The Strength to Let Go

by calicofeatherpen

Summary:

Four hundred years ago, Jinu had been the King’s favorite singer. His favorite musician.

Four hundred years ago, he’d been dragged into the King’s bed. He hadn’t wanted it. He didn’t have a choice.

Four hundred years later, he falls in love, and gives.

It’s when she asks to give in return that causes him to freeze.

Chapter 1: Freeze

Four hundred years ago, Jinu had been the King’s favorite singer. His best musician.

 

Four hundred years ago, he’d been dragged into the King’s bed. Again and again. He hadn’t wanted it. He didn’t have a choice. 

 

For four hundred years, the marks have stayed with him as a demon. Not the same as Gwi-Ma’s. Not physical patterns etched into his skin, a reminder of who’s rule he serves now.

 

It’s his own hand against sensitive flesh making his skin itch. The one time he’d been desperate for some relief, a moment of respite, and the smell of his own semen had made him gag. That the snapping, fleeting, moment of pleasure only reminded him of those nights as a human. Of silk sheets, sweat, and musk.

 

Avoiding it is easy enough. There’s too much to do, anyhow, to stay in Gwi-Ma’s good graces, if the Dying King of Fire even has anything close to good within him, demon king that he is.

 

Until four hundred years later. The Dying King sputters out under the tidal wave of the Hunter’s voices. 

 

He doesn’t quite know how he lived after that. No one does.

 

But the demons no longer have to feed a Dying King, and the Hunters have completed the goal of their bloodline.

 

Four hundred years later, Jinu holds Rumi’s face between his hands and kisses her under the swaying, fractured light of the aquarium.

 

Her lips are warm. Her breath tastes like rice and garlic. It’s a little disgusting, but he doesn’t really care.

 

He pulls back, and she doesn’t follow, she waits, eyes blazing and a smile curling up her lips.

 

She reaches up and traces his jaw with her fingers. It’s slow, tender, gentle. It’s Rumi. It’s safe.

 

But something in his screams anyways.

 

He drags her forward and kisses her again, and she laughs as she follows his embrace, one eye shining deviously demon-gold as she kisses him back.

 

This is better, he thinks.

 

It’s better when I can do it.

 

Even though his skin crawls with something that feels much more like hands than disgust.

 

But Rumi laughs into his mouth, and it tethers him for a moment, at least, to now.

 

And that’s enough.

 

 

———

 

The wonders of the modern world come in the things Rumi sees as common.

 

Fire that can be lit in a moment, on a stovetop or a lighter. Food piled high in buildings that only serve to sell it. Skyscrapers piercing the heavens in a way he could have never thought possible. Communication turned from ink and parchment into a small box that fits in the palm of his hand.

 

Jinu walks through the neon-lit streets with a plastic cup in hand. Iced something. Too sweet. She made him try it.

 

“You’ll hate it,” she’d said, and she wasn’t wrong.

 

But she’d smiled when she said it, and he hadn’t minded.

 

She’s not quite dragging him by his other hand, but it’s close. He’s gotten used to the bustle of Seoul by now, but it is still overwhelming. All the people, all the lights, the cars.

 

But they duck into a quieter side street, and she smiles at him with almost giddy delight, pointing towards the restaurant.

 

He thinks it’s a restaurant, anyway. It looks more like an alleyway. No name, no icon, just an ominous looking door.

 

He raises an eyebrow.

 

She grins wider, demon eye glinting in the streetlight. “Trust me.”

 

He doesn’t.

 

But he follows her anyway.

 

Inside, it’s dim and warm and smells like grilled meat and spice. They’re seated at a cramped table, close enough for their knees to brush. She orders enough food for four people. The waitress doesn’t bat an eye.

 

The grill sizzles between them. She takes the tongs, and bares her fangs for a moment when he tries to take them from her. 

 

He just snorts and pretends it annoys him.

 

The food is… good. Too flavorful. Too rich. It makes his chest ache, a little. He eats anyway. Because she cooked it. Because she looks so pleased every time he takes a bite.

 

He rests a hand on her thigh under the table. She leans in, chin on her hand, just watching him. The patterns on her skin shimmering like opals in the low light of the restaurant.

 

When they leave, the sky is smeared with stars and the edges of light pollution. Rumi hums beside him, mouth stained faintly red, looking at him like he himself is a star in that sky above them.

 

He blushes and looks away.

 

———

 

He’s lying down.

 

Silk sheets.

 

No.

 

Cotton. Slightly rough against his back, the expensive kind of cotton, but not sleek and smooth. It’s modern and smells like laundry detergent.

 

But her hands are silk.

 

Rumi straddles his hips, one eye dark brown, the other glowing gold. Slightly possessive, but softer in the light.

 

Her fingers skim his ribs. He flinches, or twitches, he can’t tell. She’s not deterred. Her fingers trace up his chest, gliding over him and settling at his face. She cups him gently. Kisses him slowly. Reverent. Like he’s something holy. Like he’s someone who wants to be touched.

 

And he does.

 

Gods, he does.

 

His legs tremble and fall open. Hands above his head, gripping tightly at the headboard. Her weight presses down on him, pushing him into the sheets below him, but it’s not painful. It’s grounding. He’s melting under her, letting her hands roam where they wish, letting himself open up to her.

 

She leans forward, whispering something he can’t quite make out against the pounding of his heart in his ears. It’s just a hum against his neck, teeth grazing skin, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

 

He swallows. Her finger drags across his parted lips as she speaks again.

 

“Let me take care of you.”

 

His breath stutters. The words curl inside him, aching and raw. No demand. No command.

 

Just... offering.

 

He nods. Or maybe he doesn’t. But she smiles anyway, and it breaks him open.

 

He jerks awake.

 

Makes a noise between a retch and a moan.

 

The sheets tangle around him as he jerks upright, too fast, then crashes to the floor in a twisted heap.

 

His chest rises too fast, too shallow. Sweat clings his shirt against his skin, burning and chilling at once.

 

He’s hard.

 

He gags again. The reflex isn’t about the dream. It’s the memory.

 

He covers his face with both hands. His mouth tastes like bile.

 

What the fuck was that.

 

It felt…

 

Good.

 

Warm.

 

It shouldn’t have.

 

He clenches his thighs. His eyes burn. Fingernails curl into claws, teeth into fangs, skin darkening to bruised purple-blue as he curls in on himself. The shape helps. It feels safer. Like he has something to defend himself against.

 

Four hundred years too late.

 

It’s not supposed to feel good.

 

It had never been good. Not when he was on his back.

 

The first sob is silent. He curls further, wishing more than ever to dissipate below the hardwood floor. Trapped under the honmoon.

 

At least down in Hell, sleep had been nothingness.

 

At least down there he could pretend the worst things were the memories Gwi-Ma forced him to revisit. Again and again.

 

Not the feeling of pleasure.

 

Of being pinned down and aching and hard.

 

He digs his claws into his scalp and cries.

 

Cries until his claws dull back to nails. Until the sobs shake the warmth coiling in his gut away from his flesh. Until he can almost forget that it felt like safety.

 

 

———

 

The memory won’t fade, so he gives.

 

Between her thighs, tasting her on every inch of his tongue and making sure she knows how deeply he cares.

 

Kissing every bit of skin she has, roving his hands over her patterns, reminding her again and again just how beautiful she is. All of her, until she’s a sputtering, blushing, dopey mess.

 

He giggles as she does, his forehead touching hers, her grin lopsided and eyes just slightly foggy, but not any less bright.

 

“Okay,” she wheezes, lifting herself up on her elbows. He leans back, one hand on the small of her back. Helping her up.

 

“You—” she starts, breathless, flushed, mouth red with kiss marks and pride. “Are so annoying when you’re sweet.”

 

He grins, wide and smug. “Admit it. You love it.”

 

“Maybe.” She leans in, nips his jaw, lets her fangs graze his skin just enough to make him shiver. “But now it’s your turn.”

 

She pushes him. Not hard, barely more than a gentle shove to the chest, and he lets himself fall back against the bed with a laugh, arms sprawled, hair tousled over the pillows.

 

Her body follows, crawling up over him, her weight warm, her smile wicked. She straddles him, hands on his chest like a queen surveying a kingdom. Her eyes glowing with mischief.

 

He loves it.

 

For a second.

 

Then her hands press down. His back sinks a fraction deeper into the mattress, into the sheets. Not hard.

 

The air thins in his lungs.

 

The room tilts.

 

It’s her. It’s her. But his body doesn’t care.

 

The weight on his chest. The light in her eyes. The press of skin on silk—

 

No. Not silk.

 

He chokes on the breath that doesn't come.

 

His arms twitch, muscles locking.

 

Don’t move and it will end. Don’t move, and he won’t take his time.

 

He blinks up at the ceiling, vision blurring.

 

“Hey,” she says, not noticing it yet, teasing. “You look nervous. You gonna cry?”

 

He shudders.

 

She pauses. Her head tilts, eyebrows furrowing as she fades away. As something else crawls its way to the surface and latches on tight.

 

“Jinu?”

 

And then the tears fall.

 

She lifts her hands from his chest like they’ve burned her. He flinches anyways, not quite in his body anymore. Just playing the part.

 

“Shit—okay. Okay, I’m off—”

 

Her voice sounds underwater. Swimming somewhere far, far away. Four hundred years away.

 

He doesn’t feel her move.

 

The weight leaves his chest, but it doesn’t matter. He’s still pinned.

 

His hands curl into fists. Claws bite skin. Somewhere, he thinks she’s saying his name. Like it’ll bring him back.

 

A hand touches his face. Brushes the tears.

 

Too soft. Too tender.

 

He chokes himself on the words that want to crawl their way out of his throat.

 

Don’t touch me.

 

Stop it.

 

Please.

 

It never made a difference.

 

But the hand snaps back, darts away from his skin, like it’s burned. Like he’s burning.

 

It feels like he is. Like he’s the last of the ash tapped out from a smoking pipe.

 

But then he starts hearing something.

 

A voice. Female. In a tune that sounds nothing like the entertainers in the castle. 

 

It’s warmer. Weirder.

 

Strangely familiar.

 

The tears stop falling, though his breath still hiccups in his chest.

 

He drifts.

 

Floats in the sound, trying to place it. Trying to name the words, but they blur at the edges. Like soft stones falling against the top of a still pond.

 

Until he finds himself blinking up at the ceiling again, listening to Rumi’s voice echoing off the walls of her room.

 

Just her.

 

He squeezes his eyes shut, forcing the images out of his mind, and drags himself up until he’s sitting.

 

Rumi’s song breaks as he moves. She shoots forward, hands outstretched, and immediately freezes, moves her hands so that she’s sitting on them instead.

 

“I—sorry,” she croaks out, eyes wide. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

 

She swallows, glancing down at her hands before meeting his eyes again, softer now. “You okay?”

 

He blinks at her words, tests them in his own head, sees if they’ll remain there, or drift back to silk and sweat.

 

But he stays here. In her room. On her bed. Cotton gripped between his fingers.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says. It scrapes on the way out.

 

“Jinu, please look at me.”

 

He tries. He can’t quite meet her eyes.

 

Rumi leans forward, eyes panicked. “What happened? What did I do?”

 

“It’s not you,” he forces the words out, not because it’s a lie, but because he can’t seem to find any. “It’s—”

 

He shakes his head.

 

“I don’t know how to explain it.”

 

His voice breaks, and he presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, like he can blacken out the memories. Bury them in the dark.

 

Rumi’s hands stay pinned under her thighs. Jinu sits hunched, fists in the blankets, like he’s trying to hold the world in place.

 

She breaks the silence, voice quieter than before. “You don’t… have to explain. Not if you don’t want to.”

 

“I want to,” he says, almost too fast. Then, slower, “I think I want to.”

 

Rumi nods. She shifts, careful not to move closer.

 

Another pause. Then he laughs. It’s not a good sound.

 

“I don’t even know where to start,” he mutters.

 

“You can start with... anything,” she says, hesitant. “Even just... how you feel.”

 

He breathes. In. Out. Choppy.

 

“Like I’m broken,” he says. “Like my body’s lying to me.”

 

Rumi opens her mouth. Shuts it.

 

He catches the movement. “Don’t say I’m not. Please. Not right now.”

 

She nods again, lips pressed tight.

 

He drags a hand through his hair, fingers trembling. “It’s not you. It’s never you. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

 

“I—” Rumi starts. Stops. Her brow furrows, like she’s trying to pull the right words from a language she doesn’t speak. “Is this about back then? With your family?”

 

“More like when I was still human,” he says bitterly. “Dragged myself from busking the streets to lying in silk sheets. Sold my soul for it all, and all it got me was becoming the King’s favorite.”

 

Rumi flinches at the word King, but doesn’t interrupt.

 

He exhales again. “I spent four hundred years telling myself it wasn’t real. That it didn’t matter because I wasn’t human anymore. Because demons can’t be... hurt like that. Right?”

 

“Jinu—”

 

“But I was,” he cuts in. “I am.”

 

Rumi’s voice is barely audible. “Okay.”

 

“I’m sorry I ruined it,” he says. “We were— it was good, and then I just—”

 

“You didn’t ruin anything,” she says, fast. “You didn’t. I just— I didn’t know. You flinched and I didn’t even—” Her hands finally move, not toward him, just open, palms up. “I didn’t see it. I should’ve—”

 

“Don’t.” His voice is sharp but not angry. More like pleading. “Don’t take the blame. Please.”

 

She nods, again. Her eyes are wet now. “Alright.”

 

Somehow, he finds it in himself to want to shift closer. He reaches out slowly, wipes a tear from her cheek.

 

“Can I hug you?” she asks.

 

He thinks about it. Presses his hands to the bridge of his nose.

 

“No,” he decides. “But I’d like to hug you. Just… don’t hug me back.”

 

She nods. Folds her hands into her lap.

 

Jinu shifts on the bed, slow like he’s underwater, arms moving toward her with a caution that makes Rumi ache. His body still trembles, and when he finally leans in, it’s not a rush, not a collapse. It's careful. Like he’s still testing whether it’s allowed.

 

He presses his forehead against her shoulder, and wraps his arms around her waist.

 

Not tight. Just… enough.

 

She stays completely still. Hands in her lap. Breathing slow and shallow like if she exhales too hard, he’ll break.

 

He doesn’t cry. Not again. He just holds her, face pressed into the curve of her collarbone, and she can feel every inch of how hard he’s working to stay here. To not drift.

 

So she starts talking. Not about the King. Not about the past. Just softly, just to fill the air.

 

“I’m gonna buy blackout curtains for this room,” she says. “The sun’s been waking me up too early. And Mira stole the ones I had for her music video.”

 

He breathes. Shaky. But still breathing.

 

“I’m gonna take you to a real bakery tomorrow. None of that chain stuff. You’re gonna hate how sweet the pastries are, and I’m gonna love watching you hate them.”

 

He makes a sound, almost a scoff. She counts it as a win.

 

“I’ll let you pick the music on the way there. Just don’t start playing Soda Pop on loop.”

 

His breath brushes her skin, a puff of warmth that’s almost a laugh.

 

“No promises,” he mumbles, hoarse.

 

Rumi smiles.

 

“You’re such a menace.”

 

His arms tighten, just a little. Enough for her to feel it. 

 

“Thank you,” he whispers.

 

Rumi hums. “Anytime.”

Notes:

Y’all I’ve never had sex or been in a relationship I’m my life what the fuck am I doing here?

Chapter 2: Grease and Mint

Fried chicken is the best thing humanity has made, he’s decided.

 

There’s a chorus of non-verbal agreement around him, despite not saying the thought out loud, just groans and closed eyes and loud chewing.

 

He takes another bite. Lets go of his human form just a bit to let his fangs sharpen, to sink even deeper into the chicken, burrowing into the bone. 

 

Abby’s already chewing on the bone, taking a swig of beer to wash the marrow down.

 

“Gods,” Romance groans. “When did humanity invent this? I need to know how long I’ve been missing out.”

 

“You have a stupid human phone,” Baby snarks back, mouth full. “Do what they all do and look it up yourself.”

 

Jinu tears another piece in two. Oil slicks his fingers. The crunch of skin, powdered cheese dissolving on his tongue, the succulent meat below. It’s almost overwhelming.

 

It’s nothing like the palace food. It would fill his stomach, of course, but there was always something hollow in it. The presentation, the platters piled to bursting, bowls practically overflowing with noodles.

 

Here, they’re just sharing one small tray of fried chicken between them on a rooftop, and he feels more full than he’s ever felt.

 

He licks a smear of grease off his knuckle. Lets his tongue stay forked for just a second longer than necessary.

 

Across from him, Abby wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, flips open a can with one clean pop, and slides it across the table without a word.

 

Jinu catches it. Blinks. “Thanks.”

 

“You’re vibrating,” Abby says, reaching for another drumstick. “Figured the sugar in the sauce was starting to fry your circuits.”

 

He takes a swing. Human alcohol does nothing to them, but it pleasantly washes down the grease coating his tongue and throat.

 

Romance flops dramatically into the table, chin-first, a chicken wing still in each hand. “Tell me someone’s writing a poem about this. A hymn. A song of fried goodness.”

 

Baby smacks him playfully on the shoulder, but also to rub the grease off his hand. Romance doesn’t bat an eye.

 

“Our blood’s literally been warped by the demon realm. Our souls are literally mangled by the Dying King’s dead maw, and you’re talking about chicken like it’s a religious experience.”

 

“It is a religious experience,” Romance snaps back, licking sauce from his fingers like it’s sacred. “I’ve lived through centuries of famine, war, false kings, and colonial lies, and not one of them tasted like this. This—” he waves a half-eaten wing in the air— “this is what the divine left behind when they got bored.”

 

Mystery, silent until now, leans forward and deposits the tiniest pile of polished bones in a napkin like he's offering treasure. “Was it always this messy?”

 

Abby cackles.

 

“Yes,” Baby answers at the same time.

 

“And no,” Abby adds. “Depends on how human you were feeling.”

 

Baby points an accusing claw in Abby’s direction. “Says the one who kept this from us, you son-of-a-bitch.”

 

“Gatekeeper.” Mystery adds, a whisper and a smirk.

 

“Always the youngest ones keeping the best things to themselves.” Romance ribs.

 

Abby raises his hands, eyes flashing. “Look, in my defense, we were all trying to feed the Dying King and shatter the honmoon by becoming thirst traps that sing. Didn’t really have time to show you the wonders of Korean fried chicken once we landed topside.”

 

“Still could’ve ordered takeout,” Baby mutters, wiping sauce from his chin with a paper napkin already too saturated to help.

 

Romance kicks at Abby’s ankle under the table. “We were all suffering through that forsaken Your Idol choreography Jinu created, rabid fans, and stupid idol beauty standards, and now I learn you were forcing us to suffer through hotel buffets too? Anything else you’d like to confess?”

 

Abby pretends like he’s thinking deeply about the question, and then smirks.

 

“You have grease in your hair.”

 

“Suck on a sandpaper cock.”

 

Jinu laughs under his breath. It slips out, low and surprised. The others notice, but don’t make a show of it.

 

“We have to do this more often though,” Romance adds, swiping his claws through his hair, only adding more grease to the problem he’s trying to solve. “The lack of the Dying King’s voice in my head is really something.”

 

Baby rolls his eyes. “Centuries of enslavement broken by three Hunters and all you want to do is eat Korean food?”

 

“You’re one to talk, Mr. Lollipop in my mouth at all times.”

 

Baby growls. “That was for the stage persona and you know it.”

 

Romance’s eyes flash, fangs curling alongside his smile. “Then why in the Gods names are there three of them in your pocket?”

 

Baby opens his mouth to retort, but then stops, his fingers frozen mid-pocket. He slowly pulls out one, two, three lollipops. Stares at them like they’ve betrayed him.

 

Abby wheezes. “Stage persona, huh?”

 

“I didn’t put those there,” Baby mutters, ears flushing blue.

 

“Uhhuh.” Mystery mutters. “And Jinu’s the Pope of humanity.”

 

Jinu flicks a bone off the table with his pinky. “That’s sacrilege.”

 

“Exactly,” Mystery murmurs, folding his arms onto the table and resting his head on top.

 

Abby snorts and reaches for another drumstick, only to find the tray mostly bones and crumbs. 

 

“Guess that’s our holy communion done.”

 

Romance groans, sagging back into the folding chair. “I’d kill for another round.”

 

“You’ve killed for less,” Baby mutters.

 

They all fall quiet for a moment. Not uncomfortable. Just… knowing.

 

The rooftop hums beneath them. The city murmurs. Above it, the stars, smog-muted, faint, still watch.

 

Jinu leans his cheek into his palm, warm from the food and the laughter and the way none of them are hiding right now. No stage makeup. No poses. No commands to obey. Just sticky fingers and stupid jokes and grease stains in their hair.

 

“I don’t want to go back in yet.” Mystery murmurs from his arms.

 

Abby softens, resting a hand on Mystery's shoulder. “Then we don’t.”

 

Romance sighs, settling into something that’s not quite sleep, but close. “Someone should write a song about this.”

 

“Sure thing,” Baby scoffs. “Saja Boy’s sudden return with a shadowdrop. Song title: ‘We’re Demons and We Love Korean Cuisine.’”

 

Abby hums like he’s seriously considering it. “Too long,” he says. “Needs a one-word title. Something sexy.”

 

“Grease,” Mystery offers, muffled in his arms.

 

“Taken,” Romance says.

 

“Bones.” Jinu, without thinking.

 

That earns a pause.

 

Romance lifts his head. Baby straightens a little.

 

Abby watches him for a second, unreadable, then clicks his tongue. “Metal as hell.”

 

“See? That’s our concept,” Romance says, suddenly animated again. “Our logo was already a lion, it makes sense.”

 

“We were literally battling Huntrix on stage with song and claw for world domination. Saja Boys never existed as far as humanity is aware, now.”

 

“Exactly,” Abby says, like it’s obvious. “That makes us myth. We’re ghosts. Jamais vu. The comeback no one believes until it burns the charts.”

 

“Except it’s just five demons singing about chicken,” Baby deadpans.

 

“I’d stream it,” Mystery mutters.

 

Romance points a claw toward the sky. “When our bones are dust, let future historians debate whether it was metaphor.”

 

Jinu laughs again, softer this time. It’s easier, except for the fact something warm is pressed between his ribs.

 

Abby catches the sound and doesn’t look away. “You good?”

 

Jinu meets his eyes. Holds the gaze just long enough.

 

“I’m… getting there.”

 

It’s honest, and maybe that’s enough of an answer.

 

They lapse back into quiet. Staring at the world around them, moving around them, filling in the space with nothing but silence.

 

Silence used to be a gift. Now, it’s something they can have whenever.

 

Jinu tilts his head back to the sky. Somewhere, Rumi’s probably drawing new album concepts in her closet. Or devouring a table full of food with her other Hunters, her friends. Or talking to herself in three different voices.

 

He thinks about joining her.

 

And a deeper part of him thinks about letting himself be held in something other than this rooftop silence.

 

He stifles the thought for now.

 

For now, the night is grease and bones and stars, and the five demons, five boys, who stayed.

 

 

———

Like clockwork, he finds himself back in her apartment.

 

Well, it’s more like a tower, and her room is just one of many, many floors in the HUNTR/X building looming over Seoul. Perks of being the top K-pop group in the world.

 

He teleports into her living room, just as she’s shoving a spoonful of yogurt into her mouth, draped over the couch’s headrest like a blanket someone half-folded and gave up on.

 

“Hey,” she says, through the mouthful, not even blinking.

 

“Hey.”

 

She gestures vaguely to the fridge. “I got more yogurt in there. You want?”

 

“Too sweet for me.”

 

She shrugs. “Fair enough. But I do have the plain ones too.”

 

“Thank you, but I’ll pass.”

 

He doesn’t move. Just stands near the edge of the couch, dragging a hand through his hair.

 

She watches him for a moment, licking her spoon clean. Something about the way he’s standing.

 

“You okay?”

 

He nods. Then shrugs.

 

“Did they say something?” she asks. “After?”

 

He shakes his head. “No. It was fine. We just ate.”

 

He forces his mouth shut. He knows she sees it, the way his jaw tenses, can almost hear the way his teeth click together at the force.

 

“You’re doing that face,” she says eventually. “The one where you’re trying not to think about something so hard that it becomes the only thing you’re thinking about.”

 

He doesn’t deny it. Just huffs out a laugh that’s more breath than humor.

 

Rumi licks the spoon. Shoves it back into the container. “You wanna talk about it?”

 

He hesitates.

 

Licks the edges of his teeth, feels how they sharpen as the memories slip forward. As the words crawl out of his throat.

 

“It… felt good.”

 

She doesn’t say anything. Just keeps eating her yogurt, casually. Her eyes are glowing now, just faintly, but steady. Watching his every movement, listening to his every word.

 

“With you. For a moment I really did like it. I was okay, but…”

 

He shakes his head, blinking. Reaches out to hold onto the edge of the couch. The roughness of the fabric under his fingertips.

 

“It felt good then, too. He made sure it did.”

 

Rumi doesn’t try to fill the silence that follows. She just sets the empty plastic cup down on the table, sets the spoon aside, and leans forward. Resting her elbows on her knees.

 

“That’s why I don’t…”

 

He frowns, as if the shape of the word disgusts him. As if it might betray him just by existing.

 

“It was never about me, and I still got off to it. Every. Single. Time.”

 

His claws curl into the fabric of the couch. He doesn’t care.

 

“It makes me sick. Because I still want it.”

 

Rumi doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t say what the fuck or don’t talk like that.

 

She just purses her lips, eyes flicking up, like the answers are written on the bright white, industrial, ceiling. Blinks slowly.

 

When her eyes return to meet his, there’s too many emotions in there for him to count. To name.

 

“Yeah. That’s… that’s rough.”

 

He laughs, bitterly. Or tries to. It gets stuck halfway.

 

Rumi rubs her hands together like she’s trying to warm them. “I mean, of course it felt good. That’s the whole point, right? That’s how they screw with you. Make it feel good so you don’t know where the line even was.” She shrugs, brow furrowing. “It’s not a failure. That it worked. That it still works sometimes.”

 

He says nothing, but the grip he has on the couch edge tightens, just once, then loosens.

 

She chews on her lip. “And, look. I’m not, like… some trained trauma guru. I don’t know all the right phrasing. I just know—”

 

Her voice stumbles a little, so she looks down at her hands. Closes them. Opens them again.

 

“I just know you’re not disgusting. You’re handsome, kind of an ass, definitely a bit of an idiot—“

 

He scoffs. She keeps going.

 

“But you’re not wrong for wanting touch. Even if your brain wired it weird. That’s not your fault.”

 

He closes his eyes. Breathes.

 

Somewhere deep in his chest, something bruised but alive pulls a little tighter, aching. His claws begin to retract.

 

Just a bit. But it’s something.

 

“And,” she says, slower now, “if you want, we could… do something else. Not even sexual. Just something kinda normal.”

 

He peeks up at her, wary. “Like what?”

 

Rumi shrugs, glancing toward the hallway. “I dunno. You want me to wash your hair or something?”

 

His brows knit, unsure if she’s joking.

 

She just shrugs again, a little sheepish this time. “I’ve got the good scalp stuff. Can’t keep all this looking camera-ready without it.”

 

To prove her point, she tosses her braid over her shoulder. Knee-length, thick, shimmering under the room lights like a flex.

 

“How… would that even work?”

 

She hums in response, one finger acting like a pen, checking off an invisible list.

 

“Well… we’d both be in the bathroom. You can lean over the edge of the tub, or sit in it, or I can put a chair in there or something. It’s handheld so neither of us will get wet more than we need to be.”

 

He blinks. “You’ve done this before?”

 

Rumi lifts a brow. “You think I get my scalp massaged by stylists? Hell no. Too rough. No technique.”

 

She pushes off the couch and stretches, arms overhead. Her shirt rides up slightly, revealing a sliver of skin, but there’s nothing flirtatious about it. 

 

“You’re free to tell me it’s stupid, by the way. We don’t have to do it. No judgement.”

 

He shifts, hands twisted together now. Just… thinking.

 

“It’s not stupid,” he says, after a beat. His voice is quieter now. “I just don’t know if I’d be able to… stay in my head.”

 

Rumi tilts her head, pondering his words.

 

“You wanna just sit in there and see how you feel? No water. No touch. I’ll stand by the door.”

 

He looks up at her. Not quite disbelief, just surprise at how easy she makes it sound.

 

“No pressure,” she adds, tapping her fingers against her thigh. “It doesn’t have to be anything. Just sitting. I’ll be annoying and talk about conditioner ingredients or something.”

 

He huffs, barely a laugh. But he nods.

 

“…Okay.”

 

Rumi doesn’t treat it like a victory. Just offers a quiet, “Cool,” and walks toward the bathroom, slow enough that he doesn’t feel rushed.

 

He follows.

 

The light’s already on when he steps inside. Bright, clean, but not clinical. Soft towels, some fake eucalyptus hanging along a wall, her bathrobe slung over the door. It smells like five different flavors, but all that hits his nose is mint.

 

Rumi leans against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely. Not blocking the exit. Not watching him too closely.

 

He stands in the middle of the room, hands jammed into his pockets.

 

“It’s fine if you want to leave,” she says, “or if you want me to.”

 

He shakes his head, takes a deep breath of mint, and steps over to the shower mat. His toes curl into the softness, bits of fabric poking out between the digits.

 

The shower-tub has a sliding glass door. He carefully peels it open and stares at the drain.

 

Another wonder of modern technology, so small yet so large in function.

 

One foot after another, he steps over the edge of the tub and steps inside the shower. Slowly, he sinks to his knees, all the while, Rumi’s voice filters through the space, reading the labels of one of the many bottles on her sink counter.

 

“…sulfate-free, paraben-free, cruelty-free, and apparently smells like ‘white tea and cloudberry,’ whatever the hell a cloudberry is,” Rumi says, her voice floating gently through the space like background music.

 

He exhales through his nose. Something warm settling in his chest.

 

The porcelain is cold beneath his knees, but it doesn't bite. He runs his palm along the tiled wall, tracing the line between two grout seams. Just texture.

 

His breathing is shallow but steady.

 

Rumi shifts slightly, still by the door, reaching up on her tiptoes to pull a large bottle down from a shelf. She whistles as she reads over the label.

 

“This one says it’s got rosemary and ionian bergamot. Sounds fancy, probably stole this one from a hotel somewhere.”

 

He lets his forehead rest lightly against the wall. Closes his eyes.

 

It… feels okay. There’s no shadows here. Just words and mint and her.

 

“…You doing okay in there?” she asks, gently now. 

 

He opens his eyes and looks at her. One of her eyebrows is raised. Not pushing, just concerned.

 

He swallows, clears his throat.

 

“Yeah.”

 

She nods, smiles. “Awesome. You wanna give it a shot?”

 

He doesn’t know if he can find his voice now. He just nods. Slowly. With a shuddering breath.

 

Rumi catches his breath hitch, sees the hesitation tighten around his shoulders.

 

“Hey,” she says softly, crouching just enough to meet his eye without stepping in. “You remember, if you sit in the tub, you’ll probably wanna take your clothes off. Just so they don’t get soaked.”

 

He glances down at himself, then back up, uncertainty flickering in his expression.

 

“But we can do this however you want,” she adds, tone gentle but practical. “You can keep everything on and lean back over the side instead. I’ll grab a towel for your elbows, keep the water low.”

 

He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks down at his hands in his lap.

 

Then, slowly, he shakes his head. “No… I want to stay like this.”

 

Rumi doesn’t push. Just nods. “Alright. You got it.”

 

And she rises to her feet, gesturing towards the wide assortment of bottles on display. 

 

“Take your pick.”

 

He looks up at the shelf. Rows of tall, pastel colored bottles. So many names for the same thing. It’s almost overwhelming.

 

Rumi watches him glance over them, then adds lightly, “No wrong answer. They all work. Some just smell fancier.”

 

He hesitates, then slowly lifts a hand and points to a frosted bottle labeled Mint + Matcha Scalp Detox.

 

She grins. “Bold choice. Tingly.”

 

And as she reaches for it, maneuvering some other bottles out of the way, pulling out extra towels from somewhere, he reaches for his shirt.

 

Fingers pause at the hem. The fabric clings slightly. Nerves or sweat, maybe both, but he pulls it up anyway. Slowly. As if any sudden movement might pull him with it, tear open his skin. He peels it over his head and sets it beside him on the edge of the tub.

 

He only flinches a little as he wrestles himself out of his pants. Leaves his boxers.

 

It’s silly, really. They’ve both seen each other naked plenty of times already.

 

But this feels different. More fragile. Like something in him is asking to be broken open, and his mind is screaming at the thought.

 

But he’s okay. This is okay, still.

 

Rumi doesn’t comment. Doesn’t look too long either. Just keeps sorting the bottles, laying towels across the tile like a practiced ritual, folds his clothes and places them gently on the shower mat.

 

“You’re good to stay like that, yeah?” she checks, glancing over her shoulder. “Want a towel over your lap or something?”

 

He nods, wordless again, and she hands one to him without fanfare. He drapes it over himself, grounding in the sensation, the weight.

 

She kneels now by the side of the tub, resting her arms on the ledge. Bottle in hand. Not touching him yet.

 

“How are you feeling?” she says, tone light, but not unserious.

 

He closes his eyes for a second. Breathes.

 

Then leans forward, just enough to rest his head on his folded arms.

 

“This feels harder than sex.”

 

Rumi stays still for a moment, letting the weight of his words settle between them. Then, very gently, sets the bottle on the ledge.

 

“Okay,” she says softly. “We’ll take it slow. No rush, and at any time you want to stop, tell me.”

 

She stands long enough to reach for the showerhead, pulling it free and maneuvering it around. The cord drags along as she pulls it. It’s an unpleasant sound. Her nose scrunches up at the noise. His chest unknots a fraction at the face she makes.

 

Rumi tests the water temperature, then clicks it to a gentle spray. The droplets patter softly against the porcelain, filling the quiet with a soothing rhythm.

 

She kneels again beside him, just outside the tub, adjusting the angle of the spray.

 

“Alright,” she says, voice low. “Gonna start by wetting your hair, okay? Just the top.”

 

He nods against his arms.

 

Rumi keeps the stream low, almost like rain, and guides it over the back of his head. His body tenses instinctively, then slowly, as the warmth seeps in, he starts to relax. She’s careful not to let any water trail down his face or neck. Just his scalp, soaking through the roots.

 

“How’s that feeling? Too hot?”

 

“It’s good.” He whispers.

 

“Yippe,” she whispers back. 

 

He snorts.

 

She lets it run for a while. No rush. Just the sound of the water pattering against the porcelain. 

 

He closes his eyes at some point.

 

When she finally turns the water off, it’s not abrupt. The sound tapers away into soft silence, and her hands replace it. She unscrews the cap on the bottle and pours a little into her palms. The scent hits immediately. It’s sharp, clean, cool, tickling the inside of his nose.

 

“Okay,” she says. “I’m going to touch your hair now. Feel free to stop me if it’s too much.”

 

He can’t help it. His body tenses. His eyelids squeeze together. He holds his breath.

 

Her fingers press gently into his scalp.

 

They start at the crown, fingers moving in slow, small circles around the skin.

 

He twitches once, involuntarily. She pauses, waits.

 

Then he exhales.

 

“…You weren’t kidding,” he mutters hoarsely. “It is tingly.”

 

Rumi huffs a laugh, and keeps working. Careful not to tug, her fingertips gentle but firm, massaging into tense muscles he didn’t even know existed, leaving a satisfying, cool, tingle in its wake.

 

As they glide over his skin, scrubbing his roots, her finger pads find the base of his horns, just bumps of something long shattered and sealed over, further hidden under his human guise.

 

She pauses for a moment, fingers tracing the edges, and then she asks, softly, “Here okay?”

 

He swallows, the motion visible in his throat. His voice, when it comes, is low. Measured, even as his heart hammers up his throat.

 

“Yeah. Just… slow.”

 

Rumi nods, even though he can’t see her, and resumes. Slower this time, deliberately cautious. Her fingers move in soft circles over the hidden scars.

 

No one’s ever touched him there. It feels electric.

 

“That feels nice.” he manages to whisper.

 

Rumi hums. “You deserve nice things.”

 

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens his eyes instead. Blinks against the light, suddenly a bit too bright. A little blurry.

 

He looks at her face, leaning over him, eyes focused, a smile on her face she wears whenever she’s working on costumes or plotting to sabotage her fellow Hunters with a shadowdrop no one asked for.

 

And beneath that, deeper, unguarded, he sees sincerity written across every inch of her face.

 

That does it.

 

He cracks open. His vision blurs, her face fading away as the tears begin to fall. Silently. Suddenly.

 

Her fingers still. Slowly, she begins to pull away from his hair.

 

But, much to his own shock, and quiet disgust, he wraps a hand around her wrist. Leans into the touch. Doesn’t quite want her to pull away.

 

“I’m fine,” he chokes out. “I’m just—“

 

“Do you need a minute?” she asks, gently. “Stopping doesn’t mean it’s over. We can just… pause. Breathe for a bit.”

 

He nods and, shakily, lets go. Her blurry form leans back a fraction, her hands resting on the edge of the tub, suds dripping off her nails down to the porcelain.

 

His fingers grip the towel in his lap. 

 

He just… feels so vulnerable.

 

And when he feels like this, naked and feeling someone else’s hands on his skin, all he knows is that it always means pain.

 

Expects pleasure once it’s over, wired in like a shock collar.

 

But this moment. Here. Now. Not four hundred years ago.

 

It’s just good.

 

A little tingly, minty, Rumi’s voice talking about anything that comes to mind, and the phantoms of her touch against his head.

 

He breathes, slow and uneven, head still resting on his arms.

 

The mint cools against his scalp. Her voice drifts like mist. Something about rosemary, or maybe bergamot, and a celebrity scandal that barely makes sense to him.

 

He closes his eyes.

 

And waits. For the pain, for the punishment, for the cruel twist that always came after. That dulled his brain just enough to make it almost okay.

 

But it doesn’t come.

 

Just warmth. The towel in his lap. Rumi humming as she reads the back of another bottle.

 

The space between his ribs begins to loosen. Not quite relief. Not yet. But less resistance.

 

“I don’t know what to do with this,” he says, barely above a whisper.

 

Rumi doesn’t ask what, or asks him to explain.

 

She just says, “You don’t have to do anything. You can just have it. There’s no transaction here.”

 

His breath catches again, but he doesn’t cry this time.

 

He just nods. A little off kilter. Like something in him just snapped into alignment, and he’s suddenly trying to adjust to the new sensation that is just what it should be.

 

Rumi doesn’t press.

 

She lets the silence sit, rubs her hands together, and says, after a beat. “I can rinse it out whenever you’re ready. Or not. Up to you.”

 

He swallows, still gripping the towel, the fabric damp under his fingers. 

 

I think I’d like that.

 

“…I think I’m ready.”

 

“Cool,” she says, voice bright but soft, like it’s just another step in the routine, and reaches for the showerhead.

 

She doesn’t narrate this time. Doesn’t fill the air with words. Just lets the soft patter of water take up the space between them.

 

He leans forward instinctively, her hand cards through his hair as the water patterns across, scooping it away from falling into his eyes. Letting the suds ease away in rivulets.

 

When the last of the minty foam is gone, she clicks off the water and grabs a towel, patting gently at his hair. No rubbing. Just careful dabs, letting the softness do the work.

 

“There we go,” she says quietly, like she’s finished a task, not handled a tattered soul.

 

He doesn’t move. Not yet.

 

So she pulls back just a little, gives him space.

 

“Take your time,” she murmurs.

 

It takes a minute, maybe more, but eventually, he shifts. Lifts his head, blinking blearily. He looks at her, something shy and raw in his expression.

 

She offers him a second towel. Warm, folded, and he takes it with a trembling hand.

 

“Can I…” His voice is rough. “Stay here a bit? Just… sit?”

 

“‘Course you can,” she says easily. “Bathroom’s yours.”

 

She rises slowly, cracking her knees like she’s been crouched too long, and turns toward the door. Stops in the frame.

 

“I’ll be in the living room,” she says. “No rush.”

 

And then she’s gone.

 

The door doesn’t click shut behind her. Just eases mostly closed, leaving a crack. Enough for him to see a sliver of her moving through the space beyond the door.

 

He sits there, towel wrapped around his shoulders, hair damp and clean, the tile cooling under his legs.

 

And for the first time in centuries, a little bit of kindness wasn’t something he had to earn.

Notes:

Edit: WHY THE FUCK DID I MISS THE FIRST SENTENCE TYPO. 🫠 “friend chicken” dear fucking god.

Trying to write smut is actually melting my brain.

Chapter 3: False Positive

Notes:

Content warning:

A flashback to sexual assault is triggered. It’s not fully graphic but penetration is mentioned. The lines before it are: “His body freezes. Panic claws up his throat. His mouth opens, no words come out. No voice follows the command.”

Take care of yourself. Cheers <3

They were watching a movie.

 

Key word is were.

 

The movie’s still playing. Some action sequence, lots or flashing lights and loud noises, but it all bleeds into white noise, settles across his mind as dust as he peppers kisses along her neck.

 

She tilts her head for him, a soft sigh escaping her throat, a smile curling her mouth, a tooth catching against her lip. Her hands rest loosely at her sides, waiting. Letting him lead.

 

He likes it this way. Usually.

 

But tonight, it doesn’t sit right.

 

There’s nothing wrong. Not with her. Not with the warmth of her skin or the way she looks at him, full of warmth and wonder and glowing a bit with lust. The edges of her patterns beginning to glow alongside her eye of gold.

 

It’s him, he thinks.

 

Because he wants to take care of her, like he always does. But tonight, the motions don’t feel right.

 

They feel hollow. Like he’s been left on a stage without any sort of script or choreography to follow, the music a tempo he’s chasing to match.

 

He should be feeling something by now, but he isn’t.

 

His mind keeps flashing back to the shower, her hands in his hair, fingers running over his scalp. How every touch felt like it was melting into his brain, like she was smoothing over the cracks and the scars.

 

He wants to feel that again.

 

He really, really, does.

 

He lifts his head from her neck.

 

“You can touch me.”

 

She pauses, a little breath caught between her teeth.

 

“Yeah?”

 

He nods.

 

“If you want.”

 

He shifts, turning slightly, lifting the hem of his shirt just enough to bare the smooth expanse of his back. Inviting her in.

 

Her hand hovers for a moment. Her eyes are burning with excitement, but her hand twitches, indecisive, until finally, slowly, creeping under the fabric and resting softly at the base of his spine.

 

Her fingers press lightly, tentative, tickling his skin. His hairs raise as she glides the tips of her fingers up, like running her hand through a still pond. The feeling ripples all the way through him, up to his neck and down to his toes.

 

His breath catches softly, barely a whisper lost beneath the movie’s fading roar.

 

Her fingers pause, brushing over the curve of his spine, light enough to be a question.

 

He doesn’t move away.

 

Instead, his body leans in just a fraction, craving the quiet reassurance of her touch.

 

Slowly, gently, her hand presses just a bit more into his back, guiding him to her as he leans his head into her chest. Her other hand stays at her side.

 

He feels her hum vibrate against his forehead.

 

She keeps her hand steady, a quiet anchor on his skin, never rushing, never pressing too hard.

 

His breath slows, syncing with the rhythm of her heart.

 

For a moment, there’s nothing else but the faint pulse of her touch and the steady beat of his heart with hers.

 

He closes his eyes, letting himself lean fully into the moment, into her.

 

And then her fingers trace higher. Rest between his shoulder blades, warm, fingers spanning across his flesh.

 

He blinks.

 

He doesn’t flinch, but something inside him does.

 

Suddenly, he’s not here anymore.

 

The room tilts sideways, knocking the air out of his lungs.

 

Darkness crowds the edges of his vision, tightening like a noose around his chest.

 

He’s shoved. His head slams against the headboard. There’s hands on his shoulders, pressing down hard, pushing him into the mattress.

 

A voice hisses in his ear, sharp and unforgiving.

 

“Don’t make me ask you again.”

 

A whisper, low and dangerous.

 

“Sing for me, little songbird.”

 

He can’t scream. He doesn’t dare.

 

“Give me a show.”

 

The warmth of her fingers fades into a distant echo.

 

His body freezes. Panic claws up his throat. His mouth opens, no words come out. No voice follows the command.

 

A finger slams inside, brutal, stinging, cutting off the slivers of breath he was clinging to.

 

Sing.

 

Now.

 

He chokes on a note.

 

“Jinu?”

 

A distant voice echos in his ears, too quiet. Like they’re stuffed full of cotton. Or maybe his mind is.

 

Everything’s far away. Her warmth. The movie. His own body.

 

Just the pressure between his shoulders, phantom-heavy, like hands still holding him down.

 

“Jinu, it’s me.”

 

The voice again. Closer this time. Trembling, wet, worried.

 

A hand leaves his back.

 

The sudden absence makes his breath hitch. He doesn’t know if he wants her gone or closer.

 

“I’m not—” he tries to speak, but his throat closes around the words. “I’m not there.”

 

She’s quiet. Not frozen. Just listening.

 

“You’re safe,” she says softly, like she’s afraid of saying it wrong. “You’re here. With me.”

 

He squeezes his eyes shut. He can feel the movie still playing behind them. Gunshots, sirens, shouting. Modern things, but it’s so far away.

 

“I didn’t mean—” he swallows. “I thought I could. I’m sorry.”

 

She doesn’t touch him, but she stays. Leaning against the couch, watching him, fingers wringing nervously in her lap.

 

“I’m not going anywhere,” she murmurs. “You don’t have to say sorry.”

 

And still, he shakes.

 

Not because of her.

 

Because he wanted this.

 

And still… it broke him.

 

 

———

 

She doesn’t move.

 

Not because she’s frozen, but because she doesn’t know where she’s allowed to be.

 

Jinu’s sitting there, blanketed in shadows and silence, wrapped around himself and not in her arms and her hands feel too big, too clumsy to reach for him without breaking something else.

 

Her chest aches with the shape of it. Of him.

 

She watches the rise and fall of his shoulders, the tremble still clinging to him like static. Not shuddering. Just… vibrating, almost imperceptible, like his whole body is waiting for a blow that’s not coming.

 

God. Fuck.

 

She wants to tear her fingers into the honmoon that no longer exists and draw her sword, sink it deep into a four hundred years dead man.

 

She wants to touch him.

 

She wants to say something.

 

But everything feels wrong.

 

And so she sits. Fingers curled tight into her own legs. Her heart still racing from the way he’d choked, tried to sing something with eyes that weren’t looking at anything. Just gone.

 

It doesn’t matter if he flinched from her touch or not, it still twisted something sharp inside her.

 

She feels like she’s bleeding all over the floor, and that’s not right because Jinu is the one hurting.

 

She should’ve noticed sooner. She should’ve asked before reaching higher on his back. She should’ve read the signs. She should’ve—

 

She bites the inside of her cheek. Hard.

 

No. Stop it.

 

Don’t spiral.

 

She breathes. Pulling as much as she can into her lungs, and lets it out.

 

And when she does speak, it’s the softest her voice has ever been.

 

“Do you want me to get you something?” she asks. “Water? Blanket?”

 

He doesn’t answer right away. She doesn’t rush him.

 

Eventually, he nods. A shallow, almost imperceptible motion.

 

“Blanket,” he whispers.

 

She’s up in a heartbeat, moving on instinct.

 

In the hallway, out of his line of sight, she presses her hand to her face.

 

Her fingers come away damp.

 

She heads for the softest one. The big gray fleece that Jinu always hogs, the one that still smells like laundry detergent and him.

 

Her hands are shaking. Not bad. Just enough that she nearly drops her phone when it buzzes in her hoodie pocket again.

 

She pauses in the hallway, just long enough to tug the blanket off the shelf and lean her back against the wall.

 

Then she opens her messages and thumbs open their group chat.

 

Rumi

hey
um
emergency? kind of
jinu had a flashback i think
like a full one. not like earlier stuff. i touched his back and he just
he’s okay now but i don’t know what i’m doing. what do i do

 

Three dots. Instantly.

 

Zoey 🐢

oh shit babe
okay okay you’re good you’re doing good
first

is he breathing normal?

 

Rumi

yeah
ish
he’s not talking much
he asked for a blanket
i didn’t know what else to offer

 

Mira 🖤

blanket’s good
warm. grounding.
don’t talk unless you’re sure it won’t make him feel responsible.
no “are you okay.” he’s not. he’s trying to be.

 

Zoey 🐢

yeah!!! just like little comforts
remind him he’s here
you could sit next to him and talk about something dumb
like our last interview
or the weird smell in the dressing room

 

Rumi

is it bad that i froze?
i didn’t know what to say
i didn’t even know if i should touch him

 

Mira 🖤

you didn’t freeze.

you paused.
that’s not the same.
pausing means you’re thinking. not reacting.
reacting hurts people. thinking keeps them safe.

you did good rue

 

Zoey 🐢

you’re doing SO good
i love you so much okay??
jinu’s lucky to have you
just be with him. that’s enough

you got this!!!

 

Rumi exhales. The breath stutters on the way out.

 

She holds the blanket to her chest for a second longer before pushing off the wall and heading back to the living room.

 

She pads back into the living room, blanket clutched tight. It’s the closest things she’s got to a weapon, and she’s going to use it right.

 

Jinu hasn’t moved.

 

Still sitting on the couch, knees drawn slightly in, hands clasped too tightly together like he’s holding himself inside his own skin.

 

His eyes flick up as she approaches. Just for a second, his gaze locks onto hers. His eyes are clouded, but there’s recognition there.

 

“I’ve got it,” she murmurs, crouching beside him. “Is it okay if I…?”

 

She holds the blanket out, offering.

 

He nods, small. Like it takes effort.

 

So she goes slow. Gently draping it around his shoulders.

 

Jinu curls into it immediately. His eyes slide closed. Not all the way, just enough to hide the fog under the curtain of his lashes.

 

Rumi sits down beside him. Not touching, just present.

 

The movie is still running in the background. She doesn’t even know what’s happening anymore. Just flickers of sound and light that doesn’t matter anymore. Maybe the noise helps, she’s not sure, but he hasn’t said otherwise.

 

She swallows.

 

Her voice comes out quiet, a little uncertain, but she finds the words.

 

“So, uh,” she says, “Zoey tried to make a smoothie yesterday. With frozen durian.”

 

No response. But she keeps going.

 

“She didn’t tell Mira. Just dumped it into the blender. Like she hadn’t committed a crime against God and fruit.”

 

A small shift beside her. Maybe a twitch of a brow. Maybe not. She keeps talking anyway.

 

“I think Mira almost walked out. Like, full dramatic exit. Said it smelled like the dressing room floor after the Osaka show.”

 

Rumi smiles faintly, gaze fixed on her hands.

 

“She wasn’t wrong.”

 

There’s still no words from Jinu, but his breathing is slower now. Deeper. The tremble in his shoulders has softened. He’s still here. Still with her.

 

And for now, that’s enough.

Notes:

Squints.

Did I just poly them?

I think I just poly-ed them. Bruh i don’t even ship. i got no idea what the fuck I’m doing. Someone call an exorcist.

Time to update the tags for background relationships I guess? Aughawa

Chapter 4: Breakfast, Bagels, And Basil

Jinu blinks up at the ceiling. It’s pale and grainy in the morning light, and it shimmers like fog across his vision.

 

His body aches. It’s not exactly real, but the pain lingers in a way he doesn’t want to place.

 

He pulls the blanket together around himself and sits up, dragging a hand over his eyes, as if it’ll wipe away this film settled across his vision.

 

It doesn’t.

 

Rumi is already awake.

 

She’s not watching him, not exactly. Just curled sideways in the opposite corner of the couch, one leg tucked under her, mug cupped in both hands. Her hoodie sleeves are pulled over her palms and her hair’s a soft mess, the knee-long strands draped over her body like a shawl.

 

Her eyes meet his, and she gives him the gentlest kind of smile. Not the big, bright one. Not the wicked, twinkling with glee sort of grin. Something else. Something he can’t quite comprehend.

 

It warms his heart and his tattered soul a bit. The fog shifts. Doesn’t quite peel away yet, but it thins.

 

“Morning,” she says softly.

 

He nods. Doesn’t trust his voice yet. 

 

He does shift a bit closer to her. Not enough to touch. Just enough to feel the dip in the couch, her weight. He rests his head on the back of the couch and exhales. The knot in his chest loosening just a bit.

 

“You slept a little,” she murmurs.

 

“So did you,” he rasps, voice like gravel.

 

She shrugs, and takes a sip from her mug.

 

“I made tea,” she offers, then adds, “Not the fancy kind. Just the grocery store stuff.”

 

“Criminal,” he says, dry. His voice is steadier this time.

 

A flicker of something passes through her eyes, and she nods once. Takes a sip from the mug and scrunches her face up a bit at the sour taste. She must have steeped it too long.

 

Then there’s a knock at the door.

 

It’s not even a full knock, really. Just one hard rap, then the squeak of hinges and the sound of someone kicking the door open.

 

Jinu tenses instinctively, but Rumi is already smiling, lifting her mug in a lazy wave as a voice barrels into the apartment.

 

“Helloooooo, guess who brought half the pantry!” Zoey’s voice echoes off the walls, bright as ever.

 

She stumbles into view first, oversized floral jacket flapping behind her like a cape, a reusable tote stuffed with cereal boxes and suspiciously clinking jars swinging wildly at her side. Her hair is hidden under a well-loved, obnoxiously yellow, knitted bowl hat. There’s a sticker stuck to her cheek that says ‘Proud of you’. She either doesn’t know it’s there, or doesn’t care.

 

Behind her, Mira follows, pink hair curling around her shoulders and already thoroughly done with the morning, despite it just beginning. She’s wearing a casually-sharp outfit, all-black, crop top, cargo pants with metal accents, and clean boots. She’s balancing a tray of takeout coffees with one hand while clutching a paper bag in the other.

 

“Take your shoes off, Zo,” Mira deadpans. “And stop swinging that bag like a weapon.”

 

“It’s not a weapon, it’s a breakfast miracle!”

 

Zoey drops the tote on the floor and swings around the couch, pouncing on Rumi from behind and kissing her loudly on the forehead. Rumi barks out a laugh and leans up, careful not to spill the mug in her hands.

 

“Hey.”

 

Jinu jolts. His head swivels around to Mira, depositing her haul on the table. She adjusts her glasses. “You okay that we’re here?”

 

Jinu’s throat works for a second. But he nods.

 

Mira just nods back and gestures down to the coffees and the bag. 

 

“I brought the good stuff,” she says. “And bagels. With cream cheese. Two kinds.”

 

Rumi perks, Zoey’s arms still draped lazily around her neck. “The herby one?”

 

Mira raises an eyebrow. “Do you think I’d forget your weird basil obsession? Also, grab a fucking coffee. I can smell the tannin from here.”

 

Zoey releases Rumi and immediately dives for the coffee. Grabs an extra one and passes it over to Rumi. “God, bless you, goth caffeine queen.”

 

“You’re welcome,” Mira says, sitting down on the armrest.

 

Rumi leans forward to grab her cup out of Zoey’s hand, pausing just long enough to catch Jinu’s eye. “You want one?”

 

He hesitates. Then shakes his head. Rumi just smiles.

 

Zoey’s already crouching by her momentarily abandoned tote, yanking things out while sipping her coffee. A jar of Nutella rolls under the coffee table. A box of mini cinnamon waffles follows. A box of Pepero plinks onto the couch cushion beside Jinu’s knee.

 

“Emergency rations,” she says seriously, pointing at the box. “In case you forget joy is real.”

 

Jinu huffs, one hand slowly slinking out from under the blanket to pilfer the box away. Zoey beams at him in response, winking playfully. Like they’re sharing an inside joke.

 

Meanwhile, Mira rolls her eyes and pushes herself up from the armrest. Grabs a bagel out of the bag, a plastic knife, and a small packet of cream cheese, and tosses them in Rumi’s direction, one after the other. She sputters, but manages to catch all three items before they hit her in the face.

 

“Thank you,” she says, face slightly flushed.

 

“Stop ogling the thing next time and get it yourself.” Mira shoots back, but there’s no bite to it.

 

Zoey is already halfway into a banana and making a face like it betrayed her.

 

“Why do we keep buying these,” she groans.

 

“Because you forget every week that you don’t like bananas,” Mira replies.

 

“I want to like them.”

 

“That’s not how taste buds work.”

 

Zoey finishes her banana with a dramatic sigh and shoots to her feet, pretending to swipe dust off her knees, nearly spilling her coffee.

 

“Breakfast party roll call!” she announces. “Who wants boring cereal and who wants the best cereal, which is obviously the neon-colored sugar rocks I brought!”

 

“Get bowls first Zo,” Rumi says.

 

“Nah. This is more fun,” she says, picking a box up off the floor and shaking it. “You haven’t lived until you eat cereal by the fistful out of its virgin packaging like a heathen.”

 

Rumi chuckles. Jinu snorts. Mira rolls her eyes and wraps around the back of the couch, slipping behind Rumi and begins dividing the long fall of hair with practiced fingers.

 

Rumi blinks. “Oh.”

 

“Shut up,” Mira says, gently tugging the strands into even lengths. “You’re shedding everywhere.”

 

“I’m not—”

 

“You are.”

 

Jinu watches from the far cushion, letting the sound of their voices and banter wash over him. His fingers brush over the edges of the box still in his lap.

 

He loves her like this. Zoey and Mira bring something out of her that burns brightly. A little chaotic, a bit enabled, and vulnerable. She melts under Mira’s fingers a little, grins as Zoey shoves a box of cereal beside her.

 

Rumi looks over at him then, and her eyes soften. Without saying a word, she tears a plain bagel in half, sets the cream cheese aside, and hands him the unadorned half. 

 

He takes it. His fingers brush hers. It’s brief, but intentional.

 

“Thanks,” he murmurs.

 

She nods. “Only the finest untoasted carbs for you, my lord.”

 

Mira snorts. “That’s your boyfriend?”

 

Rumi smiles smugly, and sticks out her tongue.

 

Jinu shifts on the cushion, curling forward slightly as he brings the piece of bagel to his mouth. It’s soft under his teeth, a little springy, crumbs gathering at the edges of his lips.

 

The blanket around his shoulders slips down a little, baring the curve of his neck to the cool morning air. He doesn’t pull it back up.

 

Mira’s voice fades in and out behind him, gently scolding Rumi for kicking her foot. Zoey's somewhere off to the side, humming something tuneless between mouthfuls. And Rumi… Rumi catches his eye for a second. Doesn’t say anything. Just sends him a soft, exaggerated wink and bites into her half of bagel absolutely slathered in basil cream cheese like a cartoon villain.

 

His lips twitch. He wipes the crumbs off his mouth with the back of his hand.

 

The fog doesn’t dissipate, but it thins just a bit more.

Chapter 5: Safeword 101

Afternoon light filters through the window as he lands, brushing the last coils of teleportation smoke off his skin.

 

He breathes in the smell of the space, something spicy, savory, a bit of residual steam in the air.

 

He makes his way over to her door, and pauses.

 

There, taped on the front, her handwriting.

 

Vocal Practice!

Be back at 17:00

<3

 

He chuckles at the lopsided drawing of the heart and pulls the note delicately off her door, folding it and tucking it away in his pocket.

 

The note still warm from the sunlight, Jinu steps back, unsure what to do with himself.

 

So, he drifts. 

 

The living room is halfway bathed in late afternoon light, slanting gold across the floor and warming the edges of the worn couch cushions.

 

That’s when he hears it.

 

Loud slurping, chopsticks clinking, and two voices speaking with their mouths full.

 

“If it’s not load-bearing, I’m not into it.”

 

He freezes, half a step into the living room.

 

A pink mug sits on the coffee table, an open bag of chips beside it, and two sets of legs tangled lazily over opposite arms of the couch.

 

Zoey’s in pajama shorts and a hoodie big enough to be criminal, a ramyun cup between her fingers. Mira’s in slouchy jeans, chopsticks in one hand, cup in the other, phone propped up against her thigh.

 

“You’re such a rope snob.” Zoey says, steam curling from her cup.

 

“I like circulation in my wrists. Sue me.” Mira replies, completely serious. “And if it’s done aesthetically, all the better.”

 

“I like risk. What’s the point of bondage if it doesn’t make you question your life choices a little?”

 

Mira sighs. “For the love of God Zo, it’s bondage. Not a tax audit.”

 

Zoey grins back. “Speak for yourself.”

 

Jinu lingers near the kitchen doorway, invisible by accident. The soft gold light filtering through the windows paints the room in a warm embrace. Like the two girls still casually and eating instant noodles aren’t discussing things that send his mind reeling.

 

It draws him in like a moth to a forest fire. His feet stay rooted to the floor.

 

Mira takes a bite. Talks around it.

 

“You just don’t want to admit it’s about trust.”

 

“It’s also about being hot and stupid and letting someone do unspeakable things to your dignity.” Zoey says, stretching herself out further across the couch.

 

Mira hums. “And knowing they’ll stop the second you say the word.”

 

Zoey nods. “Exactly!”

 

That catches Jinu off guard.

 

He shifts where he stands, and a floorboard creaks under his heel.

 

Both girls turn in unison, mid-mouthful, mid-slouch.

 

Zoey tilts her head upside-down to look at him. 

 

“Dude, how long have you been standing there like a ghost?”

 

He hesitates. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

 

“Liar,” Mira says, grinning. “You definitely meant to eavesdrop.”

 

“I wasn’t listening,” he says, and then, quietly, “I was… trying to understand.”

 

That earns a slower reaction. Mira sets her chopsticks down. Zoey straightens a little.

 

“Damn, were the 1600’s really that boring?”

 

He gives her a look. “I don’t understand how that’s supposed to feel… comforting.”

 

Mira leans back, her cup balanced on one knee. “It’s not comforting the way tea is comforting. It’s not soft.”

 

Zoey jumps in, mouth still half full. “It’s comforting like…” she trails off, snapping her fingers like the words are at the tip of her tongue. Mira just watches her, her head tilted slightly as she waits. As he does.

 

“Like jumping off a cliff and knowing the bungee cord isn’t frayed!” she finally says, grinning wildly.

 

“Because you checked it beforehand,” Mira adds.

 

Zoey points her chopsticks at her. “Right! It’s not the fall that makes you feel safe. It’s who’s holding the rope.”

 

Jinu’s brow furrows. “But why fall at all?”

 

Zoey shrugs. “Sometimes your body remembers stuff your brain hasn’t caught up with. Sometimes you want to shut the noise off. Sometimes you just wanna stop being the one in charge.”

 

Mira tilts her head, thoughtful. “It’s not about losing control. It’s about… lending it. Temporarily. To someone who’s earned it.”

 

Jinu thinks about the words for a moment. Losing control. Lending. For a moment.

 

Then, more to himself than them, “So it’s not about being overpowered.”

 

Zoey shakes her head. “God, no. That’s trauma. This is… choice.”

 

He watches them for a second. The easy way they talk about this. The way Mira’s expression hasn’t changed once. The way Zoey still manages to make it sound like they’re talking about karaoke or snacks or weird cereal choices.

 

Safe. They keep saying that word.

 

He doesn’t know what it means in their mouths, but it’s not what it meant in his.

 

It makes something tight in his chest loosen, just a notch.

 

Mira stands up, collecting the empty cups. “Anyway, the world is terrifying. Might as well make your own rules where you can.”

 

Zoey leans back and stretches, arms overhead, hoodie riding up. “And if your rules involve rope and a safeword, more power to you.”

 

He tilts his head. “Safeword?”

 

Zoey nearly chokes on her own spit. “Wait—hold on—are we seriously doing the safeword 101 talk right now?”

 

Jinu frowns, clearly not following. “It’s… a word that keeps you safe?”

 

Mira raises one eyebrow, walks back toward the couch with deliberate slowness, and sits on the armrest again like she’s settling in for a lecture.

 

“It’s a word,” she says, “that means everything stops. No questions. No delay. Just, stop.”

 

Zoey nods, still grinning. “Like an emergency brake. Or a big glowing ‘abort mission’ button.”

 

“It’s not about being scared,” Mira continues. “It’s about having the power to say no. Or pause. Or just… breathe.”

 

Stopping doesn’t mean it’s over. We can just… pause. Breathe for a bit.

 

Rumi’s voice from the shower filters through his mind. He blinks.

 

“Why not just say no?”

 

“Because sometimes ‘no’ is part of the scene,” Zoey says, leaning forward, unusually serious now. “And sometimes people freeze up and can’t say anything at all. A safeword is something you agree on ahead of time. It’s clear. It cuts through everything.”

 

Jinu’s fingers twitch at his side.

 

“Oh,” he says softly. “So it’s… control. In a different direction.”

 

Zoey snaps her fingers. “Exactly! It’s giving control, but keeping the last word. Like… here, you can drive, but I’ve still got the brake pedal.”

 

Mira tilts her head. “More like you’re handing someone the reins, but you still get to say when they pull too hard.”

 

Jinu huffs, low under his breath. “You make it sound simple.”

 

Zoey snorts. “Oh, it’s not. It’s messy as shit. People mess it up. People flinch. People learn.”

 

Mira crosses her arms. “But it starts with trust.”

 

Jinu nods once, mostly to himself. Touches a finger against his pocket. It’s trembling just a bit.

 

“What kind of word?”

 

Zoey lights up. “Oh, dude, anything! Food names are popular. Traffic signs. Colors. Landmarks. The world’s your oyster.”

 

She pauses, eyes narrowing. “Actually, don’t use ‘oyster.’ That’s a terrible safeword.”

 

Mira snorts. “Yeah, it’s gotta be something you wouldn’t accidentally say mid-panic. ‘Harder, oyster’ doesn’t exactly scream distress.”

 

Zoey snickers, then shrugs. “One time I used ‘kumquat.’ Worked great until someone thought I was dirty talking.”

 

Jinu stares at them. It’s not judgment, not exactly, more like he’s watching two people confidently swim in water he didn’t know existed. It feels like envy.

 

He clears his throat. “What would yours be?” he asks Mira.

 

She thinks for a second. “Lavender.”

 

Jinu blinks. “That seems… gentle.”

 

“Exactly.” She shrugs. “It’s mine. It works.”

 

Zoey leans forward, eyes dancing. “Okay, your turn.”

 

Jinu hesitates. “Me?”

 

“Yeah. What would yours be?”

 

He looks down, touches the edge of the folded note in his pocket, shifts on his feet.

 

“I… don’t know.”

 

It’s not a stall. It’s not a lie, either.

 

He thinks about it, and his mind just shrieks.

 

Not because it sounds wrong, but because it sounds right.

 

Not just the word. All of it.

 

Because he doesn’t know if this feeling is something he was conditioned to like, or always did.

 

And that uncertainty tastes a lot like fear.

 

Not the fear of cowering from the Dying King. Of the knowledge that at any misstep, his memory would be drowned in guilt and sorrow and things he can never take back.

 

This is quieter. Older. Wrapped in human skin and notes dying on singed vocal chords, singing to the rhythm of pain to try and white it out with pleasure.

 

He doesn’t say all that.

 

He just stands there, hands in his pockets, pulse ticking like a second heartbeat.

 

Neither Mira nor Zoey rush to fill the silence.

 

After a moment, Zoey breaks it with a small chuckle. “A lot of people start with the traffic light system. Red, yellow, green.”

 

Jinu blinks, intrigued despite himself.

 

Mira nods. “Red means stop, like you’ve hit the emergency brake. Yellow means slow down or check in. Green means keep going.”

 

Zoey stretches out her legs on the couch, waving a chopstick for emphasis. “It’s simple, clear, and easy to remember. Even when things get messy.”

 

Jinu chews on the idea, on his tongue.

 

“Green is the tricky one,” Mira adds. “Because it means consent, but also, sometimes, curiosity. Like, maybe you want to push a boundary, or try something new.”

 

Zoey grins. “And yellow’s for when you’re unsure. When something’s weird or uncomfortable, but you’re not ready to say no yet.”

 

He nods slowly. “It sounds… practical.”

 

“Yeah,” Zoey says softly, “because sometimes the hardest part is knowing you can change your mind at any moment. That you’re not locked in.”

 

Mira smiles gently. “That kind of control, that safety, that’s what makes the trust real.”

 

Jinu exhales, a little easier now. “I think I get that.”

 

Zoey nods. “‘Consent is sexy’.”

 

“Anyways.” Mira stands again, walking towards the kitchen. “I’ve had enough kink debate for today. At least this proves you two are vanilla as shit.”

 

Zoey sputters. “Mira. He’s four hundred years old, he doesn’t even know what that means.”

 

Mira pauses mid-step, then turns back with a devilish grin. “Even better.”

 

Jinu squints. “Vanilla… as in the spice?”

 

Zoey nearly chokes laughing. “Oh my God. No. Vanilla as in… soft. Safe. Basic.”

 

“Sex talk again, Jinu. It means comfortable,” Mira adds, disappearing around the corner into the kitchen. “Unseasoned. Like almost every goddamn food you eat.”

 

Jinu wrinkles his nose. “Modern food just has too much sometimes.”

 

“Jinu nooooo.” Zoey mock-wails, clutching her chest like he’s mortally wounded her. “She’s making fun of you! Don’t add to her ammunition.”

 

Mira returns from the kitchen, empty cups thrown away, replaced with a mug in hand, completely unbothered. “I don’t need ammunition. He hands it to me like a gift.”

 

Jinu lifts an eyebrow, still half-sunk in thought.

 

Zoey watches him, her teasing fading at the edges. “Hey, seriously though... you good?”

 

He looks at her for a beat too long. Then gives a small, real nod. “I think so.”

 

Mira sits down again, but softer this time, like she’s recognizing the shift in the room. “It’s a lot. Learning how other people think about control. And choice. It’s okay if it doesn’t all click right away.”

 

“It didn’t,” he admits. “But…”

 

He shakes his head. Not a denial. It’s just a lot. And the memories are clashing with the words now in his head.

 

He rests his hand back over the note in his pocket.

 

His pulse steadies, even as his mind shrieks.

 

He doesn’t have a word yet.

 

But he likes the idea that he could.

Notes:

Ah yes. Let me, the asexual, aromantic, slightly traumatized dumbass teach y'all about kink and BDSM.

Good news is I read some stuff about this. Bad news is I have no genuine experience. Let me know if I fucked up anywhere ty I am happy to edit. <3

Chapter 6: To Have and To Hold

The hallway outside her door is quiet.

 

Jinu paces the length of it. Five steps, pivot, another. The wood creaks under his feet.

 

And through it all, cruelly, he traces the underside of his wrist with his thumb.

 

It’s not hard to remember where the rope sunk into his skin, how the air smelled like metal, how it burned, how he’d been left to lie in it after the King was finished. Hadn’t bothered to untie him. Let the servants do it for him.

 

He shakes his head. Presses his thumb deeper into the flesh, already blooming blueish-purple as his skin ripples with the change.

 

Nails to claws, teeth to fangs, pale skin to purple, and the crossing patterns of Gwi-Ma’s influence, now long dead.

 

Just for a moment, to remind himself he’s not human anymore.

 

Just for a moment, to test the pressure, the weight, and feel an ache. A want.

 

Terrifying, how much he wants to be held.

 

Terrifying, how much he remembers what being held did to him.

 

He stops, leans his forehead to the wall beside her door. A quiet thunk against something solid.

 

Lets it rest there, cold against his flesh. 

 

His eyes fall shut. Just for a breath.

 

He doesn’t pray. Not anymore. That’s a human thing.

 

But somehow, this feels like it.

 

Gathering up the dregs of something from the corners of his mind.

Courage.

 

Do I really want to do this, he asks himself.

 

And through the angry, terrified shield of screaming in his mind, courage whispers back, yes.

 

So he opens the door.

 

Carefully. Slowly. As if swinging it too fast will tear it off its hinges.

 

Rumi is sitting on her bed, cross-legged, back to him, hunched over a dozen scattered sheets of paper across the duvet.

 

Some have writing. Other’s music. One is folded in half like she gave up on it mid-thought.

 

Tapping a pen idly against her cheek. 

 

He breathes in, the faint scent of paper and ink mixed with the smell of her. Herbs and too many conditioners.

 

The door clicks softly behind him.

 

Her head lifts, just a fraction. Sees his reflection in the window. Smiles before returning to her task at hand.

 

His chest tightens, and his arms wrap around it as he takes a cautious step forward.

 

Then another.

 

His steps are nearly silent, but the sound crashes like drums against his ears.

 

He stops at the bed, stares down at the soft duvet and the mattress. The sheets of paper and the blankets half-thrown into some sense of order.

 

Like she tried to make it presentable, and gave up halfway.

 

His hands drop to his sides.

 

He steps around it, careful not to touch the frame.

 

Stands in front of her.

 

She’s crossing out a line of lyrics, muttering the rewrite under her breath.

 

The tip of her pen taps once, twice, like punctuation only she can hear.

 

He watches her hand move. Slow, precise, confident.

 

Like the world makes sense when she’s shaping it into lines and melody.

 

For a second, he’s not sure if he should interrupt.

 

If he deserves to.

 

Then she glances up.

 

Her gaze meets his. Warm, soft, powerful, and beautiful.

 

He swallows.

 

Wants to say something, but his mouth is dry. The words escape him.

 

So he just… lifts his hands towards her. Palms up, fingers curled into the flesh, pressed delicately together.

 

Offering something he can’t name.

 

Unsure if he wants her to take it, or if the want is just hurting him more.

 

But he wants to try.

 

He can’t look her in the eyes. His gaze drifts to the floor, head slightly bowed.

 

A gesture so small it almost disappears.

 

But she sees it.

 

Feels it.

 

Rumi shifts forward, the mattress dipping beneath her.

 

No sudden movement. No gasp of surprise. Just eyes watching his every movement with care and grace and a warm smile on her face.

 

Her hand not holding the pen reaches towards him. Slowly, her fingers wrap around his wrists, fingers elongating as her opaline patterns ripple and glow, as she lets the demon in her surface along her arms and hands to fully hold.

 

Her thumb brushes along the curve of bone, where the skin still hums with memory.

 

Rumi’s hand is warm. That’s the first thing he registers.

 

The rope had been cold.

 

Then burning.

 

Then slick with his blood.

 

This is different. A new feeling.

 

A hold that doesn’t tighten.

 

Doesn’t pull taught.

 

Doesn’t yank.

 

Doesn't punish.

 

It just holds him.

 

Delicately. With the pulse of her own heartbeat shifting under her own skin, beating against his.

 

Holding him with reverence he doesn’t know what to do with.

 

It hurts to breathe a little, but it feels right as he lowers himself.

 

Not onto the bed.

 

Onto his knees.

 

They hit the ground a bit too hard. Rumi adjusts her grip as he shifts, as his lungs suck in a shuddering breath. Blinks at the floor.

 

And then he carefully leans forward, and she shuffles forward to meet him.

 

One hand around his wrists, his head resting on her lap. 

 

The angle is awkward, but she doesn’t move to fix it.

 

She just… lets it be.

 

Lets him be.

 

Her thumb makes a slow, absent arc over his skin. His pulse flutters beneath it, uneven.

 

And then, she lifts up her pen in her other hand, still resting between her fingers.

 

Doesn’t let go of him.

 

Just leans forward to whisper,  “If you need to stop, just pull away.”

 

And then she shifts her focus back to the scattered pages across her bed.

 

Back to her lyrics.

 

Back to the world she was shaping before he stepped inside.

 

She doesn’t speak again.

 

Just hums softly under her breath, a few scattered notes at a time. Testing melody against silence. The pen moves against the paper in quick, sure lines. 

 

Scratch. Pause. Scratch again. Tap.

 

He listens.

 

Not because he means to. Because his body doesn’t give him a choice.

 

Every sound etches into him. The rustle of fabric, the faint creak of the mattress when she shifts, the subtle hitch of her breath when a lyric doesn’t land right. His own breathing.

 

All of it registers.

 

All of it has to register.

 

For so long, listening has meant survival. Meant knowing what was coming before it hit.

 

But here, it just… is.

 

Nothing changes.

 

No sharpness. No sudden edges.

 

No orders barked across the floor.

 

Just her, sitting above him, legs crossed beneath his head, pen in one hand, the other still holding him by the wrist. Still there.

 

Still warm.

 

Her thumb makes slow arcs over his skin. Loops. Spirals. Something like a memory of a lullaby he was never given.

 

The pressure is constant, but light. A tether, not a grip.

 

He exhales. Doesn’t realize how long he’s been holding his breath until it comes out thin, ragged at the edges.

 

Her pen lifts. Scratches again.

 

She mouths a line. Mutters a better one. Her voice lilts and dips. Shapes things. Frowns.

 

His body begins to unfold.

 

Not entirely. Not yet.

 

But enough that his hands uncurl slightly, peeling away from his palms. Enough that he isn’t bracing for the next word to be about him. At him.

 

He lets his forehead settle deeper against the fabric of her pajama pants. Teddybears and trains, blurring across his vision.

 

She shifts again.

 

Not away.

 

Closer.

 

And then she sets down the pen, and her free hand moves.

 

Up, over his shoulder. Past the edge of his ear.

 

He doesn’t tense.

 

Not yet.

 

She waits, just a breath, and then her fingers begin to move through his hair.

 

Slow. Gentle. No snags. No yanks. Just a slow, rhythmic carding. Up from the nape of his neck, back along the crown. 

 

His breathing stutters.

 

His eyes close.

 

Not from sleep.

 

Not even from calm, not yet.

 

But because she’s still holding his wrist.

 

Still anchoring him with one hand while soothing him with the other.

 

Like she knows, if she let go, he might vanish entirely.

 

So he doesn’t have to open his eyes. Doesn’t have to check his surroundings. Doesn’t have to think where he is.

 

Because something’s holding him to here. She’s holding onto him, and it doesn’t hurt.

 

And that — that stays.

Chapter 7: Pleasure, Not Violation

Notes:

BEHOND! An attempt at smut! wefuckingballwefuckingballwefu-

Enjoy?

He’d been a selfish human.

 

Sold his soul to save himself, and only himself.

 

Doesn’t matter if Gwi-Ma twisted his memories during those four hundred years in Hell. That becoming a demon twisted his sense of right and wrong.

 

Doesn’t matter if his family ate well and was happy before the marks spread. If he gave himself the memories of them happy just to sooth himself.

 

He’d served himself at every opportuntiy. No matter the cost.

 

He’d been selfish.

 

And maybe that’s why those nights in the King’s bed continue to linger, four hundred years later.

 

In part, because of the sensations that the memories hold. But also, where the guilt gnaws away at the tattered remains of his soul.

 

Eaten, dissolved, and spat out from Gwi-Ma’s maw. Now free, but not whole.

 

Sometimes, if he thinks hard enough, he thinks his human mind enjoyed those nights with the King.

 

Not because of the pleasure.

 

Gods no.

 

But because, somewhere in the back of his mind, past Gwi-Ma’s influence and the screaming to survive, was the small voice that said, “You deserve this. You selfish bastard.”

 

It sounded like Gwi-Ma. It sounded like the King. It sounded like his mother, his sister.

 

It sounded like him.

 

Maybe, even now, that voice remains.

 

Despite his freedom.

 

Despite the way Rumi smiles at him when she sees him.

 

Despite how the other Hunters throw snacks, advice, and jokes his way.

 

Despite how the other Saja Boys have remained his friends, despite the catastrophe that was their boy band.

 

He never apologized to his mom. He never even looked his sister in the eyes when the door slammed shut.

 

They died.

 

He thinks they must have starved.

 

He’ll never know, but he’s still here.

 

Living, despite it all.

 

Selfish, even now, wanting to be held with kindness. To dream of Rumi holding him close, to sink into her embrace and feel her touch on his skin.

 

And he tries it anyways, because he is still selfish. In spite of it all. 

 

He seeks it out, and the guilt chews up his soul and spits it out. Sinks its claws into his mind and yanks forward the dirt, lesions, semen, and blood.

 

He tries.

 

And tries

 

And tries.

———

At first, it’s just a few hours.

 

Her, holding his wrists. Soothing the skin under her touch, warm, firm, light, as he rests his head on her lap. Knees pressing into the hard floor, aching just a bit, but never painful. Never this.

 

He shifts a bit closer each time.

 

Inches at first.

 

Until, slowly, the softness of the bed, the way it shifts under his weight, isn’t quite as terrifying anymore.

 

So, one day, he sits there beside her.

 

On the bed.

 

Breathing into her neck, tasting the scent of her shampoo on his tongue. One of her arms wrapped around his shoulders.

 

Lazily. Grounding. Pulling him close. Her finger pads etching soothing circles into his shoulder.

 

Her other hand gently holding his wrists in his lap.

 

And… it’s fine.

 

That’s the strangest part.

 

He doesn’t flinch.

 

Doesn’t spiral.

 

Just sits there. Breathing.

 

A bit dazed in the aftermath.

 

They’d just sat there.

 

Her touch warm and steady, settling deep into his bones like heat through old stone. And yet, his mind feels sluggish.

 

Not still with fear. Not shaking with panic.

 

Just... slow.

 

She always asks him questions.

 

“How are you feeling?”

 

“Is this okay?”

 

“Can I move my hand here?”

 

He can’t answer, most of the time.

 

His throat closes, or his mind blanks, a memory threatens to swallow him whole.

 

So they make a system where he doesn’t have to.

 

Hand out, arm straight, in a fist.

 

Yellow.

 

Back of hand pressed firmly against her skin.

 

Red.

 

No signal means green, but she never assumes.

 

She asks anyway.

 

Every time.

 

Even when he’s half-asleep.

 

Even when both her arms are wrapped around him, him leaning back into her embrace, not shaking. 

 

Eyes half-lidded.

 

Body almost boneless.

 

Sometimes memories do surface.

 

Sometimes he slams the back of his hand against her and rips himself out of her embrace, gagging on nothing.

 

Sometimes he buries his face into the sheets and wails.

 

But she never pulls away.

 

She stays.

 

Sits with him through the worst of it.

 

Offers what she can in the aftermath.

 

Sometimes, he believes he doesn’t deserve it.

 

And asks anyways.

 

Because he is a selfish bastard.

———

 

At first, all he does is reach for her.

 

Fingers trembling, eyes lowered. No words. Just the press of his palm to her waist, unsure, as if testing whether she’s real. Whether this moment is real.

 

Rumi doesn’t move. She waits.

 

Until he murmurs, barely audible, “Can you…?”

The words die in his throat. He works the corpse up into his teeth and out of his lips.

 

“Can you hold me like that again? But… more?”

 

More. He doesn’t know how else to say it.

 

Not touch me. Not fuck me. Not make it stop hurting.

 

Just… more.

 

Rumi nods, and moves with deliberate slowness. She doesn’t rush. No sudden shifts. She watches him as she sheds her outer layer. Drops it delicately onto the back of a chair. Giving him minutes and minutes more to back out.

 

He doesn’t.

 

So she steps forward, to him.

 

“Can I take off your clothes?”

 

And he nods. Swallows. Steps forward.

 

She unbuttons his shirt as if she were unwrapping a priceless artifact. Careful, so that she doesn’t tug or pull. Once it’s open, his skin prickling from the air, she guides it off his shoulders. Holds it between her fingers. Brings it up to her face with a sheepish smile and breathes in. Deeply. A fang catching her lip as she inhales. 

 

Jinu watches her, chest rising and falling. He doesn’t speak.

 

But something in his eyes flickers. Heat. Shame. A stunned kind of awe.

 

“I like your smell,” Rumi murmurs, finally. Her voice is soft, adoring. “I’ve always liked it.”

 

His throat tightens. His hands twitch at his sides, like he doesn’t know what to do with them. She notices.

 

“Can I help you sit down?” she asks.

 

He nods, and lets her guide him back toward the bed.

 

He doesn’t lie down. Not yet. Just sits on the edge, palms flat on the comforter, watching her eye glow as she leans forward.

 

Cups his face gently between her hands, tilts his chin up a fraction.

 

Her touch is warm. It always is. Like a crackling fire on a dark winter’s night.

 

He doesn’t pull away.

 

Something inside him screams, but he doesn’t flinch.

 

Her thumbs trace slow circles along his jawline, like she’s mapping out every little bit of his flesh, muscle and bone. Committing it to memory, soaking it in kindness and the gold glow of her eye.

 

Then she leans down and kisses him.

 

Pulls him just a bit forward to reach.

 

He follows the pull instinctively, like a tide responding to gravity. His hands tighten against the bedspread, claws sinking just slightly into the fabric. Because the kiss, her lips brushing his with such reverence, nearly knocks the air out of him.

 

It’s slow. Not deep. Neither of their mouths open. She just holds him to her and lets it linger.

 

His breath hitches in his throat. The scream inside him thrashes harder, not out of fear, but something closer to grief. Something rawer. Something that doesn’t know how to be held like this.

 

When she pulls back, she keeps her forehead resting against his.

 

Her hands still frame his face.

 

“Still okay?” she murmurs, like a secret.

 

He just stares into her eyes, feeling so close to tears, and nods.

 

She nods as well. Echoing his permission.

 

“Okay,” she breathes, and then kisses the corner of his mouth. A whisper of contact. A thank you.

 

Not for the permission he gave, but for trust. 

 

Her arms slowly wrap around him, pressing against his back, and she guides him back against the mattress.

 

His breath shudders as he goes, like a wave pulling back from shore. Tense, uncertain, but willing, because it is guided by the moon above.

 

She eases him down with reverence. One hand bracing his spine, the other cradling his shoulder until he’s resting flat against expensive cotton and cloth. She follows only when he gives the smallest nod, her body hovering above his, her weight careful, distributed so he never feels trapped.

 

He stares up at her. Vulnerable. Open. The roar in his mind hasn’t stopped, but it doesn’t feel like drowning anymore. It’s quieter.

 

“You’re sure?” she murmurs, lips brushing his temple.

 

He nods again. No trembling. Just the glassy sheen of unshed tears in his eyes.

 

“I want to try,” he whispers.

 

Her hand cups the side of his neck, warm and grounding. Staring at him with a shine in both her eyes.

 

“You already are.”

 

Then she kisses him again. Deeper this time, but still slow. Like she has all the time in the world.

 

His eyes flutter closed.

 

A noise threatens to fall out of his throat.

 

He swallows it back down as she pulls back.

 

Her fingers ghost the waistband of his pants.

 

She doesn’t move until he opens his eyes again. Until her eyes meet his, her lungs matching his push and pull.

 

Finally, he nods.

 

It takes everything, but he manages.

 

Because he does.

 

And Rumi exhales. A loving, awe-inspired, smile blooming across her face.

 

Her hands are steady as they unfasten the belt buckle, free one last tiny button. Slower than before. How that’s even possible, he doesn’t know, but she’s does. Her eyes never leave his: checking, checking, checking.

 

He doesn’t stop her. His heart is hammering in his chest, sweat on his brow, trembling just a bit, but it doesn’t taste like panic.

 

When she slides the fabric down, he lifts his hips in silence. Helps her pull them away from his skin. Watches her fold them in her hands, sets them on the chair with his shirt.

 

There’s no ceremony to what’s left of his body. Just skin, demonic burns, Gwi-Ma’s dead influence hatched across his flesh, and bone. But the way she looks at him…

 

She stares like he’s the last meal on Earth. Like he’s a sight she always dreamed to see.

 

Or… maybe she’s just looking at him like someone, instead of something.

 

Real.

 

Alive. 

 

“I’ve got you.” she says.

 

I know, he says with his body, opening up to her, and swallows.

 

She crawls forward. Slowly, deliberately. The mattress shifts under him to accommodate her weight, how her hands plant near his body. But not on him. How her body rests between his legs.

 

She leans forward, one hand supporting her as she moves, the ghost of her breath tickling his skin. 

 

Her other hand brushes a loose strand of hair on his forehead, slick with sweat. Tucks it back, cards her fingers through the rest of his hair.

 

Her touch feels like a balm against his scalp, like the feeling is melting through his skin and wrapping around his brain.

 

Her hand settles at the back of his neck, massaging gently.

 

His shoulders drop.

 

He hadn’t even realized how tense he was, until the muscles release.

 

Until his jaw unclenches.

 

The noise he’d swallowed before slips out before he can stop it.

 

A whisper of a moan.

 

One of his hands flies to his mouth, palm clamping over his lips.

 

His eyes go wide.

 

Heat prickles up his neck, blooming across his face and ears.

 

That demonic violet blush, shimmering like an aurora, rises through his skin, flickering through the hatching of his patterns.

 

“Sorry.” he whispers, automatically, behind his fingers.

 

Rumi shakes her head.

 

Carefully, she wraps a finger around his wrist.

 

Waits.

 

Then gently pulls his hand from his mouth, rubbing the underside with her thumb.

 

His eyes flick away. Maybe toward the wall.

 

Maybe toward a memory.

 

She leans in.

 

Brings his hand to her lips.

 

Kisses the back of it.

 

His eyes dart back to her.

 

“Jinu,” she breathes.

 

“You’re safe. Just breathe.”

 

And she breathes herself. An exaggerated heave of air, and a joking twinkle in her eyes.

 

He huffs.

 

Almost coughs on his own spit.

 

But he breathes with her.

 

Once.

 

Twice.

 

Until his chest loosens.

 

Until his heart isn’t beating against his ears anymore. Just his chest.

 

“Better?” she asks.

 

“Mhm.” he manages through his lips.

 

And she leans forward again, not towards his face this time. Her head leans to the side, her breath ghosting along his ear.

 

And then she kisses him, gently, against the crook of his neck.

 

His mind whites out of a moment.

 

No one…

 

No one’s kissed him there before.

 

Nails. Fingers. He knows that feeling well.

 

Her lips feel so soft. Warm. Slightly ticklish as she breathes against his skin. Lifts her lips to move just a fraction and pepper more down the length of his neck.

 

His fingers grip the sheets.

 

His foot slides across the mattress.

 

Not out of fear.

 

But because the feeling lingers.

 

Coils.

 

Then shoots down his spine and pools low, hot and heavy.

 

She kisses his collarbone.

 

He blinks up at the ceiling. Opens his mouth, breathless.

 

He just makes another noise. Shuts his eyes as it hits his ears a second later. 

 

His fingers twitch.

 

He almost clamps a hand over his mouth.

 

She pulls back just enough to look at him, running a finger over his chin.

 

“Still with me?” 

 

He nods, face flushed.

 

Her lips return. Soft, graceful. Not sucking. Not biting as they make a steady and leisurely path down his chest. Pausing at every noise he makes, her eyes flicking up to him, even when he doesn’t look back. At every twitch.

 

One of her hands adds to the sensation. Nothing forceful. Her fingers just run slowly over his skin, soothing away tension and tracing along the patterns rippling across his skin with each tender kiss. 

 

Her lips press to one of the deeper scars.

 

A place even he tries not to look at.

 

“I love you,” she whispers against his skin.

 

His vision blurs for a moment. He blinks away the tears.

 

He’s still here. Not in a memory. Feeling her against his skin.

 

It’s just a bit overwhelming how good it feels.

 

She doesn’t move right away.

 

Just stays there, holding the kiss in place.

 

Like she knows what it means.

 

And she’s willing to wait.

 

For him to catch his breath. To dig his nails into the sheets and hold himself to the moment. To here.

 

Not four hundred years ago against silk and blood and musk.

 

A tear does fall. His chest shudders.

 

He doesn’t crumble. Not really.

 

He just breaks open, tattered soul and skin and scars, being held and loved and being under someone, and it doesn’t feel good and hurt.

 

It just feels good.

 

It terrifies him.

 

She pauses, sees the tear. Brushes it away, her touch so careful against his skin.

 

“Color?” she whispers.

 

He hesitates. Then, hand out. Open. Fist. Trembling.

 

Yellow.

 

“Okay,” she says, pulling back, hands against her knees. “Take your time.”

 

He runs his palms over his eyes, shudders in a breath to the best of his ability. Sniffs.

 

“I want to continue,” he chokes out. “Just— I—”

 

He snarls. Frustrated. Rumi just waits, watching him collect his words.

 

“You’re not him. I know that. But my body…”

 

It doesn’t want to feel pleasure.

 

I’m afraid of how it will feel.

 

I don’t want to feel too much and disappear.

 

None of that comes out. Instead, a little broken, a whisper.

 

“Can you hold me as you do it?”

 

He watches Rumi’s face, her expression.

 

She just glows. Her eyes, her smile, her opaline patterns.

 

“Of course. Of course,” she whispers back.

 

He reaches out towards her, and she gathers his hands, wraps one of her hands around his wrists. Gentle. So gentle.

 

Watches him as she guides them up over his head. Presses them into the mattress and pillow.

 

“Just kick me if it’s too much,” she whispers. “I don’t mind.”

 

He chokes on a laugh, nervous, excited, terrified.

 

Present.

 

She shifts lower between his legs. One of her hands stays gently wrapped around his wrist, still pressing it into the pillow above his head. The other moves down.

 

The heat of her touch lingers above his skin before he feels it. Just hovering. Waiting.

 

And then her fingers brush the sensitive skin of his inner thigh.

 

Runs her fingers over the skin. Not up. Just around in circles. Letting him get used to the feeling. Her touch sparks against his skin, lighting his nerves, making him twitch.

 

“Let me take care of you,” she says. “I got you.”

 

“‘Kay,” he manages.

 

Rumi shifts, reaches for something at her bedside table, pops open the cap with her teeth.

 

“I’m going to let go, just for a second.”

 

He nods.

 

She withdraws her hand from his wrists.

 

He leaves them there. Lifting his head to watch as she coats her hand in something. His vision is slightly blurry, leaving whatever label is on it a fuzzy mess.

 

She blows on it in her hand. It almost looks like she’s cupping embers of a fire in her palm, trying to spark it to life.

 

And then she shifts, one hand back over his wrists, kind as always.

 

Then she, slowly, tenderly wraps her fingers around his dick.

 

His entire body seizes.

 

His legs stiffen.

 

His head falls back against the pillow, eyes fluttering closed

 

He wheezes out a moan.

 

Gods.

 

Fuck.

 

This touch has never, ever, been gentle.

 

Always squeezing and rough and dry unless there was blood.

 

This isn’t blood.

 

It’s a little warm, wet, and slick.

 

When he opens his eyes, she’s just watching him. Closely, her eyes full of quiet encouragement, steady and unwavering.

 

“Too much?” she asks.

 

He shakes his head, gasps. “Just… slow. Please.”

 

She doesn’t move immediately. Lets him get used to the sensation, the bottoms of his feet rubbing over the mattress in a soothing motion he thinks he used to do when he was human.

 

Her hand holding his wrists soothes him as well. Half circles, her voice whispering words of encouragement that bleed into his mind.

 

To his horror, and delight, he relaxes just a bit, and his body reacts without him and twitches up into her hand.

 

Seeking out her touch.

 

Only then does she move.

 

Up and down. Gentle against his sensitive skin, rubbing over the head and across the underside. He twitches at every motion, every nerve in his body singing out as his mind seems to lose focus of everything else around him. Centers the feeling just to this one point. This one moment.

 

His fingers dig into his palms, nailing biting the skin.

 

There’s something building in his gut.

 

Something he hasn’t felt in a very, very, long time.

 

Heat and pressure. Pleasure. A buzz in the back of his mind. Something to chase.

 

Something he wants to chase.

 

His hips buck up into her hand, his nerves alight. Heaves in breaths that still don’t feel like enough. 

 

He whines. Fully. Tears in his eyes, not because of a memory.

 

It’s just overwhelming.

 

He feels so good it makes him want to sob.

 

Her hand circles the tip, glides down, around, lighting it all on fire in a way he’s never felt before.

 

He keeps twitching up to meet her, and she matches his pace. It’s sloppy, and the sound is obscene in his ears, but almost drowned out by his heart hammering in his chest.

 

He opens his mouth.

 

Can’t make a sound.

 

Twitches.

 

Arches off the bed.

 

His eyes squeeze shut.

 

He chokes on a sob. Not because it hurts, but because it doesn't.

 

His mind goes blank.

 

And he orgasms for the first time in four hundred years, and it doesn’t feel like a violation.

 

And Rumi kisses him as he shudders. Holding onto him. Holding him.

 

To here. To her.

 

To himself.

Notes:

OKAY I DID IT. HOLY FUCK *dies*

Well, at least I know I WILL NOT be wriuting something like this again. My hands are shaking and I'm sweaty and a bit terrified,. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH

Now to cry in a corner for a bit, and then pull this bad boy out of anonymous and jumpscare everyone who reads my 20+ gen angst works with this, when they're expecting a series update. :P That's gonna be a fun time. B]