood half hidden by art history, knuckles white against the shelf, watching you with the same burning focus he'd had three nights ago.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Forty eight hours after you fled Zayne's dorm, the deadbolt on his door slid shut again. Everyone—except you— was back again.

Caleb leaned against the wall spinning a basketball on his finger until it dropped, thudding against the floor. He'd mutter something under his breath, scoop it up, start over. Rafayel paced the strip of carpet between the twin beds, flipping through a stack of index cards he wasn't reading—snap, snap, snap. Sylus stood by the window with his back to the room, fingers tapping some restless rhythm against the glass. Xavier was the only one still, flat on his stomach on Zayne's bed, chin in his hands, staring blankly at a stray bobby pin left behind on the floor. Zayne sat at his desk pretending to study an anatomy chart. He'd adjusted the lamp three times. Tried to ignore the testosterone fogging up his room. But between the ball, the pacing, and the tapping, focus was a lost cause.

He slammed his textbook shut, took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. Caleb dropped the ball.

"Stop pretending," he said, voice dropping into flat calm. "You didn't come here to study. Just say what you actually want to say so I can kick you all out."

Silence. Quick, guilty glances passed between them—nobody wanting to be the one to crack first, to admit they'd all been picturing the same thing. You, two nights ago, coming apart under their hands.

Rafayel cleared his throat first, tossing his index cards onto the bed "Fiiiiine. Hypothetically. Say a guy's already inside a girl. All the way in. How do you hit that spot? Is there a specific angle?"

A muscle jumped in Zayne's jaw. "The angle doesn't change just because your dick is inside her, Rafayel. Shallow thrusts, angled up. Not just slamming into her. Though I doubt you have the stability to hold that for long."

"I have great stability!" Rafayel hissed, ears burning pink, thumb rubbing against his middle finger as the memory of you made his pulse spike.

"He once held a paintbrush at the exact same angle for an hour straight," Xavier offered, not lifting his chin from his hands.

"See? Stability."

"That's your wrist, Rafayel. Different muscle group entirely," Caleb said.

From the bed, Xavier's voice cut through again, quiet and lazy. "What about when she's on top? Or on the edge of a desk. How do you go down on her so she can grind as hard as she wants? For when she needs to control the movements herself."

Caleb snorted "A desk? Real smooth, Xavi."

"Better than what you're about to ask."

"You don't even know what I'm about to ask."

"I've known you for two years. I know exactly what you're about to ask.”

Caleb's ears went red, but he plowed ahead anyway. "Okay. Hypothetically, say a guy's bigger than average. How's he supposed to use her mouth without hurting her throat?”

"Bigger than average?" Rafayel repeated.

"I am."

"Compared to what?”

"Compared to the general population."

"You've never seen the general population's dick. You've seen yours and you've seen ours and apparently that's all the data you needed?."

Caleb opened his mouth, found nothing, and closed it again.

Sylus finally stopped tapping the glass and a low laugh rumbled out of him "If a guy's significantly bigger than average…”

“Not you too…” Rafayel groaned

“How does he make sure he actually fits, without hurting her? If she's tight. Really tight. Where's the point her body just gives up and takes it?”

Zayne pinched the bridge of his nose again. "I cannot believe I'm hearing grown men compare dick sizes in my dorm room while pretending it's for science."

"It is for science," Caleb said.

"It is not for science, Caleb."

"Reproductive science."

"Get out of my room."

Nobody moved. Zayne let out a long breath through his nose, the kind that meant he was three seconds from actually losing it.

The silence came back, heavier.

Zayne put his glasses back on slowly, fingers locking onto the edge of his desk until his knuckles went white, whatever calm he usually wore was completely gone.

“Every single one of you needs patience and a lot less idiocy than you're currently showing," Zayne said "I'll answer each question once. Once. And then you're all getting the hell out of my dorm. Am I clear?”

Their faces stayed blank. None of them realized they were all in the same boat.

Rafayel thought he was the only one picturing your breasts. Caleb thought his face fucking question was a private fantasy about your mouth, Xavier was silently planning how to put his tongue to use on you again and Sylus was quietly calculating exactly how to stretch you open and how slow he'd have to go. They were entirely oblivious to the fact that not a single one of them was thinking about an imaginary girl. Every single question in that room had your name underneath it.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The shadow over your book solidified into something real. Rafayel had stepped out from behind the art history shelves, and walked straight over, pulled out the chair across from you, and dropped into it like he owned the table.

He propped his chin in his palm and smiled at you. Easy. Unbothered. Like three nights ago he hadn't had your leg pinned wide open over Zayne's leg, staring at you with eyes blown wide and wild.

"You've been reading the same page for ten minutes," he said, voice smooth, carrying that familiar teasing lilt like nothing in the world had changed. "Is it the most boring book ever written or are you hiding in here?"

Your mouth had gone dry. You closed the book slowly, hoping he wouldn't notice your hands weren't steady. "Just studying, Raf. Got a lot going on."

"Clearly," he said, dragging one finger in a slow circle against the table, eyes never leaving yours.

He didn't take the hint to go. He pulled a sketchbook out of his bag instead and started doodling something on the margins while you tried, and failed, to read the same sentence for the fourth time. Every few minutes he'd glance up, catch you watching, and smirk like he'd won something. You'd duck back to your notes. He'd go back to sketching. The cycle repeated itself until you couldn't tell if you were studying or being studied.

"You're doing it again," he murmured eventually, not looking up from his sketchbook.

"What?"

"Biting your lip…” He flipped the sketchbook closed before you could see what he'd drawn. "It's distracting."

"You're the one distracting me."

"I'm just sitting here, very quietly, minding my own business."

"You sat down across from me, uninvited."

"I go to this school. I'm allowed in the library." He grinned, and it was the same easy, infuriating grin he always wore.

When you finally packed up, he packed up too, slinging his bag over one shoulder and falling into step beside you without asking if that was okay. You walked across campus together. He talked sbout a canvas he was prepping, about a professor who kept docking him points for too much emotion in his color theory, about some gallery downtown that wanted his portfolio. Normal things. Easy things. He never once brought up the dorm. Never said Xavier's name, or Zayne's, or anything about orgasms or the sounds you'd made that day.

But it was there anyway. In every silence. In the half second too long his eyes dropped to your mouth mid sentence before flicking back up like nothing happened. In the way his shoulder kept finding yours on the narrow sidewalk, brief and electric, like he was doing it on purpose and daring you to call him out. You grabbed coffee. He ordered for you without asking, remembering exactly how you took it, and didn't comment when your fingers brushed his over the cup and you both pretended not to notice.

The whole afternoon felt like holding your breath.

By the time you made it back to your building Rafayel was still beside you. Still talking. Still walking like he had every right to be there. You didn't stop him at the stairs. You didn't stop him in the hallway. And when your key finally turned in the lock and the door swung open, whatever fragile, careful normalcy you'd both been playing at for the last three hours fell apart completely.

You barely had time to kick the door shut.

Rafayel's palms hit the wood on either side of your head, and then his mouth was on yours and there was no easing into it, no polite preamble, just him, kissing you like he'd been thinking about nothing else for three days. He tasted like dark coffee and barely leashed desperation. Your hands found his chest on instinct, fingers twisting into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer.

He'd been your first crush out of all of them. The beautiful, dramatic, slightly impossible artist who always seemed to exist outside of your reach. And now he had you pinned against your own door.

"Three days," he breathed against your mouth "Three days of you hiding and leaving my texts on read."

"Raf—"

"I counted the hours." His forehead dropped to yours "I had to stop because… it was embarrassing."

His hands moved before you could say something else—down your neck, across your shoulders, fingers curling into the hem of your shirt and pulling it up and over your head. He dropped it somewhere. Didn't look where it landed. He was too busy looking at you.

He'd been replaying it for three nights straight, stroking his cock raw. The light catching your skin. Zayne's hands on you. The sounds you'd made. The image had lodged itself somewhere behind his eyes and refused to leave.

His fingers found the clasp of your bra, knuckles brushing the curve of your spine, and you shivered so hard it traveled through his hands. He undid it carefully—not slowly, he wasn't capable of slow right now—and slid the straps off your shoulders, tossing it aside.

"I kept thinking about this," he said, half to himself. "Zayne had his hands on you and I was sitting three feet away going completely insane." He had been dying to see your breasts again since he had seen your nipples turn tight under Zayne's fingers.

He cupped you gently, and the slight roughness of his palms against your skin pulled a sound out of you immediately. He felt it more than heard it.

"Yeah, just like that" he murmured.

His hands were trembling slightly, he noticed and hated it but couldn't stop it. His hands never trembled. But this was you, and you were looking up at him with those eyes, and his hands were shaking like he was an eighteen year old that had never touched anyone before in his life.

His thumbs dragged over your nipples as he watched your face, not your chest, the way your lips parted, the way your head tipped back an inch. Cataloguing. Filing it away. Learning the shape of you the way he learned everything—through touch, through attention, through taking his time even when every instinct was screaming at him not to..

"You have no clue," he said quietly, thumbs circling again, "what it was like to watch you and not be able to—" He stopped. Pressed his lips together. His jaw worked like he was deciding how honest to be. "I kept thinking about what sounds you'd make if it was just me. If I got to take my time."

His hands lifted your breasts slightly, testing the weight with the same attention he gave to everything he cared about. His eyes tracked the movement.

"I want to draw you like this someday," he said, almost offhand, like the thought had just surfaced. Then his gaze flicked up to yours. "Can I?.”

Your back arched off the door and he took that as the invitation it was, mouth closing over your right breast with a hungry sound that vibrated against your skin. His tongue worked tight circles around your nipple before he pulled it deep, sucking hard enough to make your knees buckle, hands moving to grip your waist to keep you upright. When he finally pulled off, he dragged his mouth across to the other side, slower this time, lips brushing the soft underside before he bit down carefully and then sucked until a mark bloomed red against your skin, exactly where he wanted it.

He pulled back just far enough to look at it. Something satisfied moved across his face.

"There," he said quietly before he pressed his face back into your skin and groaned like you were killing him.

You didn't fully register the part where you moved from the door to your bed. Clothes came off in pieces—his shirt somewhere by the desk, your jeans a problem that took both of you longer than it should have, both of you half laughing for about three seconds before his mouth found your throat and the laughing stopped. The sheets felt cold against your back when you finally went down. Rafayel was all heat, hovering over you, weight braced on one arm, looking down at you with the same burning eyes that had been watching you from across that library for the better part of an hour.

He'd shed his pants and underwear at some point. He was fully hard, thick and leaking, a bead of moisture gathered at the tip that made your stomach flip because you remembered what he'd looked like three nights ago, damp fabric, clenched jaw and eyes that couldn't look away from you.

He parted your thighs and settled between them. He'd painted you in his head a hundred times in the last three days. He kept going back to the image of you spread open and wanting, the way you'd looked when you were right at the edge. He'd tried to work through it. Picked up a brush, stared at a blank canvas, put the brush down. Made coffee. Stared at his phone. Almost texted you seventeen times.

He guided himself to your entrance, and Zayne's voice chose that exact moment to surface in his memory. "Shallow thrusts, angled up. You have to use your hips to angle the pressure up against the anterior wall with every thrust. And internal targeting alone isn't always enough. You'll need to add direct stimulation to her clitoris at the same time if you actually want her to cum."

He almost laughed. Instead he shifted his weight and looked at you with an expression that was equal parts focused and insufferable.

"I did some research..." he said.

"Raf..."

"For artistic purposes." He pressed forward, just barely, just enough to feel the heat of your pussy against the tip of his cock, and watched your face.

He let out a slow, shaking breath and pushed inside you.

The sound he made wasn't dignified. It was pulled out of him by the way you gripped him—tight and hot—your body drawing him in like it had been waiting specifically for him. He sank all the way to the hilt, pelvis pressed flush against yours, and stayed there for a moment with his forehead dropped to your shoulder and his jaw locked so hard it ached.

He needed a second. Just one second.

You were clawing at his shoulders, nails dragging, and the sting of it helped him focus.

Pull back. Shallow. Angle up. Zayne's voice was sitting in the back of his skull like an annotation in the margin of a textbook. He wanted to be annoyed about it, but not right now, he was going to be annoyed about it later. Right now he pulled back slowly, almost all the way out, felt you clench around the tip of his dick like you were trying to keep him inside, and thrusted back in with his hips tilted up.

The sound you made rattled something loose in his chest.

He felt it, the moment the angle caught, the way your whole body seized around him, legs snapping tight around his waist and heels digging into the small of his back trying to pull him deeper. He'd hit it exactly. The spot Xavier had worked open with his fingers three nights ago, and the memory of watching that—watching you cum for Xavier—made something possessive and dark curl through him.

It was his turn now.

He reached down between your bodies, fingers sliding through the slick until his thumb found your clit, swollen and twitching, and pressed down.

"Is that—" His voice broke halfway through the question. He cleared his throat, face burning. "Is that it?"

You answered by moaning his name, which he was choosing to take as a yes.

He kept the same rhythm, thumb working circles around your clit. Your walls fluttering around him in little pulses was making it extremely difficult to think. He had to remind himself several times that he was an artist. He had the patience. He was going to make you cum and squirt just like Xavier did.

His hands were shaking again.

"I've got you," he pressed his mouth to your temple, your cheek, wherever he could reach. "I've got you, I've got you, cutie"

He picked up the pace slowly, maintaining the angle through sheer stubbornness. The sounds filling the room were obscene—wet and unavoidable—and Rafayel didn't care about any of it because you were falling apart underneath him and he couldn't look away from your face.

He'd painted a lot of things. Spent years chasing the right light, the right color, the right moment that made something ordinary look like it meant something. He'd never painted anything that looked like you did right now and he was already furious at himself because he knew he would never be able to.

He drove into you harder, felt the headboard knock once against the wall, and decided he didn't care.

"You're so tight," he choked out, the words barely making it past his teeth, pressed into the wet skin of your neck. His lips dragged down to your collarbone, teeth grazing, and his thumb kept its pressure on your clit without mercy. "You keep...fuck...every time I hit it you...It feels so good"

The pressure was building fast, coiling low in your abdomen, that same terrifying weight you'd felt under Xavier's fingers—except this was different, this was Rafayel, his chest against yours and his mouth on your throat and you couldn't think about anything else.

You bore down without thinking, muscles releasing the way Zayne had told you to, pushing back against him, and Rafayel made a sound against your neck that was almost pained.

"Raf...please, I'm gonna..."

"Don't hold it, cutie. Give it to me" he whispered right against your ear. 

A rush of heat soaked the sheets beneath you as you cried his name into the quiet room. Not a whisper. Not a gasp. His name, loud and completely undone.

Rafayel groaned like something in him gave way.

Whatever control he'd been holding onto—the careful rhythm, the patience, the angle, all of it, shattered the second he felt you cum around him. He buried himself as deep as he could go and followed you over the edge, shaking, both hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he poured into you in long spurts.

He collapsed onto your chest.

His heart was slamming against your ribs, your fingers were tangled in his hair from some point you couldn't remember. The room was quiet except for both of you trying to remember how lungs worked.

His lips moved against your collarbone 

"I sketched you. In the library today. While you weren't looking." His fingers traced something slow and shapeless against your ribs. "You looked like you were carrying something heavy." A breath. "I wanted to take it from you.”

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     An awkward chuckle slipped through Miguel’s clenched teeth as his cheeks flamed at her teasing, but X didn’t seem to notice as she stopped in front of him. 

     “¿Qué estás haciendo … ici? (What are you doing … here?)” she asked in her usual mixture of Spanish and French. “¿Es ‘aquí’ en Español? (Is it ‘here’ in Spanish?)”

     “Sí, sí,” Miguel confirmed with an enthusiastic nod. “I … I got this … for you …” 

     He stepped aside and gently nudged a brand new purple tumbler across the counter, then lowered his gaze from hers shyly. X stepped closer to the bottle, her hands clasped together to stop her from waving them about with excitement. A purple bottle?! Purple?! A beautiful little tumbler that the man she so loved and admired had gotten especially for her?!

     She reached forward and wrapped her hands around the bottle, her movements tight with intensely controlled restraint. There was so much excited energy inside of her though, that she couldn’t stop her toes from wriggling around in her boots. She swiped up the tumbler and began bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet when she turned to face him. 

     “Thank you,” she told him, clutching the bottle tightly to her chest. Migue regarded her with a soft smile, then reached forward to brush her hair behind her ear. 

     “You know, you can …” he paused to wave his arms around meaningfully. “You can move if you want to.” 

     X opened and closed her mouth as her bounces turned into small jumps. It was— he was okay with her expressing herself like that? People didn’t usually let her physically express her excitement like that; they’d make her force it down and compress it into a container that was nowhere near big enough to hold it until she could find somewhere isolated to let it all out. 

     Miguel held a hand out to her, noticing how carefully she was holding her bottle, and she handed it off to him so she could begin jumping up and down, her hands waving about as she spun around with an excited squeal. She turned back to him once she was done and touched her fingers together in a prayer pose. “Thank you.” 

     And then she leaped forward, throwing her body against his as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

     Miguel stood frozen in place for a second, unsure how to react. Sure, it wasn’t the first time she was hugging him, but it was the first time she was hugging him in public. 

     Miguel’s gaze flickered around their surroundings, nervously taking note of all the eyes trained on him, all the murmured whispers being exchanged around them. Dios, they were going to be the talk of the town for the rest of the—

     “Miguel,” X whispered, the naughty smile clear in her voice, “if you don’t hug me back, I’m gonna kiss your cheek in front of everyone.” 

     Miguel snapped his arms around her waist immediately. X let out a soft snicker, then stretched up to get closer to his ear. 

     “Gracías, mi araña,” she repeated before burying her face in his shoulder and wriggling happily against him. A smile crept onto Miguel’s lips at her unwavering excitement and he melted forward, curling tighter around her to keep her secure. It took about a minute, but eventually, she calmed down, sinking against him as the adrenaline finally dissipated from her system. Miguel loosened his grip on her, and X took it as a cue to pull away. She reached for her tumbler and slid it back over to her to explore it more. Miguel watched quietly as she unscrewed the lid and inspected the contents. Finally, she lifted the bottle to her lips and took a sip. 

     “Wow!” X exclaimed—maybe a little dramatically. “This is even better than how I make it!” 

     Miguel fixed her with a doubtful look and she laughed before rubbing his arm affectionately.

     “You want me to make your coffee too?” she asked with a tilt of her head. Miguel gazed at her in silence for a moment, too distracted by how pretty she looked with her hair falling to frame her face like that to listen to what she was saying. 

     “Uh, no!” he replied suddenly, straightening his own head. “I can … I can make it, arañita.” 

     “Then go make it!” X commanded, grabbing her tumbler before walking around to the other side of the island. Miguel raised an amused eyebrow as he watched her climb into the middle seat. 

     “Why so demanding, arañita?” he teased, turning around to grab his mug out of the cupboard. 

     “Because!” X exclaimed. “Then we can sit and talk about our days!” 

     Miguel pressed his lips together as a smile tugged on them at her naive excitement, and turned around to face her while the machine poured coffee into his mug. X grinned and rested her chin on the palm of her hand. “How was your day, mi araña?” 

     Miguel folded his arms across his chest and shook his head at the mischievous look on her face: she was too cute for her own good. He grabbed his mug once the machine was done and pulled the bag with her new socks out of the drawer he’d hidden them in before rounding the island to take the seat next to her. “I got you … something else, too.” 

     X watched curiously as Miguel placed a paper bag down before them. He’d gotten her two gifts?! Had something happened? Had she forgotten some important event in her life that he had written down in a file somewhere?

     “It’s not my birthday,” she said with a smile, vibrating in her seat as her body started to buzz with joy again. Miguel snickered softly. 

     “I know,” he told her calmly. “But … you got me this mug. And … you’ve done– you’ve helped me … in so many other ways too.”

     He lowered his head as his neck flushed adorably, and X was too distracted admiring the way the colour flooded into his cheeks to remember the bag. 

     “Are you … gonna open it?” Miguel asked her suddenly, his fingers brushing lightly against hers and his feet balancing on the footrest of her seat as he waited for her response. X shot up and reached for the bag to take a peek inside. 

     Miguel held his breath as X’s features widened with what she saw was in the bag. She eagerly reached in with both hands and pulled the pack of socks out before squeezing them against her chest. 

     “I love it!” she screeched, her voice uncharacteristically loud—not that either of them cared. “I love socks! I–”

     She cut herself off suddenly, seeming to realise something, then reached forward to place a hand on his knee. 

     “You pay attention to me,” she observed, her voice soft with delighted awe. Miguel’s smile stretched wide enough for his cheeks to start hurting and he leaned forward to twirl a loose curl of hers around his finger. 

     “Of course,” he agreed, his voice equally as quiet. X shuffled forward, perching on the very edge of her seat to try to get as close to him as possible. 

     “Gracias, mi araña,” she thanked him once again, her cheeks flushed adorably with a faint glow. 

     “De nada, arañita,” Miguel replied, pulling back and forcing his eyes away from her face. He paused to take a sip of his coffee, then twisted in his seat to angle his body towards hers. “So. How was your day?”

Continue

You've been listening for hours now with open ears to perceive a word. Nothing. Back to the door, you now question everything. He gave you the courtesy to not lock you this time (a reward for earlier compliance, maybe). Yet you lie in your temporary own space, an endangered species in a zoo.

You slide down the glass, then crouch on the floor. You've researched in your phone last night, but no memories came back yet. You can't even look up the lines of code in your camera roll, your device can't connect to this dimension's internet. How can you know he hasn't deleted any files? How can you trust a man you don't remember to keep you safe? Who are you and who is he?

Head between your palms, thoughts encircling and not coming to an end. You want to gnaw at your enclosure but there's no metal bars — only glass and carbon fiber.

A golden light announces Lyla's appearance. "Bad moment?"

She's in usual diva attire, floating on your right. A dry laugh escapes your throat. "You think?" But there's no time for self pity. "Where does he go at 3am, by the way?"

"Saving the world, of course" She shrugs, as it was obvious, giving you a full smile.

One of your eyelids twitches. "Care to explain?"

She bows down to you and shakes her index finger. "Nuh-uh"

"Of course" you lift your eyes to the ceiling, asking for divine intervention. "So you cannot disclose information about him."

"Correct!" She giggles, pinching the drapes of her dress.

"What about me?" you grimace.

She crosses her forearms, forming a giant x. "Classified."

"Fuck." You jump up from your self pity dedicated spot, pacing in circles.

"Nothing personal. It's just orders." She lifts her back and glares at you from above. Her lips thin. She hadn't taken well your change in attitude. "And punching or choking me will get you nowhere. I'm just an hologram."

You point to her. "You're useless."

She jerks her face looking away, her hair twirls. She scoffs, then disappears.

Great. You've disappointed an AI and you got nothing out of it.

Your frustration mitigates with time and silence. Lyla flickers around you again the moment you step out of the guest room— ready to take the world in your hands in your first act of defiance.

"Exploring without supervision? Bold move." She trills.

"Don't tell him." you plead.

Lyla winks. "Just don't touch anything. Some things bite back."

"Got it."

You walk past the common, your only known territory, to adventure in the corridor. You extend your arm to open a door handle, but it has a bio-scan attached. You've seen him running in and out of this room sometimes, it appears to worsen his mood every time he does.

She appears in the little scan monitor. "This is his office. You shouldn't want to hack it. Unless you want to die."

You knew that, but you still tried. You retract your hand in defeat.

The next door has no visible locker. You press the door handle down and it actually opens. You peek in it before stepping it. It's his bedroom.

It's large and mostly empty. An enormous bed that's so neatly done it looks like no one's ever slept on it. Essential furniture. A large window that leads out to a tiny balcony. No photos, no personal objects scattered around. He could sleep in a hospital room and it would be the same — if he even sleeps.

Lyla's hologram follows you, in and out of view. "Looking for his dirty secrets?"

Two forces — the terror to invade a stranger's privacy and your own purity — block you on the threshold. But the need to know prevails.

Your first victim is the drawer near his bed. What will you discover about him? Will you be disgusted or amazed? You grip the drawer and pull it to you.

It doesn't move. You pull again harder. It stays right there.

Lyla laughs. "You need his fingerprints to unlock it."

Of course she wouldn't say that.

There's a slider door in front of his bed, you discover to be his walk in closet. His wardrobe is quintessential: different iterations of the same clothes, shoes lined up in perfect rows. It smells of clean laundry, he doesn't leave his scent on anything. It's so impersonal yet so typical.

"Nothing's dirty here."

"Of course there's not. It's not locked."

A vibration against your leg interrupts your research. You slide your phone from the pocket of your (his) pants. New notifications. You unlock it to discover a new chat from an anonymous contact.

Don't touch anything.

Go back in your room.

Should've locked you again.

The fact that he can send you messages without Internet connection is quite impressive but not surprising.

You glare at Lyla. "Did you tell him?"

She puts her hands behind her back and a seraphic expression on her face. "I have the job to babysit you, unfortunately."

Did you actually think an AI was your friend? Fool. "I was in search of info to recover my memory, like he said. I'm not spying." You slide it closed, your shoulders drop.

Hands on her hips, she makes a joke out of you. "Suuure you aren't."

You surrender. Everything's useless. Nothing can be done. It's a bitter taste.

You're in your room again. You've been checking your face on the mirror, searching for any worrying signs of change or decay on your body. You pinch your skin red, drag down your bottom eyelids, search between your teeth. Nothing more than eye bags and an anemic appearance. Your mannerism dangerously leaning to the psychotic side.

Until early dawn salutes you from the window.

You get out to get a glass of water. But the silence is suddenly broken by the sound of the apartment door clicking. You have just enough time to turn around, glass in hand, before he appears in the doorway. He looks you up and down for a moment. Water dripping out of his black curls. His face is completely scratched and torn apart, his expression noticeably irritated. "Still awake."

"Can't sleep."

Miguel's expression doesn’t change—his usual scowl still firmly in place. His gaze lingers on your glass. You do like you would if an angry predator stood in front of you: stay very still.

Lyla’s hologram appears on the doorway too. "Welcome back! Rough day?" She chirps, as a housewife welcoming his working husband. "The weather forecast predicts rain and storms for the next two days and a half."

"You think?" He walks past you and passes through Lyla's projection, as you've stopped existing again. He yanks the fridge open to take a beer out of it. He's got a blue and red suit on, some water drops following his body going down.

"What exactly is your job?" you address the elephant in the room.

"None of your business." He grunts and slams the fridge closed.

"It is my business. You're the one keeping me here without me knowing anything." You underline, an acid tone escaping your throat before you can think. "I'm going crazy here."

"Yeah, well," he opens the bottle hitting the top on the counter edge, "It'll go away." He gives his back to you.

Patience is running thin. If he wasn't physically the triple or quadruple of you, you would've thrown the glass at him. Your objective is to keep being alive still. So you breathe and go on. "What do you think will happen to me?"

Miguel pauses for a moment as he seems to consider your question (finally), shifting his weight. Then he exhales a sharp breath and his usual stoic demeanor returns, as if he's trying to conceal his reaction. He can take the bottle in three fingers only.

"I have no clue." Then he gulps down his beer. Half a liter of alcohol disappear in few seconds.

You snap the glass on the counter, as if you took a sip of an old whiskey. "No fucking clue. If I knew I had to die, I'll feel more determined to live my last days happily."

"No point in thinking like that. It's not helping anything." A threatening low tone of voice. You know you're not helping him, but he's not helping you either.

"I want explanations." You stand your ground.

Every muscle on his face is coiled taut. "Go to sleep."

"No." You state.

He fixes you like that, like you're a meaningless nuisance in his life. He throws the bottle in the bin. With no further fanfare, he marches in his own bedroom, shutting you out.

The deaf door banging leaves for an empty silence. There's only you and Lyla. You look at her. "Great." She gestures in his bedroom direction. "You've made him mad and I have to babysit him too."

"But he was already like that…" You protest. "And stop getting mad. You're an AI."

"And you should learn some mannerism." A snub tone, then she fades away.

Now it's between you and the little robot cleaner that's been drying his rain puddles.

The silence after his door sat heavy on your chest. Turns out being caged, then ignored and discarded feels exhausting. At the first rays of dawn, your eyes finally give up.

You both wake up late, near midday. You know it because you encounter him at the kitchen island, a giant coffee in hand. He's focused on something on his watch. His mug says "#1 scientist". He doesn't acknowledge you yet. You study the context from a safe distance. After all, he's a man, whoever he may be, with flaws (a lot) and everything else. Maybe, you actually should excuse your behavior. But maybe, he should explain himself. War is not over.

"About last ni-"

"Shut up." He cuts.

You shrug. All good.

"Wha- Who's that voice?" a man is speaking on the other hand. You forgot he actually has a life behind the mess you're in.

"No one. Call ends here." he shuts it down, then gives his attention to the toast plate in front of him. Anything but you. It's a challenge at this point.

"Is there breakfast for me?"

He finally glances at you, just before biting his bread piece. Your skin feels tight. His scratches from last night have healed completely, not even a scar behind. He's fresh as a rose and rigid as always. "You still got your hands. Use them."

What, did you expect him to make you breakfast and kiss you good morning?

You get to the toaster, managing to turn it on after a couple of tries. Your bread isn't perfect — now there's a burnt smell in the kitchen. He swallows a comment.

You take a seat a couple of stools from his. Finally you have a mug and a plate in front of you too. He's already finished his. He brushes the breadcrumbs off his hands and stands up already.

"Damn, not even waiting for me." You cover your disappointment with sarcasm.

"No. And clean that up." He jerks his head to your mug.

It's a plain white ceramic mug. And there's a bloodstain on it.

You observe your fingers, acknowledging the matter. You lift the oversize sleeve only to reveal a blood trail.

He jumps next to you to grab your wrist. "What the hell?"

Your hearing is muffled, a whir covering every other noise. "I feel warm in my right ear."

Lyla pops up. "Blood pressure is spiking."

He guides you toward the couch. His movements are urgent but controlled. "Sit."

You obey. You're dazed. You want to inspect your right ear with your touch, but he snatches your hand away do to it himself. He reaches out with no gentleness, tilting your head to get a better look.

You can hear a subtle "Fuck" under his breath.

Lyla flickers again. "Temperature rising."

Your vision is disappearing in scattered black dots. "Oh God I'm dying."

"Shut up for once," he mutters and lets go of the grip.

Lyla's hologram is frantic as she analyzes every biometrics she can. "Ongoing inflammation. Should we try the extraction procedure now?"

You're out of air. "What do you mean try?"

"Yeah. Now," he orders. His hand is on your elbow, your heels you up. He does not ask for permission. You dig your heels in, a last, feeble spark of defiance.

"I'm not trying anything."

Turns out he doesn't even need your permission to lift you up. "Do you want to live?" sounds like a threat. Sounds like he would personally kill you if you decide to not fight to keep being human.

He ushers you to the lab with the grace of a military man.

You're supine on the machine again, you know the drill.

Lyla’s hologram announces things beside him, seems excited for a new procedure. "Preparing extraction sequence now. Get ready for some pain!"

The machine starts into motion again. A robotic arm (good lord) lifts from under it. There's a suspicious needle on its end. It glows under the white neons. You choke. "What now?"

"The machine will target the foreign genetic sequence in your DNA," he explains. His fingers running on the controller. "Then we'll use an enzymatic agent to dissolve it at its molecular level."

"An experimental enzymatic agent" Lyla points. "We're not 100% sure it'll work without complexities."

"Were you trying to reassure me? Because it didn't fucking work."

"We didn't expect for your body to decay so soon sooo… this or nothing. It's informed consent."

You're in no faculty to choose. It's a prison. It's hell.

Lyla clears her throat and continues her instructions. "You may experience some pain during extraction, but don't worry: we will be monitoring your vitals closely."

Your mouth is dry. "How much pain we're talking about?"

"Just hold still and try not to move too much."Miguel’s expression remains tight, he doesn’t offer any more comfort.

With no notice, the needle is in your left arm main vein. The first wave of extraction starting up with a sharp electric sensation that shoots through your body.

"Stable, for now," You faintly recognize Lyla's voice.

Miguel seems to check on you, before you have to close your eyes to endure it all. Each second stretching into an eternity of sharp, burning pain.

"Halfway there," you hear his voice.

Your body is on fire, every nerve screaming from the intrusion. Your limbs are rigid but there's electricity shaking your insides. You've never been aware of every organ in your body before, every cell getting conscious.

The final stretch is the hardest. Time dilates impossibly as your brain shuts down contact with reality.

You see something, a lot of things. You see pasts that never been and future that never will. Different iterations of yourself, no one's true and no one's you. You see the beauty and horror in ten, hundreds, thousand of dimensions, all flashing before your eyes. You've been an animal, a plant, a worm, a flick of dust and then an octopus and the entire ocean. You're living a myriad of lives, seeing through time and space.

The marvels of the cosmos disappear as soon as you feel your skin again. You jump sit. As someone who passed hours deep underwater, you take deep long breaths, out of oxygen and out of your own body.

You hear Lyla first. She's chirping meaningless words in your ear. "Welcome back, more or less."

You recognize the lab, then him. Miguel is holding a mask to your face. It hisses quietly as it feeds pure oxygen into your lungs. His eyes locked on yours as he monitors your condition. There's a deep tension around them you can't read yet. "Nod if you can understand me."

You have to think every muscle to shake your head up and down. The world spins. His upper lip twitches. The tension around his eyes resolves in a deep exhale.

At some point, you realize the harsh lab lights are replaced by the neon glow through the window. You're sinking in something soft, warm, crouched in a fetal position. You don't remember how you got there.

Your hand recognizes the leather of the couch, and wool over your shoulders. Squinting your eyes, there's a glass full of water on the coffee table in front of you. A pack of some plain crackers. Meds.

You look up. There's his figure, hunched on a chair across the room, immersed in work. One hand is massaging his forehead. He's too focused to notice you're awake. A chatter and some music lighten up the mood — he left the holo-tv on. Lights are off, except for an orange-ish lamp on the corner.

A surprise to yourself, you don't dislike it. It's a small, domestic truce. There's a part of your brain that wishes some more of times like this. A part of your brain tries to reason out of your prisoner complex, getting fed on crumbs. A lab rat in a cage excited for its treat after a torture.

But, somehow, you're relieved there's a man that can handle it. Luck?

And you're absolutely not influenced by the fact that you've lived brief seconds of a reality where you were… partners. But, in that one he wasn't an emotional unavailable man. In other words, not him. And not you — whoever you are.

You should not be influenced by collateral disasters. You're losing it.

So you linger like that, dozing in and out of a light sleep, lulled by his occasional grunts.

You wake to strong nausea when he's not there anymore. The holo-tv and lamp are still on.

You crawl to the common bathroom. Cold water wakes up your senses. You pull the nearest towel off the handle and drag it on your skin. Cotton scratching your cheeks. The under eye blue bags disappeared, but your reflection doesn't blink with you. You put the cloth down, but your reflection doesn't. You want to clean the glass, but the towel falls on the sink through your hands.

There's the whirring in your ear again, and it's rhythmic and beating. Your fingertips catch on grass, water and sand, and dry soil and moist clay. So many unlived worlds on your fingertips then there's the cold marble of the sink again, and your face that moves with you in the mirror.

What is the worst possible scenario? To be dead? Or to be changed?

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

⚜ tag list: @seraphineash, @loreleis-world, @fruitymoonbeams-blog, @lazypostfandomer, @cutelilygarden, @inzanekillian, @kingraspberry12-blog, @txtworlddom, @aranarum, @mermaid-crystal69, @bloomingbirdiez, @wondermilka, @peachmartini, @suhsun4, @valiantchaosvalkyrie, @vellihor, @zop8zop, @emneedshelp, @haydeesgarden

tag list is open, please dm, comment, or send ask

xavier:  

the hunter twitches awake as he feels you shift in his hold, his cock effectively slipping out from your warm cunt, the residual proof from last night trickles down your thighs. the two of you had recently reunited after being on separate missions for a month. the longing only made last night especially memorable, as you only stopped when the sun was kissing the sky. 

the curtains were still drawn shut, the two of you had nothing to do today but catch up on well-deserved rest.  

his sleepy eyes look down, frowning at the way your cunt was pushing out his cum, effectively leaving a mess between your thighs. 

xavier hisses as he feels the cold air hit his cock that was slowly hardening. he looks at your back, seeing the way your chest rose in steady breaths, you were deep asleep. he shouldn’t do this. 

but, technically, he wasn’t doing anything wrong. he fell asleep with his cock inside of you; it was only right that you wake up with the same feeling, right?

with a pleased sigh, he gently coaxes your thighs apart, positioning his cock to your hole only to pause as his shaft catches his previous cum, jerking slightly at the cool feeling. he finds himself rocking his hips subtly until you shift once more in your sleep, and his cock is now trapped between your thighs.

the sudden softness catches him off guard as he lets out a quiet moan, his hand darting to your waist, keeping you there as he unconsciously. 

“fuck… star…” xavier whispers, his breath hot against your neck. 

“‘so perfect…” he continues to whisper, eyes flitting to a close as he lets himself indulge in your softness.

“y’feel so good…” 

“xavier?” he freezes, his cock twitching against your thighs as you sleepily look back at him. 

“four rounds weren’t enough?” you yawned, eyes still half-closed. xavier’s face flushed from embarrassment and flusteredness from how adorable you looked. a half pout was etched on your face as you looked away from him. 

“never getting enough of you.” he mouths at the back of your neck. “‘m so close, my star.” xavier mutters as he pulls you closer to his chest, the tip of his cock peeking from the front of your thighs. 

you whined slightly, trying to get out of his hold to no avail. 

“s’too messy, xaaav…” you trailed off, feeling the wave of sleepiness overtake you once more. xavier says nothing as he grinds once more, testing the waters. 

“i’ll clean you up, ‘promise.” xavier moans quietly as he kisses the back of your neck. you sighed softly, a hand reaching down to palm at the tip. 

xavier jerks, your cold hand providing contrast against his wet cock. 

“‘m so close…” xavier whimpers, his arms tight around you as his hips thrust to meet your palm that was massaging his leaky tip. 

“cum.” you say, already drifting back to sleep, “and don’t forget to clean me up.”

your hand still moves, albeit slower, but the change in pace was the cherry on top as xavier cums with a quiet hiss. 

he comes in spurts, his hips thrusting until the last of his high. your hand had stopped moving, you were entirely asleep. 

xavier couldn’t help but look at your stained hand, his cock twitching at the sight of it covered in his cum. 

he scoops up what he can without moving too much before he wipes it on your thighs, adding more to the combination of fresh and dried cum. 

he’ll clean you up when he wakes up, for now, he wants to wake to his masterpiece fully dried. 

zayne: 

his back was against the headboard as he shocks himself awake with his evol. he felt dirty, not because of regret for what happened between you last night, but because he woke up wanting more. 

admittedly, he knows that he was rougher than he anticipated, how couldn’t he be? you weren’t exactly a saint. hell, you knew what you were doing when you fed him liquor-infused chocolates.

the memory of your moans was loud and clear in his mind, his eyes flickered to your body that faced him, marks from him decorating the expanse of your chest, and he could only assume it looked similar on your back. 

his breath deepens slightly, his hand reaches forward to touch your sleeping face, only for his hand to recoil as if he remembers that he wasn’t allowed to touch. 

the hardening of his cock was in no way subtle as it throbs against his abdomen. zayne hisses, closing his eyes and willing it to go away.

yet, it doesn’t help. not even a little, because every time he closes his eyes, he can see the way your eyes rolled back as you screamed for more. 

and fuck, did zayne want to give you more. 

but you were deep in sleep and he’d be damned if he woke you up because he couldn’t control his erection like a teenager. you deserved to rest, he thinks. 

with a somewhat frustrated sigh, he reaches down, cringing slightly at his rough and cold hand. 

he pumps his cock with his eyes closed, trying to replicate how you do it, but he can only do so much as your hands carry softness that his couldn’t copy. he lets out a grunt, thinking that it would make him release faster. yet his mind couldn’t get over the feeling of guilt of jerking off to your sleeping body beside him. 

his body jolts, eyes widening as he feels the soft hand he tried to replicate place on top of his. 

“not like that, zaynie.” you say, voice still laced with sleep as you guided his hand to a slower pace. 

zayne felt his face burn in embarrassment. 

“how long have you been awake?” he asks, eyes flitting to a half close as your hand replaces his. 

“since you were treating my favorite toy so harshly,” you cooed, giggling slightly at the bead of pre that escaped his tip. 

“darling, i’m sorry i—” he was cut off as you leaned down, placing a small, lazy kiss on his shaft. zayne closes his eyes, mouth falling open at the sensitivity as he tries to conjure up his words. 

“i… you were asleep, and i didn’t want to wa—” “shh.” you take a hold of his hand, placing it to the middle of your thighs as you leaned closer to his sensitive body. 

zayne’s hand clasps around your thigh, pulling you closer. his cold fingers gently traced your lips, mouth slightly watering at the sight of your wetness forming. you jolt slightly yet don’t move away, focusing on your task at hand. 

“sooo hard, zaynie.” he can feel your smile on his dick as you press a wet kiss on his mushroom tip. he says nothing, focusing on fingering you. 

his face leans in to press kisses on the back of your thighs, his fingers spreading your folds apart before focusing on massaging your still sensitive clit. 

the moan that escapes your lips only prompts his hips to thrust upwards, causing you to gag. 

“darling, i’m so—” “it’s okay…” you pull off, hand replacing your lips as you looked back at him, your sleepiness now turned to full-blown lust. 

your eyes rolled back as zayne’s fingers hit that spongy part inside of you. 

“z-zayne…” you call his attention, his fingers pausing in action. 

“hm?” 

“call in sick for today.” 

his hand barely manages to reach his phone to call in before your mouth was back on his. 

the stuttering and the awkward coughing from the composed doctor made the call very believable.  

rafayel: 

last night consisted of ribbons, paint, and a canvas that is now almost fully dried. you and rafayel spent the night searching for inspiration through… untraditional methods. 

the sun rises with the lemurian, his skin stinging slightly as dried paint stretches as he does as well. the couch was cramped, yet he felt like you were still so far away from him. one of his arms was under your body as you curled up against his chest. you looked peaceful, with strokes of pink and purple decorating your cheeks; paint was scattered across your chest, and your arms were stained by rafayel’s hands, now fully dried. 

you looked claimed. his. 

his eyes darken as he scans your vulnerable form, he zeroes in on the bruises on your neck and chest, mixing in with dots of dried paint. 

he makes the mistake of looking down. 

he inhales sharply, your lower body had a fair share of his dried cum that mixed with paint whilst it was still wet. the paint was flaky, peeling off your skin like dried glue in your hands.

he found himself peeling it off your inner thighs, salivating as every fleck removed was your cunt being presented to him. 

god, he wanted to paint you yet he knew that no visual could replicate what was in front of him. no matter how talented he was, your beauty was unmatched. 

he feels himself hardening as he traces over the paint stencilled by his hand. his touch dips lower, fingers clingier as it grabs onto your breast, squeezing slightly, the arm under your body flexes to pull you flush against him, rendering you trapped against his body as his other hand holds free rein. 

“you’re so beautiful.” he whispers before he sucks a soft kiss mark onto your neck. you squirm under his grip yet don’t open your eyes, not yet.

rafayel’s hands continue his descent, his lower body grinding onto yours in a rhythm he made in his head, his lips pressing sloppy kisses on your face as he whispers words of affection onto your sleeping frame. 

“wakey-wakey, cutie.” he whispers after pressing a kiss on your earlobe. “you can’t just leave me to complete our masterpiece.” 

you groaned, body feeling warm as his hand continued to feel on your skin. 

“raf?” you questioned, voice rough with sleep. he hums in response but he doesn’t stop his actions; if anything, his thrusts only got rougher. 

you moan in surprise as his cock slips to meet your clit, dried cum adding a texture to your skin that you weren’t sure you liked. 

your arms reach to wrap around rafayel’s neck, hips grinding down to meet his uncoordinated thrusts. 

“‘m close, ma chérie” the accent slip causes goosebumps to rise on your skin as you mouth at his neck, moaning softly at the continuous stimulation. 

“r-rafayel…” you dragged out a moan, neck tilting back to expose the column of your throat. 

“just a little more, cutie.” he murmurs against your skin as the tip of his cock presses into your clit just right. your orgasm greets you in gentle waves as rafayel grinds against you through his high. 

his cum splatters against your skin in wispy streaks, reactivating the dried paint that littered onto the expanse of your stomach. rafayel grins, looking at you with mischief in his eyes.

“cutie, i have an idea.” “you are not making a new paint color with your cum as a base.” 

rafayel huffs out a laugh, breathing quickly against your now-sweaty neck. 

“you’re no fun.”

sylus: 

sylus opens his eyes, his head feeling a bit fuzzy from your little wine testing. he was not the type of man to be inebriated by one bottle of wine; however, pair it with the taste of your essence, he would be a fool not to be addicted. 

he finds himself licking his dry lips at the memory from last night, his bleary eyes were scanning your frame, your body was covered, sure, if you could even call it that. the only thing preserving your decency was your silk, maroon, nightgown that matched his robe, or used to match his robe, as it could barely be called a nightgown. 

sylus bites his lips subtly, remembering the way his hands grasped at the flimsy fabric, ripping it with ease to feel your skin, but not enough to remove it from you. his cock twitched underneath his robe, demanding attention. 

he ignores it, for now. 

he runs his hand against your skin, smirking slightly at the slightly sticky feeling that clung to his touch. the wine.

the wine the two of you shared last night was decadent, smooth, the way you forewent wine glasses and used your bodies as replacements was just as seamless as the two of you took turns in using one’s body. 

and it seemed like sylus has not done a good job at cleaning you up. 

his tongue peeks out, tracing slightly against your neck, he bites back a pleased rumble at the taste of your skin. 

he ventures further down until he finds himself in front of your cunt. 

his mouth waters as he tests the waters, placing a kiss on your inner thighs. his piercing eyes look at your face, which was still unguarded. he repeats it, suckling a small mark this time. your brows twitch, hand coming down to unconsciously swat away what you assumed was a bug. 

a very big bug. 

sylus chuckles against your skin as he plants both his hands on your thighs, spreading them open, exposing you to him. 

his tongue teases your clit, circling the bud before he closes in, mouth gently suckling as if massaging it. 

your body was generous, responding by twitching when a particularly sensitive area gets licked. 

sylus feels like he’s on cloud nine. this was the perfect cure for his hangover. his eyes flit close, basking in your scent as his hips grind on the bed, mindlessly. 

he opens his eyes when your thighs twitch against his hold, and you jerk as if you were trying to get away from him. you looked at him with confusion before clarity took over. 

your hands snake its way on his hair, a moan escapes his lips, eyes widening at the pain, and if you looked closer, it looked like his pupils had formed into hearts as he relentlessly ate you out. 

“‘s’too early, no, sy?” you say yet made no move to get away, if anything, you slowly closed his face between your thighs. 

“you taste far better than any ripe fruit.” sylus says, words vibrating against your clit, you bite your lip, a smirk on your face. 

“are you getting off to this?” you knew the answer, sylus’s thrusts against the mattress wasn’t subtle, but you couldn’t help but tease him as you bucked your hips against his nose. 

a startled moan escapes your lips, to which sylus revels in. he amps his antics, sneaking two fingers in your already twitching hole, pumping at a sporadic pace. 

your back arches against the bed as you feel yourself squirting against his tongue. your breaths quickening as you peeled his head away from your sensitive cunt. 

sylus’ face was red, his breathing was just as deep, if not more. 

“sylus… did you come just from eating me out?” 

“sweetie, feeling you reach your zenith is enough to trigger mine. you should know this.” sylus says as he pulls away from your thighs, leaning up to cage you between his arms, his cock pressing against your stomach, slightly wet. 

“unless you’d like more proof?” 

caleb: 

caleb needs to hide his clothes for when you visit. 

it’s like you knew that him seeing your frame be dwarfed by his colonel uniform was enough to make him go insane. he’s already placed a request for an extra uniform, seeing as his current one was stained beyond ruin; not even bleach can erase the trauma that fabric endured. 

he was only satiated once you passed out from your fifth orgasm for the night; he fell asleep after, holding you close. 

he wakes up when he senses that it has been a while since you lay in his arms, his sunset eyes open to a squint, hand reaching towards your frame, only to stop once he feels his shirt draped on your body. 

it seems like you were cold for the night and stood up to retrieve his shirt. 

it seems like you don’t learn your lesson.

and

it seems like caleb was ready to teach you once more. 

it was almost comedic how the mere sight of you wearing his tank top was enough for his cock to harden against the blanket. 

caleb latches onto your neck, biting softly against your bruised skin, wanting to deepen its purplish hue. 

a sloppy smack against his arm sobers him up immediately, he pulls away, fearing that he might’ve crossed a boundary. 

“what’s wrong, pips?” caleb asks, turning you to face him, your back was planted on the bed and his arms caged you in. “do you not want to?”

you huffed out a scoff, turning your head to the side. 

“you were too rough last night, dummy!” caleb stops his lips from twitching. 

“is that so?” caleb asks as he leans down to place soft kisses on your bruised skin. 

“mm! you were mean, caleb.” caleb chuckles against your skin. 

“what if i be gentle, hm? would my pipsqueak let me?” he whispers, lips trailing to your neck. 

“but caaaleeb.” you whined. “‘m too sleepy.” 

“that’s okay, pipsqueak. leave it to me.” caleb says as he lulls you back to sleep, his cock poking at your sensitive hole as your breathing evened out. 

true to his word, caleb kept his pace gentle, not wanting to batter up your insides more than he already has.

he finds your sleepy figure grinding against him, he huffs out a chuckle, even when you’re tired, you’d want to help him. his precious, darling, pipsqueak. 

his hips stutter against your skin, a hiss escaping his lips as you forcibly push him out. 

“wha–” caleb’s eyes opened to meet yours, a pout on your face. 

“don’t wanna clean up down there, too lazy.” caleb sneaks a hand down to continue pumping himself, not wanting his high to disappear. 

“then where do you suppose i put it, pips? it would be such a waste.” caleb coos, you rolled your eyes before you look up at him, your sleepy eyes alluring as you open your mouth, a quiet “aaah.” leaving your lips. 

caleb’s breath hitches, he takes the hint, he gets on his knees, the tip of his cum tapping onto your peeking tongue. 

you placed smooches on the areas your lips could reach. 

“fuck…” caleb whimpers. “what a good meimei i have… letting me use her body while she’s tired.” he praises you, but you can’t fight the brat inside of you. 

“gege.” you rebutt, seeing him twitch as the honorific leaves your lips. “you’re such a pervert. using me like this when i just wanna sleep.”

caleb moans out, pained. “yes, i know.” he admits. “i’m such a pervert. i know, i know. fuck.” the pace on his cock quickens and becomes erratic, filthy moans leaving his lips as his bleary eyes are trained on your sleepy face, your mouth hanging open, waiting for his cum. 

“f-fuck— pipsqueak. good meimei.” caleb cums in heavy spurts; he does his best to aim for your awaiting mouth, really, he did. but he didn’t notice that you were in the midst of yawning. he couldn’t help the stray cum that droops on the side of your lips. 

as an act of service, you take hold of his sensitive cock, tongue licking at the tip, ensuring he was clean before you let go. 

you looked at him, smacking your lips, eyes drooping to a close as you find yourself drifting. 

“thank you, gege.” 

caleb takes a cold shower right away once he ensures that you’re fully asleep. 

Before Gaz could even start speaking, he dashed down the stairs, already knowing what to expect. He ignored the mess in the doorway, eyes darting around the room until they stopped on the chair underneath the window. You even closed it, what a clever thing you were. It looks like they might have underestimated you, Price thought that ignoring you for a while might teach you a lesson, it seemed to have had the opposite effect. It didn't help that Laswell started asking questions that Price didn't have a good answer for.

From behind him he can hear Soap approaching rapidly and slipping on the spilled oats on the floor, a string of curses falling from his mouth that Ghost pointedly ignores. This was his fault, he always approached things too carefree, believing that it was only a matter of time before you would accept them. Always too impatient when it came to anything else other than his explosives.

When another pair of heavy steps comes down the stairs, his body straightens instinctively, even Soap cuts his cursing short when the captain enters. He moves slower than usual, dragging his left leg behind, the contours of the bandage on his knee still visible underneath the pajama pants. Heavy bags rest underneath his eyes and his jaw is clenched shut, angry pheromones and the smoke of his cigar floating in the air. When the captain moves his eyes from the empty cuff laying around to Soap's figure on the floor, the sergeant doesn't dare meet his eyes. Unfortunately for him Price doesn't plan to let him off the hook so easily:

"What is the meaning of this, sergeant?"

"I... captain..."

"I left you in charge thinking you would be able to handle it, but you managed to dissapoint me yet again."

The last part stings more than the burning end of the cigar that Price presses somewhere on his clavicle. To Johnny's credit, he doesn't try moving away, muffling his screams as best as he can. The smell of burnt skin makes Ghost's own scars sting and by the way Gaz hurries to open the window, he must feel something similar. Not all the scars littering their bodies came from enemies, some were the results of moments of discipline that were necessary for maintaining the pack's hierarchy.

He was surprised and then filled jealousy when Price didn't do the same to you the first time you spoke up against him. Maybe because you were supposed to be a temporary addition to the team, he didn’t see the need to bother to make you learn your place. It was later that he found out what the captain was actually planning when he drove the four of them to the cabin and showed them this very room. Only then did it sink in for him that what was waiting for you might actually be worse than just a few burns.

Some days he would feel guilty for revealing your secret, he didn't let himself dwell too much on this feelings otherwise there was the risk that he might march to your room and open your cuff himself. It was the selfish rotten part of him that didn't want you to manage getting away when he didn’t have the strenght to do the same. It was truly a twisted kind of kinship for which he earned even if he knew how wrong it was to drag you into all this.

"Everyone upstairs now! Clean yourself up, sergeant."

The only answer Soap gives is a soft whimper, Gaz helping him up, his hand making circling motions on his back in an effort to comfort him. Maybe it was the closeness of their ages that made such gestures so easy between them, Ghost always found himself clumsy in reciprocating their affections the way they deserved. With Price things were easy, precise and to the point, the captain said what he wanted and Ghost would give him exactly that, he suppose there was some pride in being the favourite dog.

The tension is high at the table, nobody daring say anything before Price has the first word. Despite his previous outburst, he seems to have calmed down now, lighting himself another cigar and asking Simon to pass him the butter. If it weren't for the bandage peeking from underneath Johnny's t-shirt, you would think nothing out of the ordinary happened.

"We will start looking around after breakfast, our stubborn omega couldn't have gone too far."

He says the word "stubborn" as if it's something distasteful he has to chew, they were all stubborn before the captain got to training them properly. Even in a pack of alphas there was an unspoken order that needed to be held, but with the discovery of your true identity things shifted in an unexpected way. Price would find himself torn between the need to properly discipline you and his alpha instincts that urged him to protect and care you, shifting between seeing you as the capable soldier you always were and an omega hiding in plain sight. Of course, your constant rejection of them just made things even more complicated.

There's a new determination in Soap's eyes, now that he recieved his punishment he's eager to prove himself again in front of Price. Ghost secretly hopes you managed to get far away, this doesn't mean that he wouldn't do his utmost best to find you first. Nobody says it, but it's clear that's what each of them are thinking about. Maybe it's their more primal side of their inner alphas, but by the way everybody's smells shift, excitement and impatience floating in the air around the table, it feels like they're getting ready for a hunt.

The nice old lady whose phone she let you borrow looks wearily at your battered form from the other side of the counter. She pushes a warm cup of tea towards you, her eyes taking in your deshiveled appearance and stopping on your swollen leg. She makes a tsk sound and goes in the back, returning a few minutes later with a bag of ice. You're secretely grateful she didn't ask what happened, the only thing she said was if you were safe and if she should call the police. Shaking your head from side to side was all the answer she needed and didn't press further.

Trembling fingers tap away for a number you hoped you'd never use. You let yourself breath when a familiar voice answers on the other side:

You’re both on the running track, doing your morning runs at the same time.

“On your right,” Simon grunts, just loud enough for you to hear. He pivots just a bit to your right so he can pass.

But then you also slide a bit to your right, speeding up on the way so that you’re still in front and blocking his way. When he tries going to the other way, you zig zag with him. Left, right, left, left, more left, right.

In the end, you stop when he stops. You turn towards him, eyeing him like a moldy meal you forgot to throw out.

“Oh. Hi, Lt.,” you say. “Didn’t see you there.”

“I told you to move, Sergeant,” he mutters.

“Sorry, Lt., what was that?” You cup your ears. “Couldn’t hear you over my music.”

You’re not even wearing any earbuds.

He turns on his heels and leaves with his fists clenched tight.

It’s been like this since you first joined. He remembers it as clear as day-- a younger, somehow more stubborn-looking you. 

Plucked fresh from whatever unit you were in before them, you had greeted them— Price, Garrick, Johnny— with respect: a salute, a handshake, and a smile to boot.

But then you hear his name, see his mask, and it’s like hell freezes over on your face.

Lieutenant Riley, nice to meet you– like it was the exact opposite, like it caused you physical pain to even say his name.

Johnny makes fun of him for it. Dae ye know 'em? Face looked like ye curbstomped a bairn or something.

You drop the filter entirely once you settle into the team months later. Tongue gets looser, no pulled punches, thinly veiled contempt slipping into pure snark.

He needs to grab something from a cabinet you’re in front of? Your hand shoots out, waggling your fingers. Five quid and I’ll move, Lt.

Helping him bandage up on an op? He grunts when your fingers dig just a tad too deep into his skin and wrap the wound just a tad too tight. Maybe if you didn’t get hit in the first place, Lt.

It’s infuriating.

But you don’t stop because there are never any consequences. 

No matter how many looks Price shoots him when the old man overhears the blatant disrespect.

No matter how many times other soldiers stare at you like you’re out of your goddamn mind (you are) for saying the shit you do.

Why?

Because the reason Simon never writes you up for insubordination is the same reason he's fisting his leaking cock in bed like some horny fucking teenager.

It's the same reason he lets you snark in his ear over comms, quietly grinding his rock-hard erection into cold dirt, and grunts to hide the pleasure that shoot down his spine when your nails dig into bloody skin.

It's the only thing he can think about when he's like this— your nails tracing the muscle of his back and gripping his cock until his spunk gets all over you.

Simon doesn't remember when it started. Doesn’t remember when the want became a need.

Maybe it was the time you sassed him in front of the others, or maybe it was when you looked him straight in the eye and told him 'you look like a cosplayer, Lt.' Or maybe it was since the beginning, on your very first day.

The one thing he is sure about is how much he wants to fuck you.

Simon wants to fuck you until you're all babbles and wails— bend you over in his bed until you can't think straight and all you can muster is how you want more of his stupid, stupid cock.

He wants you to want him as much as he wants you. But he doesn't want to fuck the fight out of you though, no.

Yeah, a part of him still wonders why you hate him so much, but he doesn't mind you sticking to whatever fucked-up preconceived notions you have of him.

Your fire is what makes it fun, and Simon loves to burn.

He cums like that, mind flush with the thought of you fucking yourself on his cock while telling him how much you can't fucking stand him.

When the haze of pleasure finally recedes, he's stuck with one goal in his mind,

—getting you in his bed.

Your lieutenant's acting strange.

Ever since he walked away from you on the track, Ghost has been... accommodating. Moreso than before.

It's suspicious as fuck.

You're not an idiot. You know your behavior should've gotten you sacked ages ago. Even though Ghost might let it slide for whatever reason, it's still highly disrespectful to your CO. (But you have your reason, as petty as it is. He deserves it.)

So it's strange when he starts acting almost-nice to you.

Exhibit A.

Standing up for you.

The 141 is respected amongst operators and soldiers alike; this is fact. But there's always bound to be a green recruit who thinks, I can do it, I'm special, why not me?

These are the ones you encounter most as the most recent and youngest addition to the 141. It's something you had to grow new skin for, but that doesn't mean it isn't fucking annoying to deal with.

"I bet I could take them in a fight. They don't even look that tough," the recruit prattles. "Do you think the captain will let me into 141 if I beat them?"

The group of soldiers he’s posturing to snicker and laugh. They don’t seem to care that you’re standing ten feet away, or that you can very visibly hear their conversation.

You're about to tell them to drop and give you fifty when a big hulking man steps towards the group.

"Think you got what it takes, corporal?" Your lieutenant drawls, staring down at the recruits who look like they're all going to piss their fatigues.

"L-lieutenant! No--yes, I mean, I--"

Ghost jerks his head towards the training mats.

"Let's see how good you are then."

The recruit gets dropped within ten seconds.

Your lieutenant mutters something to him before barking at the rest of the group. Get your asses on the field. You lot are runnin' laps until you know what it means to respect your betters.

Does he even know how hypocritical he’s being?

Later on during dinner, the recruit who insulted you walks up to 141's table, still ruffled from the nasty takedown and sweaty from running around base. He barely manages to squeak out an apology to you, shooting the smallest glance at your lieutenant before running away with his tail tucked.

(How do you grapple with the way your heart turns?)

Ghost doesn't react, doesn't even look up. Only sips his tea like nothing ever happened.

Exhibit B.

Since when did Ghost start talking back to you on comms?

"If you let me die tonight, I'm going to haunt you and your bloodline forever, Lt."

An undercover mission. Infiltrating some invite-only bourgeoisie gala that's an alleged meeting place for many, many VIPs. Coincidentally, 141's newest target happens to be invited and you are the one who's thrown into the lions' pit.

"My bloodline? Not happening."

He's somewhere out there, watching. On the roof of a nearby building probably.

There’s a sense of comfort in that. You may not like his guts, but you’ve never doubted him on overwatch.

"Why? Got no game, Lt.?"

"Got plenty," he says.

The soft rumble of his voice tickles your ear. It's unusual-- weird-- to hear him banter with you over comms like this. He usually only ever does it with Soap.

"Well, make it happen then," you mumble.

A waiter passes by with a tray of champagne. You smile politely, shaking your head ‘no’.

It’s not the highest risk mission, but the amount of armed guards you’re seeing is a bit annoying. That, and your target is still nowhere to be found.

If you have to send another flirty smile to another grimy man while waiting, you're telling Ghost to aim the crosshair at you instead. And then you're going to haunt him.

"You volunteerin'?"

Your brain short-circuits.

What?

Your mouth bobs open, then shut, and then open again. Hoping to whatever deity out there that your lieutenant's scope isn't actively trained on you right now.

Shit hits the fan faster than you can gather your thoughts.

Screams ring out through the ballroom as windows shatter and gunfire fills the air. Chaos quickly spreads through the masses as people run for cover. Ghost's voice flickers in over the noise.

"Sergeant, take cover, now! Go!"

You don't need to be told twice.

There'll be time to think about what he said later, when you aren't actively in danger of being hole-punched.

And then, Exhibit C.

This is how it culminates.

Outside, on the fields with your fellow sergeants and Ghost. The four of you toss sticks to decide sparring partners; it's sheer dumb misfortune that you end up pairing with Ghost.

You've sparred with him before. He's relentless. There's always a bruise or two on your body when he's done with you. Never once have you won against him; you don't expect this time to be any different.

“Let’s see if you’ve improved, Sergeant,” Ghost taunts.

“I swear I won’t accidentally kick your balls, Lt.,” you reply.

The two of you grapple at each other, swiping and pushing, body on body. Ghost is wearing a tight compression shirt today. You'd be lying if you said it wasn't somewhat distracting with the way it hugged the planes of his muscles— no! Keep focusing! It's never easy to wrestle a man as big as him. But you have to try.

Your hands can barely wrap around his biceps, but you use what you have to your advantage. Nails nearly break skin as you dig deep. He grunts, grip tightening on your arms.

A man's strength can sometimes be his undoing.

You let your weight shift, using his hold on you as an anchor. Tilting back, you let your legs swing forward, grappling around his waist. The momentum has Ghost stumbling back, and you make your final move.

Ghost lets out a surprised grunt as you let go of his arms and force your way through his grip. You push through, pressing your forearms against his throat until his whole body tilts and falls back onto the mat.

Oh, you're gasping out breaths. Holy shit.

You did it.

Ghost is, like you, breathing hard through his nose, eyes lidded. His hands no longer wrap around your arms. Instead, they're settled on your hips, holding you firmly in place.

It occurs to you then the position you're in.

Legs spread over his waist, sitting right on his belly. You're bent forward, hands splayed across his chest and next to his head. Practically laying on top of him.

He's so warm.

An involuntary jolt rolls through your body as you jerk backwards, an attempt to get some distance from his face.

Big mistake.

Holy fuck, this is not happening right now.

You feel it beneath your ass. Unmistakably big, undeniably hard.

A shiver makes it's way down your spine. Your legs clench tight, squishing his abdomen and grinding deeper against him. With the way Ghost's fingers dig into the meat of your thighs, you know he feels it too.

There's a fog closing in on your mind. The sight of your lieutenant under you shouldn't turn you on like this— and yet, the growing dampness between your legs tells you otherwise.

Panicked, you rip yourself off of him and get on your feet. A look over at Soap and Gaz, but they're still in a grapple of their own. It's only a temporary relief that runs over you when you realize they hadn't seen what happened.

"Sergeant," your lieutenant calls out. He's propped up on his arm; you look anywhere but him.

"Sorry, Lt. Feeling a little sick," you say, licking your lips. "Going to freshen up a bit."

You don't wait for him to dismiss you before you're jogging back to your quarters.

Standing in front of your little bathroom sink, you splash cold water onto your burning face. It barely helps.

How did you end up here?

Was it when he started being nice to you, even though you were never anything but rude? Was it when he defended you against egotistic recruits?

Or has it been doomed since the start, when he first looked at you through his stupidly long lashes, like he was trying flip you inside out with his stare?

You weren't lying when you told him you felt sick.

It's a creeping feeling in your gut that's been burning low for a while now. Don't want to call it denial, but what else could it be?

(Betrayal, maybe. You shouldn't feel anything else. Shouldn’t be feeling anything but spite for your lieutenant. It isn't fair to your friend who—)

Knock knock.

The sound breaks you away from thought. A part of you dreads opening it, because you know who stands behind the heavy door. The other part of you is who turns the knob.

Ghost stands there, towering over you.

"Alright, Sergeant?"

His composure is unfair. It's like before never happened. You take a deep breath before replying.

"Yes, sir," you say. It comes out all crackly and rough. "Nothing to worry about."

The silence that falls between you is unsettling.

“If that’s all.” You start to close the door, but his hand catches it.

“Need to talk to you ‘bout something,” he says.

You feel your heart drop somewhere into hell. “Sir, there’s nothing—”

He pushes the door back, pressing into your room. “D’you have a problem with me, Sergeant?”

Eyebrows scrunched, you back up into the wall behind you. “What?”

“I repeat, do you have a problem with me?”

Ghost tilts your chin up. His hand feel like a brand on your skin. Your gaze moves back and forth from his eyes to where his lips shift under the mask, all of a sudden taken back to the picture of him lying beneath your legs. He follows your stare, searching.

“Yes or no, Sergeant?”

His voice is all guttural and deep, like he’s holding himself back from something.

“…N-no, I—”

“Good,” he hums. “Won’t have a problem with this then.”

He moves faster than you can process. Hand slipping his balaclava up, just enough to expose thin scarred lips and a crooked nose. You blink, and suddenly they’re pressing against yours.

Any semblance of self-control melts away after that.

He kisses you like a man deprived of oxygen. Feels more like he's eating you up rather than kissing you. Like he's trying to drink up the air you breathe and more.

But after all he's been doing these past few weeks, the contact feels like a deep reprieve in your bones— a relief you don't want to admit to needing.

You chase him when he pulls back.

“Do you hate me?” He asks, thumb tracing your swollen lips.

"I just let you kiss me," you say, breathless and incredulous. "And you're asking me if I hate you?"

He smirks-- it's stupidly attractive seeing a real expression on him.

"Can't be sure when it comes to you, Sergeant."

You furrow your brows, annoyed. "What's that supposed to mean— mmph!"

Ghost cuts you off with another kiss, hands moving down to your hips. You yelp when he pulls your legs up to wrap around his waist, hauling you up by your ass.

"Arms around me, love," he grunts between pecks.

Once your arms wrap around his shoulders, he pushes off the wall and carries you over to the bed. With surprising care, he drops you on the mattress and settles on top of you.

"Tell me to stop," Ghost growls against your neck. "And I will."

You should say no. No to fraternization, no to betraying your morals.

Stand strong in the face of evil temptation!

"More," you plead instead, because the devil lives inside you. "Want more, Lt."

He groans into your skin. It excites you infinitely more. Leaning back, he pulls his shirt off, revealing firm muscles and a soft belly.

Fuck, he’s so stupidly hot. Your own top and pants comes off a moment later, left forgotten on the floor.

The two of you are a mess of tangled limbs in your little bed made for one.

Ghost kisses down your body, latching onto your soft skin and sucking bruises down your chest. He says things that make you burn a fever pitch— fuckin’ gorgeous, sergeant, knew you needed me, isn't tha' right?

It’s unbearable how turned on you are.

Whines bleed through clenched teeth as you paw at his body. He bites, eliciting a sharp flinch from you.

Always pissin’ me off with tha’ smart mouth of yours, he mutters. Makin' me go wank off like a fuckin' teen.

Your mind is blur— everything is happening too fast, too hot, to process what he's saying to you.

Ghost moves down your body, giving your chest a rough fondle before settling in between your shaky legs.

When he drags your underwear down, your pussy is glistening with how utterly wet you are.

"All f' me?" He asks, pupils blown at the sight of his prize. "Fuckin' drippin'."

You squirm, cheeks searing hot. "Shut up—"

He doesn't let you finish, burying his face between your thighs in one smooth motion.

If Ghost kisses like a man starved, then he eats pussy like it's the only thing keeping him alive.

He pulls you close in his arms and drinks you up like the slick dripping from your pussy is his own personal ambrosia. Moans and groans like it's some divine providence to have his mouth on your cunt.

Your hands claw at his neck and shoulders, but it only spurs him on with more fervor. You feel it simmering into a boil in your belly; the telling signs of your orgasm building.

"Hah—Fuck, Lt., I'm gonna—," you moan, squeezing your eyes shut in anticipation.

But then he stills.

Just stops completely as his mouth leaves your pussy cold and shaking. You lift your head to look down at him, eyes in a frenzy from a ruined climax.

"W-why'd you stop—,"

"Never answered my question, love." He blows cold air on your clit, teasing.

"Huh?"

"Tell me why you hate me," Ghost says, staring at you through soft lashes. "Tell me why you act like such a fuckin' brat, and I'll let you come."

Your breath hitches. “You’re such a fucking asshole—“

You try to kick your leg at him, but he's strong and there's nothing you can do with them pinned down. He nips at your clit, making you yelp out in shock.

"Answer the question, Sergeant."

Ghost shifts his arm, bringing his hand over while still holding your leg down. It's sinful to watch it happen-- his tongue flicking out, licking two of his fingers until they're shimmering with saliva, petting your pussy from the clit down to your pulsing hole.

"Mmhh—"

The stretch of his fingers in your pussy makes you tremble with anticipation. But he doesn't move them the way you want. Only teases you slowly and gently.

"Please, Lt.—"

"Not fuckin' you 'til you tell me, pet."

And isn't that simply the most aggravating thing to hear?

You let out a frustrated whimper. Mind running back and forth over what you could possibly say so that he'll make you come. A shock of pleasure flickers through you when he suddenly crooks his fingers inside you.

"C'mon, pet," Ghost encourages you. "Know y'want it."

Keeping your gaze, he flicks his tongue out and drags it slowly, tracing a line from where his fingers fuck into you, all the way up to your clit.

"Promise I'll fuck you right if you tell me."

The words bubble up your throat before you can stop them.

"...myfriendaskedyououtbutyourejectedthemsoI'mobligatedtohateyou— please, let me come, Lt.," you half-beg, half-sob.

It’s embarrassing. Borderline humiliating to say it aloud.

The real reason for why you treat him like trash— how you only really hate him by proxy.

Truthfully, there's never been any real ill intent. Only a sorry moral obligation to be as spiteful as possible for an old teammate who had confided in you after being coldly shot down by the masked lieutenant of 141— the very one that's currently knuckles deep in your throbbing cunt and covered in your juices.

“Wasn’t so hard, was it, love?” Ghost purrs, fingers still slowly pumping in and out of you.

He's still smirking, that fucking asshole. You wriggle your hips, but he keeps you still with an arm and it’s just not enough.

“Fuck you,” you cry out in frustration.

“I will," he hums. "All tha’ sass for what, hm? Someone I don’t even remember?”

He presses his nose into the plush of your thigh and takes a deep inhale.

"Jerk— hngh!"

Broken moans escape you as his lips find your clit once more. This time, he eats you up without mercy, thick fingers curving wickedly into that one spot inside you. A familiar spark beginning its ascent from where it first fell.

You want to tell him that he's mean, a straight jerk for not remembering someone confessing to them. That this was your friend he was dismissing like a nobody.

(Oh, but what would your friend say if they find out you're in bed with the man who rejected them?

It was so long ago though, your mind whispers. Surely, they've moved on by now, right?)

His tongue laps with just the right pressure on your bud, full broad strokes that make you see stars. His fingers work your pussy with focused precision, sinking into the spot that keeps making you cry out in pleasure.

It's all too much for you to take.

When he finally wraps his lips around your sensitive clit and sucks— you come with blinding lights in your vision, hips grinding up into his face uncontrollably.

"Tha's it, just like that, Sergeant," Ghost coos against your clit, sending another jolt through your legs.

He slips his fingers out of you and pulls himself up back towards your neck, nipping and nestling at your throat. His still-clothed cock grinds gently against your pulsating core.

With the crash comes some of your rationality.

"They liked you, you asshole," you accuse softly, boneless.

"Like me?" Ghost says bluntly against your skin. "They don't even know me."

You roll your eyes. "What, like I know you?"

He pulls back, both arms braced at the sides of your head. Something indecipherable in his gaze.

"Don't you?"

Don't you?

Your breath catches in your chest.

And what would it mean to know someone like Ghost?

His name? His face?

Is it to know the same ten jokes he tells on the field? Or how he always makes sure to give his soldiers a once-over before heading out, and is always the last to exfil?

Or maybe it's to know the sound of his voice in your ears, to be able to pick him out from a crowd of blurry faces. To be able to recognize the scarred curve of his lips, the rough callouses on his palms against your skin.

You sink into the deep end when you realize how close the proximity between you and the man-you-tried-to-hate has become.

"You with me, pet?"

Ghost pulls you out of your thoughts with a nibble on your throat.

"Worryin' too much," he nuzzles into your neck, suckling a sensitive spot that makes you whine. "Couldn't care less 'bout your friend."

You frown, opening your mouth to berate him again, but he beats you with a deep kiss.

“Don't care f'anyone else," Ghost utters between kisses. "Copy?"

The thought makes your head go fuzzy. You nod.

"Good, 'cause 'm gonna fuck you now."

Like a switch, Ghost goes back to teasing you. He kisses you hard, still as desperate and hungry as it was before. Your hands slip down his muscly frame, tugging at the hem of his pants.

"—off," you manage to say between breaths.

Ghost obliges, breaking free from you to tug off his pants. You salivate at the sight; you'd felt it before, on the training grounds— knew it would be big.

His cock is fat and heavy on your cunt when he settles back in between your legs. Even against the size of his bulk, he's fucking huge.

"Scared?" He teases.

You break eye contact with his cock to look up at him. The stupid smirk is back on his lips, irritating you in all the right ways. His eyes stare down you, as heavy as his cock feels.

"I've had bigger," you lie.

He tilts his head. "S'that right?"

Grabbing your hand, he pulls it down towards his cock. His own hands guide yours as he drags them up and down his length.

Holy shit, you can barely wrap your hands around him.

He makes you press his cock against your pussy. It squelches with how wet you are, as his cock slides against your lips. Your breath hitches when his fat tip catches on your slick entrance.

"So fuckin' wet f'me," Ghost groans. "Want my cock inside you tha' bad, pet?"

You whine, needy pussy fluttering every time his nudges his cock at your hole. "Please, please—."

"Please what? Use your words." He presses his tip in, just a bit.

"Need you to fuck me, Lt.—," you plead, grinding your hips down in attempt to fuck yourself on his cock.

"Say my name, pet. I know you know it."

Fucking. Asshole!

Frustrated, you dig your nails deep into his arms, earning a pained grunt from him.

"Oh, go fuck yourself, Simon."

You're not ready for the way Ghost absolutely buries his cock deep inside you with a pathetic whimper.

Your own breath is knocked out of you with how fucking big he feels, legs shaking at the sudden intrusion.

"Fuck— so fuckin' tight," Simon grunts out.

His hips shift back just a bit before plunging back into your ruined pussy, drawing a choked moan from you. The stretch is euphoric— combined with the way his tip rubs up against that spot in your pussy, it's all you can do to keep yourself from falling into the haze.

“D'you know—,” he says, sinking again and again into your cunt. “—how much I thought ‘bout this?”

"'Bout fuckin' this pretty cunt—" Thrust.

"Bending you over in my bed—" Thrust.

"Makin' you come over and over—" Thrust.

It's no use; you lose yourself in the pleasure of his cock, eyes rolling back as he repeatedly pounds you further into the bed. His hands squeeze tight around the curves of your ass, pulling you flush against him and stuffing you full with each thrust.

Simon doesn't stop teasing you.

"What's wrong, love? Got nothin' to say?" He taunts you, lifting both your legs over his shoulders and somehow fucking into you impossibly deeper.

"Cock's got your tongue?"

"F-fu-ungh—"

Tears trail down your cheeks as the simmer in your belly grows overwhelming.

He slips a hand between your legs and starts rubbing circles on your clit, coaxing a string of debauched sounds out of you.

"Sound so fuckin' good like this," Simon groans, eyes hazy and looking just as wrecked as you. "Should jus' keep y'here and fuck you forever."

"—mngh, f-fuck... you," you finally managed to choke out, voice raw and scratchy.

It doesn't distract from the way your cunt clenches tighter than before, not with the way you watch his eyes flicker dark.

He bottoms out with a particularly hard thrust at your words, leaving you a sobbing mess as he fucks you relentlessly.

You grasp away at him as your pleasure begins to overwhelm you— now threatening to boil over. Simon, Simon, Simon is all you can muster, but it's enough.

His cock ruts into you with no reprieve, fingers still flittering over your aching clit.

"Come f'me, pet."

And for once in your life, you obey your lieutenant.

Euphoria burns through your nerves as a second orgasm crashes over you from down under. Your cunt pulses in unrelenting waves, the pleasure borderlining too much. Squeezing his cock even deeper as Simon chases his own climax.

When he finally unravels, it's chaotic and frantic. Simon bends you over, covering you with his body and pulling you close as if to keep you under him. His eyes are squeezed shut, panting as sweat drips into the fabric of his mask.

Your pussy flutters one more time— milking his cock dry at the idea of knowing what Simon Riley looks like when he comes balls deep in your pussy.

“I still hate you,” you whisper, once the electricity fizzles out of the air, leaving only faint static remnants.

But there’s no real venom in your voice.

Simon huffs on top of you. You feel it in the way his chest jumps against yours.

“Right.” He relaxes his body onto you, weight squishing the air out of your lungs with a small ‘oof’. “Keep tellin’ yourself that, love.”

You can't describe the silence that falls over the both of you as comfortable, but... it's not bad, either. There's still a lingering sense of guilt in the back of your mind— but it's no longer screaming at you like before.

Simon's head shifts, the mask pulling on your sheets as he turns and mutters into your temple.

"Still plannin' on hauntin' me now that it's gonna be our bloodline?"

You slap his side as best as you can with your pinned arm.

His quiet chuckle rumbles deep in your ear.

Fucking prick.

There's nothing you would have liked more than simply run away last night after meeting the female lead, but as soon as you sent the letter together with a hefty bribe so the messenger wouldn't misplace it in greedy hands, there's been a guard standing there for the rest of the night. You wonder if it was decision on the temple's part to prevent another assasination attempt or if that was just an excuse to keep an eye on you? Sleep evaded you anyways, staring at the shadows passing on the ceiling as the hours went by.

You replayed in your head the conversation with Ophelia again and again trying to make sense of everything. Could she be a possible ally or was her kindness just an act? For the moment it would be better to no reveal your true identity, even though the thought of someone else from your world comforts you. Maybe she knows a way back and would be willing to show you? Is she also plagued by nightmares from the true heroine of the story for taking over her body and life? There are so many things you wish you could ask her, but are too afraid, the secret of your identity the last trump card against someone also possesing the knowledge of the story.

Despite the bags under your eyes, there's a certain restlessness in your limbs, feet on the verge of sprinting with every step you take around the room. A knock on the door brings you back to your surroundings, finally aware of the blood coating the broken skin around your nail, the taste of copper still lingering on your tongue as the door opens. It's one of priests from the lower ranks judging by the symbol on his chest, he's holding a basket covered by a piece of cloth, the guard nowhere in sight:

"Forgive me for the intrusion, my lady. I've been told to deliver the ceremonial attire."

Before he hands you the basket, he quickly looks from one end of the corridor to the other to make sure there are no curious ears around before continuing in a lower voice:

"His Eminence hopes that you'll know how to make good use of the object inside during the selection. He asked me to remind you that there will be many important people in the audience expecting a worthy performance from you."

"Yes, of course. Thank you."

"May the light of Saint Cleonid guide you in your darker days and peace upon you, my lady."

The blessing sounds more like a thinly veiled threat, not that the words before were anything but that, still, you respond appropriately to it, a stiff smile on your face that falls off as soon as the door closes. Taking the piece of cloth away, the contents of the basket seem underwhelming at first glance: a simple white robe, the veil and shoes. When you lift away the robes there's a certain weight to them and that's when you notice the belt incrusted with different gemstones. Taking it in your hands you feel the some of gems starting to heat up under your fingertips, it almost feels like they're pulsing.

You're not sure how you're supposed to use them, but even with your limited knowledge you recognize some of the engraved symbols. Sounding out the words slowly makes the gems glow and a wave of energy surges underneath your skin. The best way to describe what you're feeling is comparing it to jugging too many energy drinks as your pulse gets faster, breaths a little shorter and there's a slight tremor in your limbs. There are shapes and shadows floating around at the edge of your eyes and you need to blink a few times for them to go away.

Wanting to test out just how powerful the mana stones really are, you bring your attention to one of the wounds on your leg after the attack, trying to heal it. Moments pass by, but the state of the wound stays the same, feeling frustrated and kind of silly you are about to just give up when you notice the vase of flowers next to you withering away completely in a matter of seconds. Well, that doesn't seem very saintesslike. As soon as you let go of the belt a wave of tiredness and sadness washes over you and then goes away when you touch it again. You don't like the way this thing seems to be designed to get the wearer to need to rely on it fully almost immediately.

You don't have a good feeling about this, the temporary power feels more like a leash. It's almost the time for the ceremony so you quickly get dressed just as there's another knock on the door. To your surprise you recognize Ophelia standing there wearing the same attire, a worried look on her face as she takes you in. A maid is standing a few steps behind and follows Ophelia inside your room:

Sleep comes in fragments, thin and restless, curled deep at the bottom of the pool where the water is darkest and the stone presses close around you. You drift there, limbs slack, tail coiled beneath you, gills fluttering in a slow, uneven rhythm. For the first time in years, no glass cages you in, no torches burn above, no footsteps echo with expectation.

And yet, you do not feel safe.

The lair hums with presence, with weight, with something vast and watchful just beyond the surface. Even in sleep, you know you are not alone.

You pretended his presence was nothing more than another part of the cavern: stone, water, gold. You slept curled against the rock, fed on silence, kept your thoughts sharp and guarded. If he wanted a reaction, you would not give it to him.

Until now.

The water shifts.

Your eyes lift.

He has moved to the edge of the pool, crouched low, his reflection warping across the surface as he leans forward. The glow of his eyes cuts through the dim, fixing on you with that same unhurried focus that makes your scales prickle. Slowly—deliberately—he lowers his face toward the water, toward you.

He is far… but too close.

Your gills flare without permission. A small hiss slips from your throat, instinctive and sharp, a warning you barely manage to contain. Your tail tightens beneath you, ready to lash, your claws grazing the stone.

He doesn’t stop.

He pauses instead, you watch at the way his mouth curves faintly—not mocking this time, not cruel. Curious. As though your silence these past days has only made you more interesting.

You hold his gaze, unblinking, pulse thudding hard in your chest. You have been ignoring him for days. And now he has decided to see what it takes to draw you back to the surface.

The water trembles.

At first, you think it is a dream—some lingering memory of the castle collapsing, of wings beating the air. You sink deeper, pressing yourself into the cold stone, trying to let the darkness swallow you whole.

Then it happens again.

A slow disturbance ripples through the pool, spreading outward in perfect circles. Not violent. Not sudden. Deliberate. Measured.

Tap.

Your eyes flutter open.

The sound carries through the water, low and hollow, vibrating against your bones. You stay still, heart tightening, breath caught in your gills. Perhaps if you do not move, if you remain quiet enough, it will stop.

Tap.

Another ripple glides over your skin, lifting strands of your hair, brushing against the edge of your tail. Your claws curl instinctively, scraping faintly against the stone beneath you.

Tap.

It does not stop.

He is still there. Awake. Watching.

You squeeze your eyes shut, willing the water to settle, willing yourself to disappear into the depths. But the tapping continues, unhurried, patient—his tail brushing the surface above, again and again, as if he has all the time in the world.

He is not calling you.  He is not ordering you. He is waiting to see what you will do.

The tapping does not stop.

It seeps into your thoughts, into the rhythm of your breathing, into the fragile edge of sleep you were clinging to. Each ripple drags you closer to wakefulness, closer to anger, until the darkness at the bottom of the pool no longer feels like shelter but like suffocation.

Tap.

Your jaw tightens. Your tail flicks once, sharp and irritated, sending a small cloud of silt swirling around you. You tell yourself to stay still. To ignore him. To let the water swallow the sound the way it swallows everything else.

Tap.

Your gills flare, breath stuttering. Heat blooms beneath your scales, sharp and restless, coiling tight in your chest. He knows what he’s doing. He has to. No predator toys with silence like this unless it amuses them.

Tap.

That does it.

You surge upward in a sudden burst, water parting around you as you break the surface hard, hair whipping back, droplets scattering in a sharp spray. You bare your teeth and hiss, the sound tearing raw from your throat—fierce, guttural, unmistakably siren.

The pool ripples violently from your ascent.

And he just… watches.

He hasn’t moved from where he settled, tail lazily draped into the water, its tip still stirring slow circles across the surface. His head tilts slightly as you rise, molten eyes tracking you with calm, unhurried interest. No surprise. No anger. Not even caution.

Amusement.

The corner of his mouth curls as if you’ve done exactly what he expected.

Your chest heaves, irritation buzzing under your skin as you glare at him, water streaming down your face, pearls threatening again at the corners of your eyes. You hiss once more, louder this time, daring him to react.

He doesn’t.

The tail stops tapping.

Not because you frightened him—but because he’s satisfied. Because you surfaced. Because you chose to move. And the realization settles heavy in your chest:  this was never about waking you.

It was about seeing how long it would take before you stopped hiding.

The water settles slowly around you, ripples smoothing into a tense, fragile calm. You hover near the surface, shoulders just above the waterline, gills flaring with each sharp breath. Your eyes lock onto his.

For a long moment, neither of you moves.

His gaze is steady, molten and unreadable, while yours burns with irritation and something sharper beneath it—resentment, pride, the lingering sting of being watched like a curiosity. The cavern feels smaller, tighter, as if the silence itself is pressing in.

Then his tail shifts.

Not suddenly. Not aggressively. Just enough for the tip to slide through the water with lazy intent before flicking upward.

Cold droplets scatter, splashing across your face.

You flinch back a fraction, water dripping from your lashes—and then you bare your teeth, understanding the provocation instantly. A hiss rips from your throat, sharp and furious, your claws breaking the surface as your tail lashes behind you.

He doesn’t stop you.

He watches.

The corner of his mouth lifts, slow and deliberate, that infuriating curl of amusement returning as if your anger is the most entertaining thing he’s seen all night. Smoke slips from his lips in a faint exhale, his eyes glinting brighter as your reaction unfolds exactly as he hoped.

You snarl, water churning around you, every instinct screaming to strike, to remind him you are not harmless.

And he enjoys every second of it.

Because now you’re not hiding.  Not sleeping.  Not breaking. You’re reacting.

And to him, that’s far more interesting.

The tension lingers between you, sharp and humming, the water still restless from your earlier outburst. His tail withdraws slowly from the pool, droplets sliding from the ridged length before falling back in soft plinks.

Then he shifts.

You watch as one massive claw reaches behind him, toward a pile of hoarded things half-buried in shadow. Gold gleams. Steel catches faint light. And then—something softer. Color. Shape.

He turns back toward you and opens his hand.

Fruit.

Bright, intact, absurdly out of place in a dragon’s lair. Round, unfamiliar shapes glisten faintly in the low light, skins unbroken, unbloodied. They look… untouched.

Your brow furrows. You hesitate, then drift closer, slow and cautious, eyes never leaving his face. He doesn’t move. He only watches, expression unreadable, curiosity simmering beneath that ever-present amusement.

You lift one hand from the water and take the fruit between your fingers. It smells sweet. Clean. Wrong.

You bring it closer, sniffing once.

Then your face twists. A sharp grimace pulls at your mouth, your gills fluttering in instinctive offense. You recoil slightly, lips curling as if you’ve tasted something foul. The sound that leaves him is unmistakable.

A chuckle—low, rough, vibrating deep in his chest. It echoes through the cavern, warm and amused, entirely unbothered by your reaction. His shoulders lift faintly with it, eyes gleaming brighter as he watches you glare at the offering like it personally insulted you.

“So,” his tone rumbles, slow and entertained, “not that.”

You drop the fruit back into the water with a flick of irritation, where it bobs uselessly at the surface. You bare your teeth at him, insulted on multiple levels—not just by the food, but by the assumption behind it. 

And for the first time since you arrived in his lair, you realize something unsettling: He isn’t just watching you to see if you’ll survive. He’s learning you.

The fruit drifts uselessly at the surface, bobbing once before nudging the stone. You don’t look at it again.

He does.

Then he reaches back into the hoard once more. This time, there is no color. No softness. No sweetness. When his claw comes back into view, it is wet.

A heart rests in his palm—large, whole, freshly torn. Blood slides slowly between his fingers, thick and dark, dripping in lazy trails onto the stone below. The scent hits you instantly, sharp and intoxicating, flooding your senses before you can stop it.

Your breath catches.

Your eyes light up before you can school your face, pupils widening until the world narrows to red and heat and hunger. Your ears perk instinctively, body angling forward, tail stirring the water in short, eager flicks.

That—that—is right.

Your gills flare, chest tightening as your mouth waters, the ache in your stomach sharpening into something almost painful. The ocean remembers. Your body remembers.

You look at the heart like it might vanish if you blink.

And he sees it.

You don’t need to look up to know—your instincts scream it. But when you do, his gaze is already on you, molten and intent, watching every flicker of your reaction. The corner of his mouth lifts slowly, deliberately, into a smirk that makes your spine prickle.

Of course he noticed.

He raises the heart just slightly, blood dripping faster now, closer to the waterline. Your claws break the surface without permission, fingers curling, reaching before you can stop yourself.

Then he pulls it back.

Not far. Just enough.

Your breath stutters. You freeze, staring at the empty space where it almost was, frustration flaring hot and sharp. You look back up at him, teeth bared—not in threat, but in want.

He doesn’t give it to you.

He only watches, smirk deepening, as if committing the sight of your hunger to memory. As if this—this—is what he wanted to see all along. You don’t know why he’s holding it back.  You don’t know what he’s deciding.

But under his gaze, with blood scent thick in the air and your instincts screaming, one thing becomes painfully clear: He knows exactly what you are. And he is enjoying how badly you want it.

The hunger claws at you, sharp and undeniable, a low ache that spreads from your stomach into your chest, into your throat, into every place where instinct once lived. The scent of blood wraps around you, thick and intoxicating, dragging memories to the surface—warm flesh, salt and iron, the way the sea once sang when you fed.

You know what you are supposed to do.

A siren does not wait. A siren does not ask. A siren takes.

Your claws curl. Your tail tightens beneath the water. Every part of you recognizes the moment—the challenge, the test, the prey held just out of reach. You should surge forward. You should snarl, lunge, fight him for it. Tear it from his grasp and remind him that the sea does not beg.

But you don’t move.

Your body remains where it is, half-submerged, shoulders tense, breath shallow. The water laps softly against your skin as if mocking you. The hunger burns hotter, sharper, because now it is joined by something worse.

Stillness.

You stare at the heart, eyes wide, ears tilted forward, every nerve alive with want—yet you stay exactly where you are. Waiting. Watching. As if permission might still come.

As if you are still in glass.

The realization settles slowly, heavily, like silt sinking in deep water. You know hunger. You know longing. But fighting?

You never learned that.

Since you were a child, hands reached for you through bars and glass, not blades. You were commanded to sing, not to strike. Fed when obedient. Punished when not. Survival taught you patience, not resistance. Silence, not violence.

The ocean never taught you how to fight—because you were taken before it could.

Your gaze flicks up to him, shame burning hotter than hunger now. His smirk falters.

Just slightly.

His brow creases, confusion flickering across his face as he waits for the lunge that never comes. For the snarl. For the violence he expected. His grip on the heart tightens, blood slipping faster between his fingers, but you still do not move.

You can feel his attention shift, the amusement draining into something heavier, more thoughtful. He studies you now not as a predator choosing whether to strike—but as a creature standing frozen before food it desperately wants and does not know how to take.

A low sound rumbles in his chest—not laughter this time.

Disappointment.

Not cruel. Not mocking.

Realizing.

You lower your gaze, jaw tight, throat aching, your body betraying you by staying still even as your instincts scream. You hate it. You hate yourself for it. For wanting and not acting. For being sharp and beautiful and utterly untrained.

The heart still hangs just out of reach.

The silence stretches.

The heart still drips in his claw, blood dark against pale stone, but his gaze no longer lingers on it—or on you. His brow furrows, not in anger, not in cruelty, but in something colder. Final.

He straightens.

The movement is sudden enough to make you flinch, water rippling around your shoulders. His wings shift, folding in with a dull scrape of membrane against stone. The cavern seems to shrink as he rises to his full height, the glow of his eyes dimming as his attention pulls away from you at last.

Without a word, he turns.

Heavy footsteps echo as he moves past the hoard, past the scattered gold and weapons, toward the dark tunnel that leads out of the lair. Smoke trails behind him in a thin, fading ribbon. He does not look back.

You watch him go.

You stay where you are until his presence thins, until the air loses its weight, until the cavern feels emptier than it did before he ever arrived. Only then do you sink beneath the surface again, letting the water close over your head like a shroud.

Down.

Down.

Back to the bottom of the pool, where the light barely reaches and the stone is cold beneath your palms. You curl onto the familiar rock, tail wrapping tight around your legs, arms drawn close to your chest. The water is still. Too still.

No fish scatter at your arrival.  No small bodies brush against your skin. No flickers of silver dart through the dark. The pool is vast and empty, stripped bare of life. The realization settles slowly, painfully.

In the palace, at least there were fishes. Small, stupid creatures circling endlessly, unaware of your hunger, your sorrow. You spoke to them sometimes. Hummed when the silence grew too sharp. Pretended, foolishly, that they kept you company.

Here, there is nothing. No glass walls. No torches. No guards. 

Just water. Stone. And absence.

You press your forehead against the rock, eyes stinging, chest aching with a loneliness deeper than hunger. You thought freedom would feel lighter. You thought being taken from the cage would make the air easier to breathe.

Instead, you have never felt so alone.

Not a jewel. Not a pet. Not even a predator. Just a siren, curled at the bottom of a dragon’s lair, with no ocean and no company but the echo of footsteps already gone.

And the water does not answer when you hum.

Sleep takes you without mercy.

It is heavy and dreamless, pulling you under until the water feels thick as stone around your body. You curl tighter on the rock, tail wrapped close, mind drifting into a dark that does not ache quite as much as waking does.

Then—

The water explodes.

A violent surge rips through the pool, scattering silt and dragging your body free from the rock. Your eyes snap open as something massive crashes into the depths, pressure slamming into your chest hard enough to steal your breath.

Before you can flee, before your instincts even catch up—

A hand closes around you.

Strong. Unyielding. Claws biting into your arm as you’re yanked upward in one brutal motion. Your body jerks, tail thrashing wildly as panic tears through you, gills flaring uselessly as the water rushes past.

You claw at him, nails scraping against scales, but it does nothing. He drags you through the water with terrifying ease, breaking the surface in a violent splash. Air burns your lungs as you gasp, coughing, disoriented, your body half-hanging from his grip.

You hear it before you see it—

That low, furious rumble in his chest.

Not amused. Not curious. Decided.

He hauls you fully from the water, forcing you upright, his grip unrelenting as water streams from your hair and scales, splashing onto the stone. Your heart hammers, every nerve screaming, fear flooding back sharp and cold.

You look up at him, wide-eyed, breath shaking.

He doesn’t smile. His brow is drawn tight, jaw set, eyes burning brighter than before—not with hunger, not with mockery, but with something heavier. Purpose.

Whatever he left to consider… Whatever he decided while you slept… You know, with sick certainty, that he did not return to watch you hide.

And for the first time since he carried you here, you feel it in your bones: The observation is over.

Your claws clutch at his shoulders, fingers digging into the hard planes of muscle and scale as you gasp for breath. Water streams from your hair, drips from your chin, splashes against the stone between you. Your heart is still racing, panic buzzing hot beneath your skin.

You look up at him, eyes wide, furious and frightened all at once.

Words claw their way up your throat before you can stop them.

“Y-You—” Your voice stumbles, unused to being shaped for anger instead of ceremony. The sounds come out stiff, fractured, polished in all the wrong places. “You are… most uncouth. A brute of the lowest—of the most violent disposition.”

It sounds wrong the moment it leaves your mouth. Too formal. Too practiced. Like a reprimand meant for a courtier, not a dragon who dragged you from sleep with claws and force.

Your grip tightens as you push on, breath shaking. “You seize without leave, without—without decorum. Such conduct would be—be deemed intolerable in any civilized—”

He blinks.

Just once.

His brow furrows slightly, head tilting as he watches your mouth move, listens to the cascade of careful words tumble out in that clipped, regal cadence. You can see it in his eyes—he’s listening, but the meaning doesn’t quite land.

Your tone, though?

That he understands.

The offense. The defiance. The fact that you are scolding him like a king’s equal.

A low sound rumbles from his chest, somewhere between a growl and a laugh. He glances briefly at your claws on his shoulders, then back to your face, eyes gleaming with something unreadable.

“…You talk strange,” he says at last, the words rough, blunt, stripped of ornament. “But you’re angry.”

It isn’t a question.

His mouth curls faintly, not mocking this time—interested. Amused in a different way. As if your careful, ceremonial insult is just another curious thing to add to the list of what you are.

Your heart stutters.

He doesn’t shove you away.  He doesn’t loosen his grip either. And you realize, belatedly, that while he may not understand your words…He understands that you dared to speak them at all.

Your ears tilt back instinctively, a sharp flick of irritation and embarrassment all at once. You huff, breath puffing out through your nose, and turn your face away from him as if that might somehow reclaim a shred of dignity. The words sounded better in your head. They always did.

But he doesn’t let you hide.

His grip shifts—firm, uncompromising—and two fingers hook beneath your chin. He forces your head back, not roughly, but with a certainty that leaves no room for refusal. Your gaze snaps back to his, molten and intent, his smirk already there, slow and unmistakable.

He looks… pleased.

Very pleased.

“That,” he says, voice low and blunt, each word like stone striking stone, “do that again.”

You blink, startled.

“The strange talk,” he continues, tilting his head slightly, studying your face as if it’s a weapon he hasn’t seen before. “The fancy sounds. You puff up like a little ruler.” His smirk deepens. “I like it.”

Your ears flatten harder, heat rushing to your cheeks as you glare at him. He doesn’t look confused now. He looks entertained. Curious in a way that feels dangerous.

“Talk,” he repeats, shorter this time. A command, stripped bare. “Say more. Strange words.”

His thumb presses lightly at your jaw, grounding, inescapable. Not cruel—but not gentle either. Expectant.

Your lips curl back before you can stop them, a sharp, instinctive snarl tearing free as you bare your fangs at him. It’s a warning older than words, older than courts and crowns—a reminder of what you were meant to be.

His eyes flick to them instantly. And then—infuriatingly—he smiles. One claw lifts, slow and deliberate, and before you can snap at him, the tip brushes against your exposed fang. Just a touch. Light. Testing.

You yelp.

The sound betrays you—too sharp, too small—and heat floods your face as you jerk back on instinct. Rage surges to cover the embarrassment, raw and sudden.

Your hands slam against his chest and you shove with everything you have, forcing his face down toward the pool. Water splashes high as his head dips beneath the surface, silver hair darkening instantly.

For half a heartbeat, you think—got you.

Then the water vibrates.

A low, unmistakable chuckle rolls through him, bubbling up through the pool as he lifts his head again, droplets streaming from his hair and lashes. His eyes are bright now, alive with amusement, the smirk back in full force.

He looks… delighted.

You hiss, chest heaving, claws raised, tail lashing beneath the surface as if daring him to try again. Instead of retreating, he leans closer, water dripping from his chin, voice rough and warm with laughter.

“Good,” he rumbles. “There it is.”

Not anger.  Not punishment.

Approval.

And it dawns on you, sharp and unsettling, that every time you bare your teeth, every time you snap and shove and hiss— he only seems proud.

The laughter is still vibrating in his chest when everything changes.

His wings rise.

The cavern fills with the thunder of them—stone shuddering, air ripping apart as he straightens to his full height. Before you can pull back, before you can even draw breath to hiss again, his arms close around you and haul you against him.

Hard.

Your bare chest presses to his, heat and smoke and muscle all at once. One arm locks around your back, the other anchoring your hips, pinning your tail uselessly between you. You gasp, claws digging instinctively into his shoulders as the ground drops away.

The lair vanishes beneath you.

Wind screams.

Your grip tightens without thought, fingers fisting in his hair, claws scraping against scale as he launches upward. The sudden cold steals your breath, rips a startled sound from your throat as the world blurs into dark sky and rushing air.

You cling.

There is no dignity in it. No defiance. Only instinct. You press yourself against him, cheek against his chest, ears flattened tight as his wings beat again and again, carrying you higher, farther, away from stone and water and the quiet that was never safe.

Below, darkness gives way to open land.

You lift your head just in time to see it—a lake spread wide and black beneath the moon, its surface broken by silver light. Too open. Too vast. Not the ocean, but closer than anything you have known in years.

His descent is sudden.

The wind howls louder as he angles downward, grip loosening just enough to make your heart leap into your throat. You gasp, claws tightening in panic—

And then he lets go.

Your body drops.

The air tears past you for a breathless, weightless moment before water crashes up to meet you. Cold slams into your skin, swallowing sound and light alike as you plunge beneath the surface, tumbling deep into the lake’s dark embrace.

Silence rushes in.

Water closes around you, familiar and shocking all at once, your body instinctively righting itself as your tail snaps out, cutting through the depths. Above, the surface ripples violently, disturbed by your fall.

You twist, heart hammering, gills flaring as you look upward—

And see his silhouette against the sky, wings spread wide, watching.

He does not follow. He hovers there, suspended in the air, arms crossed loosely over his chest, as if this too is part of the test. As if being dropped into open water is an answer to something only he asked.

Your chest tightens.

You don’t know why he brought you here. You don’t know if this is freedom or another trial. All you know is that the lake stretches wide around you, dark and deep and unfamiliar—And above it, the dragon watches to see what you will do next.

The water steadies around you.

For a moment, you simply float there, suspended between fear and wonder, heart racing so fast it almost drowns out everything else. This water is different—cooler, wider, alive in a way the pool was not. There is no stone pressing in, no walls close enough to touch. The dark stretches outward in every direction, open and deep, and the realization makes your breath hitch.

You turn slowly, eyes scanning the vastness around you.

Fear coils tight in your chest. You don’t know this place. You don’t know how deep it goes, what lives in its shadows, whether it will cradle you or swallow you whole. But beneath the fear, something else sparks—bright, electric, almost painful.

Excitement.

Your tail flicks experimentally, sending you gliding forward. The movement feels… right. Natural. Water parts easily around you, responding to your body instead of resisting it. You swim farther, then faster, the lake opening beneath you as if it has been waiting.

Silver flashes catch your eye.

Fish.

Small at first—darting shapes that scatter, then circle back, curious. More follow, slipping into your wake, brushing past your arms, your tail, your sides. They do not flee you. They swim with you, matching your pace, weaving through the water like living threads.

A sound escapes you—soft, startled, almost a laugh.

You spin, sweeping through the water in a wide arc, hair fanning out, scales catching the moonlight filtering down from the surface. The fish surge with you, a shimmering cloud, and for a heartbeat you forget the cage, the lair, the hunger, the shame.

You are moving.

Above, the surface ripples.

You glance up and see him there, a dark shape cutting slow circles through the air, wings beating in measured strokes. He does not descend. He does not call to you. He only watches, molten eyes tracking every turn of your body, every flick of your tail, as if committing the sight to memory.

You feel it—his gaze following you through the water.

It should make you shrink.

Instead, you swim farther, deeper, letting the lake carry you as the fish gather close, brushing against your skin like whispered company. Fear still lingers, sharp at the edges, but excitement blooms stronger now, spreading through your limbs with every stroke.

For the first time since you were taken from the sea, the water does not feel like a cage.

And above it all, the dragon watches—silent, intent—waiting to see whether this vast, living space will awaken what was buried in you… or break you all over again.

You surge upward without thinking.

Water parts as you burst from the lake, body arcing high into the night like a living blade of silver. Moonlight catches on your scales, on the curve of your tail, on the smooth stretch of your spine as you twist midair—effortless, instinctive, right. For a heartbeat, you are weightless. Free.

Then you dive.

You cut back into the water in a clean, perfect line, barely a splash, the lake swallowing you whole before spitting you back out again in a spray of glittering droplets. The motion pulls something loose in your chest, something bright and sharp and impossible to hold back.

Laughter bursts from you.

It echoes across the water, wild and unguarded, nothing like the careful sounds you were trained to make. You leap again, higher this time, body rolling with grace you didn’t know you still possessed, hair flying, tail snapping through the air before you vanish beneath the surface once more.

You laugh again when you resurface, breathless, exhilarated, surrounded by fish that scatter and return in shining arcs, drawn to your movement, to your joy.

Above you, wings beat slowly.

You glance up between dives and see him circling the lake, dark against the stars, his flight unhurried now. He doesn’t intervene. He doesn’t call you back. He simply watches, eyes bright, following every leap, every twist, every echo of your laughter across the water.

There is no smirk this time.

What rests in his gaze is heavier—curiosity sharpened into something intent, something almost… satisfied. As if he is witnessing proof of a theory he wasn’t sure would hold. As if the creature laughing below him is far more interesting than the quiet, broken one curled on a rock hours before.

You dive once more, deep and fast, the lake opening wide to receive you. And for the first time, you don’t feel like something being tested.

You feel like something being discovered.

You slip beneath the surface again, the lake closing over your head in a rush of cool darkness. The noise of the world dulls instantly, sound turning soft and distant, your body settling into the water as if it has always belonged here.

You swim.

Long, powerful strokes carry you forward, tail cutting clean paths through the depths. Fish scatter and regroup around you, silver flashes keeping pace at your sides. Above, the surface shivers with reflected moonlight, broken by a shadow that moves when you do.

You notice it slowly.

A shape gliding just overhead.

You angle upward just enough to see him—wings spread wide, flying low, so close to the water that the tips skim the surface, sending faint ripples cascading down toward you. He moves in the same direction, matching your speed, your rhythm.

A mirror.

You beneath the water, he above it. Two silhouettes carving parallel paths through the same stretch of night.

You turn slightly, and he turns with you. You accelerate, tail snapping harder, and his wings beat faster in answer. The water hums around you, alive with motion, while the air above breaks under the steady force of his flight.

For the first time, you are not being chased. For the first time, you are not being dragged. You are moving together—not touching, not speaking, but bound by motion alone.

You twist your body, rolling through the water in a wide arc, hair streaming out like ink. Above, his shadow curves with you, wings adjusting smoothly, as if the sky itself bends to keep you aligned. The surface between you trembles, a thin, living barrier that reflects both moonlight and fire.

You glance up again, heart racing—not with fear, but with something bright and strange.

He is still watching. Not waiting for you to fail. Not testing you now. Just… watching.

And as you swim on, one above, one below, you realize that for this brief stretch of water and sky, neither of you is leading. You are simply moving forward, side by side, reflected in two worlds that almost touch.

You slow.

The water resists at first, momentum tugging at your limbs as your tail eases its rhythm, strokes growing shorter, gentler. The fish scatter ahead of you, then drift back, confused by the change. The lake grows quiet again, moonlight smoothing across the surface.

You rise.

Your head breaks through the water with a soft splash, hair slicked back, breath coming warm into the cool night air. Ripples spread outward from you in slow rings, carrying the echo of movement away.

Above, the shadow falters.

He stops mid-flight with unsettling ease, wings beating once—twice—before holding steady, keeping him suspended just above the waterline. The wind from his wings skims the lake’s surface, stirring faint waves that brush against your shoulders.

You lift your gaze.

He tilts his head toward you, the motion sharp and animal, curiosity etched into the angle of his neck. His wings remain spread, wide and powerful, framing the sky behind him as if he owns it. Moonlight catches along their edges, tracing the scars and veins that speak of age and battle.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

Water laps quietly against your collarbone. Air hums faintly with the force of his hovering. Your eyes meet his, and the world seems to narrow to that thin space between surface and sky.

You are no longer swimming.  He is no longer circling.

You have both stopped.

And in that stillness—balanced between water and air—you feel it again: that strange, unsettling sense that whatever this is between you, it isn’t pursuit.

It’s attention.

Focused. Intent. Waiting.

His gaze doesn’t press you down.  It doesn’t pull you up. It simply stays, fixed on you, as if asking—without words—what you will do now that you’ve chosen to look back.

You hesitate only a moment before speaking, water sliding from your lashes as you lift your chin just enough to meet his gaze.

“Why,” you ask, the word careful and formal despite the tremor beneath it, “have you brought me here?”

The lake holds its breath.

Above you, his mouth curves—slow, knowing. That infuriating smirk returns, as if the question itself is amusing. He doesn’t answer.

Instead, he moves.

One hand darts down and presses firmly against the back of your head, shoving you beneath the surface without warning. Water floods your ears, your nose, your mouth as you’re forced under, shock snapping instantly into fury.

You snarl.

The sound tears from you wild and sharp, bubbles exploding from your lips as your claws flash upward. You twist, grabbing at his arm, his wrist, anything you can reach, and yank hard—dragging with all the strength coiled in your tail.

If he wants water, you think viciously, then he can have it.

Your body surges, tail wrapping instinctively as you try to pull him down with you, muscles screaming with the effort. The lake churns, surface breaking violently as you fight to drag him into your world, teeth bared, eyes blazing.

Above the water, he laughs.

The sound is muffled but unmistakable, rolling through him even as he resists the pull with terrifying ease. His grip loosens just enough to let you rise, gasping, fury written across every line of your body.

“You bite,” he says, voice rough and pleased, wings beating once to keep himself aloft. “Good.”

Water streams from your hair as you glare up at him, chest heaving, claws still gripping his arm like you might try again.

And in the space between your snarl and his laughter, between your pull and his effortless balance, you realize he brought you here not to explain—but to see how fiercely you would fight back when given the chance.

You break the surface with a gasp, chest heaving, water streaming down your shoulders as you pant. Your claws are still half-raised, tail churning the lake in short, furious strokes. The effort burns in your limbs; your breath comes sharp and uneven.

He, meanwhile, looks… fine.

Unbothered. Hovering above the water as if you hadn’t just tried—quite earnestly—to drag him under. Amusement lingers in his eyes, bright and warm, his smirk settled easy on his face like you’ve only confirmed something he already suspected.

Then—

Sound.

Not the water. Not the wind.

Footsteps. Metal. Voices carried faintly across the shore.

Your body stills before your mind catches up. He turns his head slowly toward the noise, eyes narrowing as he listens. The smirk shifts—not fading, but sharpening. Recognition settles into his expression with a quiet, dangerous ease.

The King’s men.

Still hunting. Still searching. For him. For you.

He looks back at you.

Then, deliberately, he opens his arms.

The gesture is wide, almost mocking—an invitation framed by wings and night air. His gaze flicks briefly toward the distant noise, then back to you, brows lifting just enough to make the question unmistakable.

Do you want to go back?

Your stomach drops.

For half a heartbeat, the lake feels colder. Smaller. You see it again—the glass, the chains, the voice that commanded and punished and praised in the same breath.

You don’t answer with words. You answer with movement.

You surge forward in a burst of water and muscle, launching yourself from the lake without hesitation. Your arms wrap tight around his neck, fingers fisting in his hair, claws digging in as you cling to him with sudden, desperate strength.

Your head shakes hard against his shoulder.

No. Never.

He lets out a low, surprised huff—half laugh, half breath—and his arms come up around you without pause, catching you securely against his chest. Water spills from you both, droplets scattering into the night as his wings beat once, strong and steady.

You cling there, breath still shaking, heart hammering, your answer pressed into him instead of spoken. And this time, when he rises, you don’t struggle at all.

They reach the lair in a rush of wind and shadow.

Stone yawns open beneath you, the familiar cavern swallowing sound as his wings beat hard one last time. Then the air stills—and he lets go.

You drop.

Water closes around you again, cool and deep, breaking your fall with a muted splash. Your body rights itself instantly this time, tail snapping out on instinct as you surface near the edge of the pool.

You don’t thrash. You don’t lunge. You only hiss.

The sound is low, reflexive, more breath than threat—ears tilted back, teeth bared out of habit rather than fury. There is no real malice in it now. No desperate edge. Just… acknowledgment.

He hovers above the pool, wings half-spread, watching. The smirk returns, easy and knowing, as if he understands the difference. As if he recognizes that this hiss isn’t defiance—but communication.

“Mm,” he rumbles, amused. “Better.”

Then he turns. Without another word, he lifts into the air and disappears into one of the tunnels branching off from the lair. The echo of his wings fades quickly, leaving the cavern heavy with quiet once more.

You float there, water lapping softly against your shoulders, heart still racing. The pool feels different now—not safe, not dangerous.

Time stretches.

Then— You feel it.

A shift in the air. A familiar pressure rolling back into the cavern before you even see him.

He returns.

He descends slowly this time, landing near the pool’s edge with deliberate weight. When he straightens, something dark and wet rests in his hand.

A heart.

Fresh. Whole. Blood still warm as it slides between his fingers, dripping steadily onto the stone. The scent hits you instantly, sharp and irresistible, igniting hunger deep in your chest before you can stop it.

Your gills flare.  Your pupils widen.

He watches your reaction closely this time, eyes intent, unreadable. No smirk now. No mockery. Just observation—measuring, waiting.

He lowers his hand slightly, bringing the heart closer to the water.

Closer to you.

Not offering it outright.  Not pulling it away. Just holding it there, steady and patient, as if asking a question without words.

Now?

The scent pulls at you immediately, sharp and overwhelming, curling through your chest and down your spine like a command written into your bones. Your hunger answers before thought does, a low ache tightening until it becomes almost unbearable.

You don’t rush him.

You rise slowly through the water, careful, deliberate, every movement measured. The lake clings to your skin as you lift higher, droplets sliding down your arms, your shoulders, your collarbone. Your eyes never leave his—not for a blink, not for a breath. You watch his face for signs, for mockery, for warning.

There is nothing.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t retreat. Doesn’t advance.

He simply stands there, arm extended, the heart hanging heavy in his hand, blood slipping between his fingers and dripping into the pool in dark, blooming trails. Each drop makes your gills flare harder, your tail twitch beneath the surface.

You reach.

Your fingers break the water, trembling just slightly as you stretch toward him, claws careful this time, restrained. You are close enough now to feel the heat of his body, to smell smoke beneath the blood. Close enough that one more inch would put the heart in your grasp.

And then—

He bites into it.

Teeth sink into flesh with a wet, tearing sound. Blood spills freely now, running down his chin, down his wrist, splashing into the water between you. He doesn’t break eye contact as he does it. Not once.

His jaw works slowly, deliberately, as if savoring not the taste—but your reaction.

The message is unmistakable.

Take it, his gaze says. If you dare.

Your breath stutters. Hunger flares hot and furious in your chest, sharper now, edged with something new—challenge. The heart is closer than ever, yet suddenly farther away, claimed not by distance, but by intent.

He chews once more, smirk returning faintly at the corner of his mouth, eyes burning as he waits to see whether you will hesitate again…Or finally reach out and take what you want.

He leans closer.

Slowly. Deliberately.

His face lowers until it is just inches from yours, the heart still clenched between his teeth, blood slick and dark against his mouth. His eyes gleam with open amusement now, that sharp smirk curving as if he’s daring you to do something foolish.

You frown, irritation and hunger tangling tight in your chest.

For a heartbeat, you hesitate.

Then—carefully, almost uncertain—you lean in and bite into the other side of the heart.

Not hard. Not tearing. Just enough.

The texture bursts warm against your teeth, metallic and rich, and your body reacts instantly—gills flaring, tail tensing, claws curling reflexively. The taste hits you like memory, like something long denied suddenly returned.

He growls.

The sound is low and sudden, vibrating straight through you. Your ears snap back against your head, eyes widening in startled fear as your pulse spikes—but you don’t let go. You freeze instead, jaw locked, teeth sunk into flesh as instinct wars with instinct.

For a moment, everything holds still.

Then his expression changes.

Not anger. Not mockery. Something else.

Approval.

He tugs.

Just slightly at first, testing, pulling the heart back with his teeth. The movement is slow, controlled, unmistakable in its intent.

Pull back.

Your claws flex against the stone. Your body tenses, fear still fluttering sharp in your chest—but hunger is louder now. Pride, too. You tighten your jaw and tug back in answer, refusing to give ground.

The growl deepens. But this time, it isn’t a warning.

It’s pleased.

His eyes burn brighter as the two of you pull against each other, blood dripping between you into the pool below. Not a fight. Not yet.

A test.

And for the first time, you are not waiting to be given something. You are taking part in the struggle for it.

You tug—careful, tentative—drawing back toward the pool, letting the water cradle your hips as you retreat inch by inch. The surface ripples around you, cool and grounding, and for a breath you think he’ll let it happen.

He doesn’t.

His pull sharpens.

The heart jerks taut between your teeth, the sudden strength of it hauling you forward again, dragging you out of the water until your shoulders break the surface. You gasp around the bite, ears flattening as your balance falters. Blood drips faster now, pattering into the pool like rain.

He’s teasing you.

You feel it in the way he holds the tension—not ripping, not taking it away—just enough force to make your muscles burn, to make you work for every inch. Your claws scrape stone as you brace, tail snapping beneath the water, fear fluttering bright and fast in your chest.

Then he growls. Not loud. Not threatening.

Soft.

The sound loosens something inside you—permission, maybe—and the pull eases. Just enough.

You seize it.

You tug back with more confidence this time, sinking your weight into the water, letting it help you. The heart slides, inch by inch, drawn down with you until your face dips beneath the surface again. Your eyes are wide, breath tight, but there’s something new there now—steadiness, a spark that wasn’t there before.

He lets you have it.

Not fully. Not yet.

He keeps his fangs sunk deep, refusing to release his end, following your descent until your face is just under the surface and his remains above it. Water kisses your cheeks; air brushes his chin. The pool holds you both in a fragile balance.

Only the heart connects you now.

Your fangs below the water. His above it.

Blood clouds slowly around your mouth, warm and rich, drifting into the pool as your grip steadies. Fear still lives in your bones, but it no longer freezes you. You hold fast. You don’t let go.

Above you, he watches—wings still, posture relaxed, eyes burning with something unmistakable.

Pride.

Not because you won.  Not because you obeyed. Because you pulled back. And in the quiet of his lair, water lapping softly against stone, you realize this isn’t about feeding anymore. It’s about learning how to take.

You hold still.

Water laps softly against your cheeks, blood drifting in slow, dark ribbons between you. Your eyes stay locked on his, unblinking, breath tight in your chest. His fangs remain buried in the heart, his grip steady, testing not your strength now—but your resolve.

The world narrows to that single point of connection.

Then, inch by inch, he loosens his bite.

You feel it before you see it—the subtle release, the tension easing, the weight shifting fully into your control. His fangs slide free slowly, deliberately, as if to be certain you notice. As if to make the moment unmistakable.

Your eyes widen.

For half a heartbeat, you freeze—caught between disbelief and instinct.

Then instinct wins.

You dart downward in a sudden burst, water closing over your head as you vanish into the depths of the pool. The heart comes with you, clenched tight between your teeth as you twist and sink fast, tail snapping with exhilaration.

You tear into it eagerly now, hunger flaring bright and joyful, the taste rich and right and overwhelming. Warmth floods your body, easing the ache that has lived in you for far too long. You eat without shame, without restraint, laughter bubbling out of you in muffled bursts as blood clouds the water around your face.

Above the surface, a sound follows you down.

Laughter.

Low, rough, unmistakably pleased.

It echoes through the lair, warm and full, reverberating off stone as he watches you disappear beneath the water to feed like you were always meant to. Not hidden. Not waiting. Not asking.

Taking.

And as you feast at the bottom of his pool, thrill humming through your veins, you don’t see his smile—but you hear it in the sound of his laugh, and you know, with a certainty that settles deep in your bones:

This time, you earned it.

---

“Someone’s eager today,” he remarked, amusement lacing his tone as he leaned back, letting you take control.

Your fingers made quick work of his belt, tugging his pants and boxers down. His cock was already half hard, heavy in your hand, and you didn’t waste a second before wrapping your lips around him.

He hissed softly, eyes narrowing as you took him in inch by inch.

“Slow down, kitten—” The rest of his words dissolved into a sharp breath when you sank deeper, the tip pressing against the back of your throat. You glanced up just in time to see his head fall back, jaw tightening as pleasure washed over him.

You moved steadily, finding a rhythm, feeling him grow harder with every motion. His pre tasted faintly salty, his scent heady and familiar, driving you nearly insane. Your frustration still simmered beneath the pleasure, leaving you wanting more—needing it.

So you pushed yourself further.

The reaction was instant. He gasped, back arching as his hand slid into your hair, holding you there. The pressure made you gag, tears pricking your eyes, but the sound he made was worth it.

“Oh, fuck… just like that.”

He was fully hard now, twitching against your tongue as he held you in place. Then his grip tightened and he guided you deeper, and you moaned around him. His body shuddered as his release hit, warmth flooding your mouth.

You swallowed as best you could, unwilling to waste a drop. His hips moved slowly, chasing the last remnants of pleasure as he rode it out, sweat beading along his brow.

When you finally pulled back, lips parting with a soft pop, you licked him clean, drawing a sharp hiss from his still-sensitive length.

That was when he moved.

In one swift motion, he hauled you up and all but threw you onto his desk, your back hitting the cool wood as his hands pinned your legs in place.

“My turn, kitten.”