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savedenji · 11 days ago

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we were just one breath too late. . .

feat. gojo, geto, nanami, toji, sukuna, shiu, higuruma

sum. what’s the worst thing someone could say to you before you die? “i don’t want to see you again. . .” is that worse enough? will they feel guilty? sorry? or relief? maybe your boyfriend can answer that. . . maybe not.

wn. non-sorcerer au, angst no comfort, themes of death, fatal accidents, emotional and verbal arguments, intense grief, survivor’s guilt, and heavy angst. it includes depictions of emotional trauma, blood, physical injury, and reunion in the afterlife. there are also mentions of alcohol use, self-blame, and spiritual imagery. reader discretion is advised.

GOJO SATORU

it started like every other argument.

small.

stupid.

avoidable.

but tonight, something inside both of you snapped.

you stood under a streetlight, the flickering bulb overhead casting harsh shadows on gojo’s sharp features. the city buzzed around you — car horns, footsteps, laughter in the distance — but between you two, it was silent. thick. suffocating.

“you forgot again,” you said quietly, arms folded across your chest. “my presentation. i told you about it three times. you promised you'd come.” gojo tilted his head back with a heavy sigh. he looked tired. not just physically — but in the bones, in the heart. “i got caught up at work,” he muttered, avoiding your eyes. “it was one meeting after another—”

“you always get caught up!” your voice cracked. “it’s always ‘meetings’ or ‘clients’ or some emergency that somehow always matters more than me.”

he flinched. “that’s not fair.”

“no, what’s not fair is being in love with someone who’s never here!” you shouted, tears brimming at your lashes. “i come home to an empty apartment. i fall asleep alone. i eat dinner alone. i show up to events alone. i’m starting to forget what it feels like to be in a relationship, satoru.”

he looked at you like you had physically struck him. his mouth opened, then closed. then he laughed — not out of amusement, but disbelief. “you think i don’t feel like shit about it?” he said bitterly. “you think i like missing everything? i’m doing this for us, dammit! so we have a future—”

“a future doesn’t matter if there’s nothing left of us to share it with!” you screamed.

silence.

your chest heaved as your words hung in the air between you like shattered glass. “god,” gojo muttered, running a hand through his hair. “i don’t even know who i’m talking to anymore.”

you took a step back. “what the hell does that mean?”

he looked at you with eyes that had stopped shining. “you’re not the same. you’re not the girl i fell in love with.”

you went still.

your mouth parted, breath catching in your throat. “and you’re not the man i thought you were.”

he exhaled, long and low, like he’d been holding it for years. then he turned — really turned — like he was walking out of your life. “maybe we shouldn’t do this anymore,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “maybe it’s better if we just stop pretending.”

then —

“i don’t want to see you again.”

you stood frozen, heart cracking open like a dam, pain gushing out too fast to stop. “don’t say that,” you begged. “satoru, don’t walk away. please—”

but he did.

without looking back.

and you, like an idiot, chased him. just one more step. one more call. one more plea to make him stop.

you never made it past the street.

the screech of tires.

a horn.

then nothing.

just blood. just broken bones. just cold

when gojo got the call, he laughed. he thought it was a sick joke. he even yelled at the nurse for wasting his time. then they said your name again, and it broke something in him. he drove faster than he ever had, broke every law just to get to the hospital. burst through the ER doors. his eyes scanned for you, desperate, deranged, refusing to believe—

“sir,” the nurse said gently, “she didn’t make it.”

his heart stopped.

he stumbled into the room where they kept your body, untouched, still, and when he pulled back the sheet—

he collapsed.

“no,” he whispered, gripping your cold hand. “no, no, no, no, no. this isn’t— this isn’t how it ends. wake up. baby, please—” he shook. sobbed. screamed into your chest like it would bring you back.

but you never breathed again.

six months later

he didn’t touch his apartment. not even your toothbrush. your shoes still sat by the door. your coffee mug still rested on the windowsill. your scent — faint but present — still haunted the sheets. he refused to let anyone clean anything.

he quit his job.

what was the point?

he started walking at night. hours and hours, mind blank, waiting for exhaustion to swallow him whole. he talked to you. out loud. sometimes on street corners. sometimes at the cemetery, where your grave sat covered in your favorite flowers. sometimes on the balcony, where you used to watch sunsets.

he stopped laughing.

stopped smiling.

stopped seeing color.

“i didn’t mean it,” he’d whisper to the wind, voice breaking. “i didn’t mean any of it. you were everything. i was just scared.”

he stopped answering friends.

he deleted your number, but memorized it anyway.

he called it sometimes, just to hear your voicemail.

“hey, it’s me,” he’d say to the beep, voice trembling. “i saw that commercial you liked. you would’ve laughed so hard. i— i miss you. i’m sorry. i’ll always be sorry.”

he kept a picture of you in his wallet.

folded, creased, worn from fingers that touched it every night. some days he’d imagine what life would’ve been if he just turned around that night. if he hadn’t said those words. if he had listened. if he had held you. if he had said sorry.

you haunted him.

not the ghost kind.

the kind that lingered in quiet moments.

in the smell of your shampoo.

in the old voice memos.

in the way his heart still reached for you, even now.

he never dated again. never loved again. never even tried. because you were the only person he ever wanted to see. and he’d told you he didn’t want to. and fate, cruel and exact, listened.

GETO SUGURU

the air was heavy with the smell of early rain and city smoke, the kind of evening that felt unfinished — like something was waiting to be said. you stood under the gray sky with your arms crossed tight to your chest, and suguru stood across from you with that tired, worn expression, like he was already bracing for the worst.

“you forgot again,” you murmured, barely louder than the hush of cars passing behind you. he blinked, slow and distant, like he hadn’t quite heard. “forgot what?” you looked away, jaw tight. “my art show. it was today. i waited for you.”

there was a pause — long enough to bruise.

“shit,” he whispered, more to himself than to you, “i thought that was next week.”

you laughed. hollow. sharp. “you always think it’s next week.”

he looked at you then, really looked — and for a moment, he looked ashamed. but the wall went back up too quickly. it always did with him. he was too good at protecting what hurt. “i’ve been swamped with work,” he said, like it explained everything. “you know that.”

you turned to face him fully, eyes glinting beneath the streetlight, damp lashes trembling. “you’re always working, suguru. always somewhere else. i feel like i’m dating your shadow.”

he exhaled hard, ran a hand through his dark hair, gaze falling to the pavement. “i’m doing my best. this job— it’s not easy.”

“neither is loving someone who’s never really here.”

those words hit something. you saw it flicker in his expression — that small crack in the foundation. he looked up slowly, his voice a little sharper now. “so what, you’re blaming me for trying to build something stable? for trying to give us a future?”

“what future?” you asked. “one where i’m always waiting and you’re never coming home?”

“don’t twist it.”

“i’m not twisting anything. i’m lonely, suguru. i miss you even when you’re in the room.”

he went still.

then he laughed — bitter, tired, wrong.

“maybe we’ve outgrown each other,” he said softly. you stared at him, stunned silent. his next words were a whisper, like he hated them as they left his mouth. “maybe we’re better apart.”

you took a step forward, your voice trembling like wind-blown glass. “you don’t mean that.” he met your eyes. and this time, there was no anger. only something worse — resignation.

“i think i do.”

you swallowed hard, breath catching. “say it, then. if you want this to end, say it.”

and so he did.

“i don’t want to see you again.”

your heart cracked like the world had tilted.

and just like that —

he turned his back to you.

and walked away.

and you, still so foolish in love, stepped forward. just one step. just one more call of his name— you never made it across. the screech of tires split the quiet. a scream. a sharp thud. and then only silence.

he didn’t cry right away. not at the hospital. not at the funeral. not even when he kissed your forehead for the last time and felt the coldness seep into his bones. but he cried three days later, standing in the kitchen with two mugs in his hands — one yours. instinct, maybe. or hope. but your lips would never touch that cup again, and he crumbled right there, on the floor, hands shaking.

the grief did not come all at once. it came in waves.

in the quiet.

in the morning light that poured through your empty side of the bed. in the sound of your laugh from a video he couldn’t bring himself to delete.

he lived like a ghost of himself.

quiet. strange. slower.

he started talking to you like you were still around. “morning,” he’d whisper to the air, brushing his fingers over your pillow. “i saw someone today who looked like you.”

“i keep thinking i’ll see you walking home with that lopsided tote bag.”

he kept your lipstick on the windowsill.

your earrings in a dish by the sink.

your jacket still hanging by the door.

people told him he needed to let go. he never listened. he went to work. did his job. smiled when needed. but something in him had been buried with you. he stopped writing music.

stopped painting.

stopped dreaming.

and every year on the day he lost you, he would sit on the sidewalk where it happened. a small bouquet. your name whispered like a prayer. eyes searching the sky, as if you might still be in the clouds, watching.

“i didn’t mean it,” he says to the wind, year after year. “those words. that moment. if i could trade places with you, i would.” his heart, once full of poems and possibility, now only echoes with what-ifs and empty promises.

and true to his word—

he never saw you again.

not in dreams.

not in visions.

not even in passing strangers.

because sometimes, the cruelest part of love is that we don’t get to choose our last words. we only live with the ones we never got to take back.

NANAMI KENTO

you stood outside the station, the rain coming down like broken glass, your bag slung over your shoulder, and your heart barely stitched together. nanami stood in front of you, tall and tired, the collar of his coat soaked at the edges, eyes dim with something he refused to let show.

“you didn’t call,” you said quietly, voice catching in your throat. “you promised you would.”

he looked at you, unblinking. “i was working.”

“you’re always working, kento.”

“i have to.”

“no, you choose to.” you hugged yourself tighter, knuckles pale. “you choose your job. your schedule. your clients. you don’t choose me.” his jaw twitched, and he looked away for a moment. “you know it’s not that simple.”

you took a step closer, rain seeping into your shoes. “then explain it to me. help me understand why loving me always comes second.” he sighed, deep and worn. “i’m not young like you. i don’t get to drop everything for romance. i have responsibilities. deadlines. expectations.”

“and what am i, nanami?” you asked, voice breaking. “a weekend hobby? a luxury you squeeze into your planner when there’s nothing left to do?”

his silence hurt more than any answer.

you swallowed the lump in your throat, your hands trembling. “i waited for you at that little italian place. sat there like an idiot with a candle burning out.” he closed his eyes, rain dripping from his lashes. “i didn’t forget. i couldn’t leave the meeting. it was important.”

“more important than me?”

he didn’t answer.

and god, that was the answer.

“say it, kento. if you’re done, say it. if i’ve become another chore, say it and let me go.” he opened his mouth, hesitated—then, with a voice that cracked the world in two, “i don’t want to see you again.”

you flinched like he’d struck you.

he looked away. “you deserve someone with more time,” he added, quieter now. “someone who doesn’t disappoint you.” you shook your head slowly, eyes stinging. “but i don’t want someone else. i want you. even on your worst days. even when you’re tired. even when you forget.”

he turned his back.

and he walked away.

just like that. no final touch. no glance over the shoulder. and that’s when it happened.

you stepped off the curb too fast, still staring at the place where he used to be.

a shout.

a horn.

a metallic crash.

and the world blinked to white. they say it was instant. no pain. no time to speak. just silence and rain.

nanami got the call the next morning. his hands trembled, the receiver pressed too tightly to his ear. his coffee had gone cold on the table. he didn’t finish getting dressed that day.

at your funeral, he stood like stone. still. quiet. his eyes rimmed red, though no tears fell. he wasn’t the kind of man who cried where people could see. but he broke in the quiet. after that, everything dulled.

he went to work.

he ate his meals.

he paid his bills.

but he never bought another book. never returned to the coffee shop where you used to sit across from him, reading aloud the funny lines. never smiled without guilt biting at the edges. your number stayed in his phone. your toothbrush remained untouched. your side of the bed—cold. he would talk to you sometimes. in the mornings. in the silence. softly, like you might answer.

“you’d scold me for how much takeout i’m eating.”

“you always hated this tie.”

“i should’ve told you to wait. should’ve told you i didn’t mean it.”

his apartment became a museum of you. photos. receipts. your scarf on the coat hook. he couldn’t let go, because letting go meant accepting the truth. that his last words to you were a mistake. that he’d chosen work over love, and the cost was never seeing you smile again. he read the letter you left on the fridge a hundred times. “don’t forget about dinner tonight, love you.”

and he whispered to the quiet, every night before sleep—

“i’ll never forgive myself.”

because he didn’t just lose you. he buried the part of himself that believed love was enough. and true to his words, he never saw you again. not in dreams. not in crowds. not even in memory the way he wanted to.

only in the echo of your name, spoken too late, to the dark.

TOJI FUSHIGURO

the city never really slept, not this side of it anyway.

it was almost midnight when you finally caught up to him — the sharp sound of your boots echoing through the back alley behind the bar, neon lights flickering against the wet pavement. his motorcycle stood parked just beyond the fence, engine still warm, helmet hooked on the handlebar like he hadn’t decided whether to leave or not.

he turned when he heard you, cigarette hanging from his lips, jaw clenched like he’d been waiting for this — or maybe dreading it.

“you said you’d stop disappearing like this,” you said, voice steady despite the storm in your chest. toji exhaled slow, smoke curling upward. “figured you’d be asleep by now.”

“you said you’d be back by dinner.”

“yeah, well. i didn’t wanna argue.”

“so you just don’t come home at all?”

you stepped closer, arms wrapped around yourself like armor. the scent of gasoline and cold air clung to him. his eyes, always sharp, softened for half a second before hardening again.

“you know how i am, baby.”

“no,” you said quietly. “i don’t. because you never let me in. you disappear, you fight, you come back like nothing happened, and i’m supposed to just… smile? play house?” he shifted his weight, grinding the cigarette under his heel. “you knew what you were getting into with me.”

“i thought i did,” you whispered. “but i didn’t know it’d hurt this much.”

toji looked away, jaw ticking. “you deserve better.”

“don’t say that.”

“it’s true.”

“then be better, toji!”

the words echoed into the night, your voice trembling with all the weight you couldn’t carry anymore. “i can’t,” he said, and it was the quietest you’d ever heard him. “i don’t got that in me.”

“you do. you just won’t let yourself have anything good. you think you ruin everything, so you leave before it happens.”

“maybe,” he said, shrugging like it didn’t crack your chest in half. “but if i stay, you’ll hate me anyway.”

“i’ll hate you if you leave,” you said.

“because you keep choosing the easy way out. and i’m always the one left bleeding.” he moved toward the bike then, reaching for the helmet, eyes not meeting yours. “i don’t want to see you again,” he said.

you froze.

“…what?”

“i said i don’t want to see you again,” he repeated, harsher now, like it was the only way he knew how to kill something softly. “it’s better for both of us.” you stood still, eyes stinging. “you don’t mean that.”

“yeah,” he said, slinging a leg over the seat, engine purring to life. “i do.”

he didn’t look back when he pulled away.

he didn’t see you run after him. he didn’t hear your voice break behind him. he just turned the corner, disappearing like smoke.

and that’s when it happened.

your breath hitched as the headlights blinded you — a car, fast, too fast —

tires screeched. a sickening thud. then silence. like the whole city held its breath. your body lay still on the pavement, your phone still clutched in your palm.

he found out an hour later.

sirens. flashing lights. a phone call from a stranger who found your emergency contact. he dropped the helmet. sprinted through red lights. blood on the concrete. your name already fading into past tense. he wasn’t allowed to see you at the hospital. not until you were already gone.

his hands shook. he hadn’t cried in years, but that night, he did — loud and ugly in the hallway, fist through drywall, the taste of iron in his mouth. he’d told you he didn’t want to see you again. and now he never would.

toji never went back to that alley again.

he avoided the bar. he stopped sleeping in the bed you once shared. your picture stayed folded in his wallet, worn at the edges from the way his thumb kept brushing it. he still kept your old hoodie — the one with the faded print on the front and your perfume in the sleeves. on some nights, he wore it to sleep.

he started carrying a helmet for two. never used it. just kept it. sometimes he talked to the empty seat behind him on long rides.

“you’d laugh at me if you saw me now.”

“i should’ve stayed.”

“i didn’t mean it. fuck, i didn’t mean it.”

toji fushiguro, who never begged, now whispered your name like a prayer. but prayers don’t bring people back. not even the ones we love most. and just like his words, he never saw you again. and it ruined him forever.

RYOMEN SUKUNA

you stand just off the gravel path, arms crossed tight around yourself, breath visible in the cold air. the red and gold leaves have long since fallen. the trees are bare now. and so is the truth.

sukuna leans against his black car, cigarette half-lit in his fingers, eyes on the fading sky. the sunset paints him in fire — but none of it reaches his chest. “you lied,” you say softly. no venom. just a hollow ache. a hurt that’s been carved into your ribs like a name on stone.

“i didn’t,” he says flatly.

you blink. once. twice. “you said you’d stay. that we were… building something. something real.” he exhales smoke and looks away. “things change.”

“no,” you shake your head, taking a step forward. “you changed. you started pulling away. you stopped coming home before midnight. you stopped talking to me unless i begged. is that what you wanted? for me to chase you like some pathetic girl hoping for scraps?”

“stop,” he mutters.

“i’m not going to stop,” you snap, voice finally cracking under the pressure of holding it all in. “you say you’re tired of me? well, i’m tired of feeling like a ghost in my own relationship!”

his jaw clenches, the fire in his eyes flickering like the fuse on a bomb.

“i never asked you to stay,” he says.

“you didn’t have to,” you breathe. “i wanted to. i chose to. and you— you took every piece of me and turned it into something disposable.”

silence. just the wind brushing against the trees. and the slow, cold collapse of everything you thought you could survive.

“look,” sukuna finally mutters, pushing off the car, voice low and lethal, “i don’t want to keep doing this. if this is what we’ve become, if this is what you’ve become — someone who wants to scream and cry and throw shit every time something gets hard — then maybe we shouldn’t keep pretending this is love.”

your throat tightens. “so you’re giving up.”

he doesn’t answer.

“say it,” you whisper. “don’t walk away this time, don’t leave without saying it.” he looks at you, then. really looks. and for a second — just a second — you see it. the ruin in his chest. the heartbreak he’ll never name. because if he does, he’ll fall apart.

“…i don’t want to see you again,” he says.

it’s almost gentle.

you step back, your world crumbling under your feet. “if you leave now,” you warn, voice trembling, “this is it. i won’t chase after you. i won’t call.” he lights another cigarette with a flick of his thumb, eyes hollow.

“good.”

then he turns. gets in the car. engine starts.

he doesn’t look back.

not even once.

you stand there long after the sound of tires fades. you wipe your tears before they freeze to your skin. you step forward, legs shaking, heart pounding like it’s screaming not to go—

you never see the other car. bright headlights. no time. a shattering crunch of metal. then quiet.

then nothing.

he finds out in the morning.

he hadn’t slept. he never does when he fights with you. not really. but he hadn’t turned around. not until someone called. not until the world stood still. they told him you died instantly. that there was a ring box in your coat pocket. he hadn’t seen it before.

now he wishes he had.

after you, sukuna doesn’t date. doesn’t smile. doesn’t laugh the way he used to. his apartment is cold. silent. like a museum for a life that never got to finish.

he buys your favorite tea. never drinks it. he leaves your contacts in his phone. never deletes them. on your birthday, he drives to the road where you died. sits on the edge of the cliff with a cigarette and stares down at the curve of the road below. he keeps asking the wind, “why the fuck didn’t i stay?”

he dreams of your voice. he dreams of the way you laughed with your whole body. he dreams of how you’d lean into his chest at night like he was safe. like he was someone worth loving.

and every morning he wakes up, it hits him all over again. he said he didn’t want to see you again. and now he never will. and for someone who never believed in punishment, he lives every day like it’s hell.

SHIU KONG

he’s never one for public scenes. not shiu kong. always measured, always cold with his kindness — like a man who keeps even his warmth under lock and key. but tonight is different.

you’re standing outside a high-rise bar in roppongi. past midnight. your heels ache. your throat’s raw. the city’s pulsing behind you — full of strangers who’ll never know the ache of your name in his mouth.

the rain’s just started, soft and unhurried, like the sky can feel the ending too. “you don’t even look at me anymore,” you say, voice trembling as you hold your coat tighter. “it’s like i don’t even exist unless i’m behind your door or in your bed.”

shiu sighs. slow. practiced. his hands stay in his pockets like he’s afraid of what he’ll do if they don’t. “you know how i work,” he says, eyes flicking to the ground. “you knew from the beginning. this job, this life— it was never going to be simple.”

“i never wanted simple,” you spit, stepping closer. “i just wanted you.”

he doesn’t flinch. just exhales, tired.

“you’re young,” he says quietly. “you still think love means burning the house down just to feel the heat.” your jaw clenches. “and you? you think love is pretending it doesn’t hurt to watch the person you care about beg for scraps?” his silence is louder than traffic.

you laugh bitterly, blinking against the rain. “i loved you, shiu. i loved you. and you— you loved your job. your image. your goddamn quiet.” he looks up finally. and for a moment, something falters in those sharp, tired eyes.

“don’t do this,” he says lowly. “not here.” you shake your head. “why? because people might see you crack? because the big, composed man might fall apart over some girl who loved him too hard?”

he swallows. hard. “you don’t understand what you’re asking.”

“no,” you whisper, voice breaking. “you just don’t understand what you’re losing.” he says nothing. just stands there, like he’s frozen in place, like he knows that if he moves — even slightly — he’ll say something he can’t take back.

but he doesn’t move. he never does.

and maybe that’s the problem. you take a step back, shaking. the ache in your chest doesn’t feel like heartbreak anymore — it feels like finality. “say something,” you plead, voice barely there. “say anything.”

he hesitates.

“…i don’t want to see you again.”

he says it with no venom. no hate. just that quiet, cold steel he always wears. and he turns. just like that. into the streetlight, into the mist, into the part of your life that will never come back. you watch him walk away. you don’t follow. you cross the street blindly, barely seeing the headlights, barely hearing the tires screech—

a sudden flash.

a dull crack.

and then, stillness.

you don’t even feel it when your body hits the pavement.

shiu doesn’t sleep that night.

he pours himself a drink in his high-rise apartment, watching the lights of tokyo bleed into the windows. he thinks about calling. about saying sorry. but he’s not the kind of man who apologizes for being exactly what he warned you he was.

the call comes at 4:16 a.m.

the voice on the line is grim. he doesn’t speak for a long while after they hang up. he just stares at the window, at the half-empty glass in his hand, at the last message you sent hours before — still unread.

“just let me in.”

he keeps reading it.

again.

until his eyes blur.

he doesn’t go to the funeral.

he sends flowers — white lilies, with no name on the card. but he keeps your photo on his desk. he keeps the voice message you once sent when you were drunk and laughing and calling him “your grumpy old man” like it was the sweetest thing in the world.

he never deletes it.

sometimes, when the nights are too quiet, he plays it just to hear you laugh. and every time he closes his eyes, he remembers your voice in the rain. you loved him like it was a promise. he left you like it was a habit. and now the rain never quite feels the same. because he said he didn’t want to see you again.

and he got his wish.

HIGURUMA HIROMI

the argument starts in his office. glass walls. cold lighting. your reflection shaking in every polished surface. you came to bring him lunch. again. like always. you always come. and he always forgets to eat. and that’s how this began — with your love, simple and ordinary, clashing against the weight of his silence.

“you’re not even listening to me,” you say, placing the paper bag down harder than you mean to.

hiromi barely looks up from his desk. “i am.”

“no,” you whisper, “you’re hearing. not listening.”he sighs, finally leaning back in his chair, dark circles under his eyes like bruises. “what do you want me to say?”

you shake your head, stepping away from the desk. “something. anything. do you know how hard it is to be in love with someone who’s always somewhere else? always buried in cases, in guilt, in the past?”

his jaw clenches. “this job isn’t something i can just leave at the door.”

“and i’m not someone you should treat like a ghost,” you snap, eyes glassy. “i’ve been here. showing up. loving you through your silence. and you… you just disappear into it.” he rises slowly, suit perfect, eyes unreadable. “i never asked you to stay.” and the room drops into coldness. so sudden. so final.

“what?” your voice cracks.

“i didn’t ask you to stay,” he repeats, slower this time, quieter. “you chose this. and now you want to make me feel guilty for not being the man you built in your head.”

“no,” you whisper, breathless. “i wanted you. all of you. not a fantasy. not a perfect man. just you. and you can’t even give me that.”

he doesn’t answer. you wait. nothing.

so you laugh, soft and broken, backing away toward the door. “i hope your court never stops needing you, hiromi,” you say bitterly, “because i’m done waiting for a verdict that’s never coming.” you leave before the tears fall. you leave before he can see the way your hands shake. and he lets you. he watches the door shut and tells himself he’s doing the right thing.

he always tells himself that.

the accident happens two hours later. just outside the train station. wrong place. wrong time. someone running a red light. a body thrown too far. a phone crushed in your hand with your last unsent message:

“can we talk?”

when hiromi gets the call, he’s reviewing a case file. he thinks it’s a mistake. thinks it’s a sick joke. he keeps reading the sentence on the paper in front of him five times before realizing he hasn’t understood a word.

he doesn’t cry.

not that day.

not the day after.

he doesn’t attend your funeral either — says it’s to avoid attention. but the truth is simpler: he can’t face what he did. he can’t look at the hole he left in your life and pretend it’s just grief. it’s guilt. and it eats him from the inside.

weeks pass.

he stops shaving. stops replying to his colleagues. stops arguing in court the way he used to.

they say he’s changed. that something cracked in him. he doesn’t correct them. every night, he comes home to silence. he pours two glasses of wine out of habit, but always drinks alone. your toothbrush is still in the bathroom. your jacket still on the hook.

he never moves them.

he reads your old texts like scripture. listens to a voicemail you left one rainy evening, laughing about some café you wanted to take him to. he never got to go. he never said yes.

and every time he sees the empty space beside him in bed, he thinks:

“i said i didn’t ask her to stay.”

but god, he wishes he had. he wishes he had told you — that he loved you. that he was scared. that you made the world bearable.

but he didn’t.

and now, the only verdict left is this; you never saw him again.

just like he said.

2K notes · View notes

savedenji · 18 days ago

Text

Across the Threshold

one-shot

remmick x fem!reader

summary: you've never let him in. Not once. And still, every night without fail, he comes crawling back to your doorstep. Thirteen centuries old and rotting with want, Remmick worships you from the porch, drooling thick onto the floorboards, begging for permission to taste. And you? You watch. You love the power. Love the ache in him. Love the way he weeps when you deny him again and again.

But the night you finally say come in—he breaks.

Now that he’s inside, he’s never leaving. Not quietly. Not gently. And not until he crawls all the way inside you and makes a cathedral of your skin.

wc: 5.4k

a/n: based off this prompt that blew up!! It's been exactly one month since I released my first Remmick fic Mercy Made Flesh so it felt fitting to release something today, as a thank you for the tidal wave of love and support I've received since!! Seriously it's insane!! So, as a further thank you, I'm hosting a giveaway for followers here if you're interested, as a way to give back to all of you <333 thanks to @ddlydevotion for finding the photo refs for the banner!! and thanks to Liz @fuckoffbard for once again beta reading for me!! credit to Diana @hyoscyxmine for the photo of Remmick she initially edited <333

warnings: vampirism, blood kink, obsessive behavior, feral begging, oral (f! receiving), sub!remmick, somno-adjacent sleepiness, religious undertones, predator/prey dynamics, begging kink, worship kink, voice kink, monsterfucking, marking, blood drinking during sex, degradation, dark romance, possessive partner, crawling kink, aftercare, bite kink, creampie, power imbalance, bodily fluids (drool, blood, etc), control kink, manipulation by omission, mildly blasphemous themes

likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated, please enjoy!!

Masterlist

You've never let him in. Not once.

And still, every night without fail, he shows up like clockwork—barefoot and bloodstained, wife beater stained and torn, revealing a sliver of lean muscle beneath, reeking of smoke and obsession.

Slouched on your porch like a dying dog, scratching at the threshold with dirt-caked nails, mouth open and drooling thick, almost foamy, like hunger’s rotted him from the inside out. His voice is raw from begging. But tonight? Tonight he’s feral.

You've got one leg draped over the door frame, robe hitched up just enough to taunt, a cool glass of iced tea sweating in your hand while he writhes just inches from your feet.

“You cruel little thing,” he rasps, drawl dragging slow and syrupy, his tongue catching on the words like they hurt.

“Y’gon’ make me crawl again, huh? ‘Cause I will. I’ll fuckin’—I’ll get on my belly like a damn animal, just for a taste. Just for a breath of you, sugar.”

His jaw’s slack, saliva roping down his chin, staining the porch dark beneath him as he grips the floorboards hard enough they creak.

“Let me in,” he whimpers, voice cracked and desperate, eyes blown wide.

“Please, I—I cain’t stand it no more. I cain’t fuckin’ breathe without you. Let me in. I’ll behave. I’ll worship you. I’ll—I’ll starve if you don’t.”

Your just watch him, tilt your glass.

“You've lived thirteen centuries, and you're on your knees for a girl in a nightgown?”

He nods, drooling harder, trembling.

“Yes ma’am. I’d beg for thirteen more if it meant you’d finally say the word.”

You don’t answer him at first.

Just lift your drink—slow, lazy, like the heat has made you sun-warmed and lethargic—and watch the ice swirl against the cylindrical sides. Your lips part only enough for a sip, sharp and cold on your tongue, as his voice frays at the threshold like an unraveling thread.

The porch groans under his weight when he shifts, mouth still hanging open, chin wet with the thick rope of saliva that’s already puddled beneath him. He doesn’t even wipe it away anymore. Doesn’t flinch at the indignity. If anything, he leans into it. As if the sloppier he gets, the more beastly and broken, the closer he’ll be to what you want.

Not human. Not civilized. Just yours.

Your bare toes flex against the doorframe—propped up, exposed, painted peach—and his breath stutters when he sees them. His jaw works open wider like he might sink his teeth into the wood instead, like he’s fighting the animal thing in him that wants to bite something until it bleeds.

“You gone quiet, sugar,” he drawls, voice like gravel scraped against wood. “You plannin’ to kill me out here?”

You hum. Just a little. Low in your throat.

Then finally, finally, you lean forward just a bit, letting the hem of your robe fall loose from your thigh, letting him see the curve of it where the porchlight catches golden on your skin. You know what you’re doing. You always know.

“You look like shit, Remmick.”

He moans—moans—like the insult made him hard.

“I—I know, baby. I know,” he gasps, crawling an inch closer on his knees, voice choked with some terrible, trembling reverence. “I’d tear out my fuckin’ ribs if it meant you’d give me one more breath. Just one. I’m—I’m so close to bein’ bones out here.”

His hands drag slow across the floorboards, smearing blood and spit as he chases your shadow like it might feed him. His claws are cracked and dirty, black at the edges, clacking like dull knives as he reaches for you.

But he won’t cross the threshold. Can’t.

Not unless you say the word.

You drag one foot down, let it press lightly against his chest, the ball of it nestling into the place where his heart doesn’t beat. You feel the way he flinches at the touch like it hurts him, like your skin is too holy for his body to bear. He makes a sound deep in his chest—part growl, part sob—and his head drops forward.

He presses his forehead to your ankle. Worships it.

“You’re a goddamn sickness,” you whisper, soft and cruel.

“I am, baby,” he breathes. “You made me sick. Ruined me good, didn’t you?”

And oh, how he sounds ruined.

You tilt your glass again, watch the last ice cube swirl and crack, watch his tongue dart out as if he could taste it from the air. His pupils are blown, wide and dark and endless, and his mouth keeps trying to form the word please like it’s the only one he remembers anymore.

A breeze rolls over the porch, stirring the trees, carrying the scent of you—hibiscus lotion, clean skin, cool linen and blood beneath it all—and Remmick shudders like a dying thing. His hips roll into the floor like he’s fucking the air, like scent alone could push him to the edge.

“Let me in,” he begs again, softer now. “Let me in before I do somethin’ wicked.”

You lean closer, dragging your foot up his chest and under his chin, tilting his face up toward you like a command.

“You already are wicked.”

He smiles, wild and ruined.

“Yes ma’am. And I’d be worse for you.”

You let the silence stretch just long enough for his breath to hitch.

Then you pull your foot away and stand, letting the robe slip an inch lower on your hips as you do. He tracks the movement like an animal locked on prey, hands gripping the wood, teeth bared like he might bite the air between you.

But you say nothing.

You turn, walk back into the house, and the door swings shut with a slow, echoing click.

And Remmick?

He stays there on the porch, slack-jawed, drooling, whispering your name like a prayer he wasn’t meant to know, his muscles flexing as his arms come up over his head in desperation, thick and defined, his face pinched in pain, fractals of dying light dancing off the worn gold of his chain, off the sweaty creases highlighting his biceps.

| six months ago |

You didn’t move here expecting silence.

You expected a little mold, sure. Some creaky floorboards, maybe a wasp’s nest under the porch or a possum in the crawlspace. You expected the gnats. You expected the heat. You expected the isolation.

But not the silence.

Not this bone-deep, split-the-world-open kind of silence. The kind that settles between your ribs and listens to your heartbeat like it’s trying to time its own.

The house—your house now, left to you by some long-dead aunt you don’t remember—is old and sagging at the edges. It leans a little to the right. The paint is peeled and sun-faded, the porch boards bow like a tired back, and the front screen door barely stays shut unless you wedge a rock into it.

But the bones are good. The land is wild and wide and humming with secrets.

And the silence? You’ve started to like it.

Until one night, it breaks.

It’s not thunder. Not a tree branch. Not the slam of a car door or the high bark of a neighbor’s dog. It’s slower than that. Heavier. Like footsteps made of velvet and grave dirt, deliberate and soft, but too certain to be harmless.

You hear it just past dusk, when the sky is soaked in pinks and bruised purples, and the porch light buzzes weakly behind you. You’re sitting on the front step, knees up, the sweat from your lemonade collecting in droplets between your thighs. Your robe’s open at the chest. The heat has stuck it to the small of your back. You haven’t seen a soul all week.

And then—

“Evenin’, darlin’.”

You look up.

There’s a man standing just past the gate. Barefoot. Broad-shouldered. Dressed like a memory from somewhere you’ve never lived—boots slung over one shoulder, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and a face that looks like it’s been carved from heartbreak.

You can smell weathered leather. Wet pennies. Something faintly intoxicating.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

He’s handsome, you think, in a way that feels off. Like he walked out of a photograph too old to be yours. His hair is a mess, dark and sweat-matted at the temples. There’s a thin scar along his throat. He looks...starved. But not in the way that makes you pity him.

In the way that makes you want to keep your distance.

Still, you don’t get up. You don’t speak. The air between you thickens, trembles.

He tips his head slightly, a crooked smile cutting across his face.

“You look like you could use some company.”

You don’t invite him in.

You don’t say much at all.

Just glance toward the horizon, murmur something about supper, and let the screen door slam behind you before he can take a step forward. You watch through the curtains as he lingers at the gate, hands tucked into his pockets like he’s trying to look harmless.

But you saw the way his eyes followed your legs. You saw how he noticed the sweat beading at your neck. How he inhaled when you passed him.

You lock the door that night. And the next. But he keeps coming.

First, it’s flowers.

Not from a store. Not anything wrapped in plastic or tied with ribbon. Just a bundle of wildflowers laid gently on your porch, still dusted with dew. You find them in the morning, no note, no explanation.

Then it’s peaches. Sun-warm and soft, their fuzz still clinging with bits of leaf and dirt. You bite into one and taste sweet nectar.

Then it’s a knife. Clean. Sharp. Ornate.

Then a book of poetry. Tattered, spine cracked, pages dog-eared with a name you don’t recognize scribbled inside the cover.

Then the sound of humming—just past the treeline. Low. Gentle. Almost...worshipful.

You don’t see him again for a week.

And when he returns, he stands on the bottom step like he’s been summoned.

You sit in the doorway this time, robe slipping off one shoulder. You’re not afraid. Not curious, either. Just...ready.

Ripe.

He keeps his eyes low. His voice is softer.

“You ain’t said my name yet.”

“I don’t know it,” you say.

He smiles like that hurts him.

“You don’t need it,” he says. “You already own me without it.”

It’s hot enough to peel the paint from the porch railing.

The air hums with crickets, thick as syrup, the kind of Southern heat that presses down on you like hands. Nothing moves. Not the trees. Not the wind. Not even the birds. The silence is alive—dense and waiting, like the breath before a confession.

And there he is. Again.

You hear him before you see him: the soft scrape of skin on wood, the faintest creak of a loose board under bare feet, the hitch in his breath when your scent hits him like perfume and punishment all at once. You left the door open tonight—not all the way, just ajar—and the porch light off. A single candle burns on the windowsill.

He doesn’t knock.

He never does anymore.

Just leans his weight into the frame, like even that much closeness is enough to tide him over for another day. But it’s not. You know it’s not. You can feel it in the way his fingers twitch. In the way he shifts his hips. In the way the wood creaks beneath his knees when he starts to lower himself.

You don’t speak.

You just watch.

The hem of your robe rides high on your thighs, your legs bare and smooth against the old floorboards, one knee bent, one foot outstretched. You could shut the door. You don’t. You could invite him in—but that’s not the game.

You’ve seen how he suffers.

And you love the way he suffers.

He’s filthy tonight. Shirtless and sweaty, streaked with soot and dry blood that canaled in the defined avenues of his abs, a bruise blooming along one side of his ribcage. His hair’s a mess. His eyes look hollow. His lips are parted, pink and trembling, like he’s been mouthing your name into the dirt all night long.

When he drops to his knees, it’s not a performance. Not anymore. There’s no seduction in it. Just ache. Just need.

He whispers something you don’t quite catch—your name, maybe, or the shape of a prayer that lost its way. You hear him drag his nails against the porch, slow and rhythmic, like he’s trying to carve your initials into the floor.

“I dreamed of you again,” he rasps.

His voice is shredded. Used up.

“You were wearin’ that white thing. The one with the lace at the top. You smelled like vanilla and thunder. You called me darlin’ and I almost cried.”

You breathe through your nose, slow and even, but your thighs shift. You don’t think he notices, but he does.

His eyes flick to the motion and he moans—soft and low, broken at the edges. He presses his forehead to the floor like it’s consecrated ground. Like maybe if he can just touch it long enough, you’ll take pity.

“Please.”

The word is wet in his mouth. He says it again.

“Please, I—I don’t care what you do to me. Don’t even have to let me in. Just talk to me, sugar. Just say somethin’. Let me hear your voice. Let me see you.”

You shift in the doorway.

Then you speak—finally—voice quiet and even, your glass catching the candlelight as you raise it to your lips.

“Why do you keep coming here?”

He whimpers.

“‘Cause I cain’t not. ‘Cause you’ve got me chained up in here—” He presses a palm to his chest, hard enough you can hear the bones creak. “—and I like it. I fuckin’ like it, baby. Ain’t that sick?”

You don’t respond.

Instead, you lean forward just enough to let your fingers curl over the frame of the door, letting your robe fall slightly open at the neck. His mouth opens wider. His pupils blow black like a hungry shark.

“You want to come in?” you murmur.

His breath catches.

Then he nods. Frantic. Wild.

“Yes. Yes ma’am. Please.”

You tilt your head.

“Why?”

He blinks. He’s confused by the question. Then hurt. Then desperate.

“Because I—I need you. Need what’s inside. I cain’t smell nothin’ else but you. You’re in my fuckin’ blood, sweetheart, and I ain’t never tasted you but it’s killin’ me just knowin’ you’re behind that door.”

He leans forward, mouth brushing the frame. His tongue darts out—not quite licking it, but close—and you see the briefest flick of the forked tip, glistening and trembling with restraint. He pulls it back like he’s ashamed of it, like he wasn’t supposed to let you see that part of him.

Your stomach flips.

You almost say it. Almost.

But then you pull back.

And he breaks.

He wasn’t always like this.

You remember that. You remind yourself of it often—because it makes this part better. Sweeter. Sicker.

Because once upon a time, he tried to play it cool. Casual. Almost charming. Leaned against your gate with that low, lopsided smile, said things like ma’am and pleasure to meet you and you sure keep to yourself, don’t you, sugar?

Now?

He’s a wreck.

On all fours.

Spit roping from his lips in long, trembling strands as he drags himself toward your feet like a dog that’s been kicked too many times but still comes running. His pupils bleed red, eclipsing the black. His shirt is gone. His nails are cracked and black at the edges, scrabbling over the porch boards in slow, shivering motions that match the tremble in his voice.

His mouth hangs open. Tongue wet. Forked.

You can see the way it splits when he pants—like he can’t decide whether to speak or taste or crawl inside you and live there forever.

He looks up at you through his lashes, and it’s not seductive.

It’s pleading.

Pathetic.

Eyes wide and glossy, like something half-feral and half-forgotten, a kicked-puppy expression clinging to him even as he drools down his chin. He’s shaking. His knees have long since gone raw from dragging over your porch, and he presses his forehead to the step just beneath you.

You tilt your glass. Take a sip.

He moans. Loud. Unfiltered. Buckling at the sound.

“God, please,” he breathes, his voice hoarse and slurred like he’s drunk on the smell of you. “Please, I can’t—I can’t take it no more, baby. You’re killin’ me. Killin’ me soft and slow and I fuckin’ love it.”

You shift, just enough for your robe to slide up one thigh.

His hands curl into fists. He bites down on a sob.

“I’ll be so good to you,” he whimpers, dragging himself another inch forward. “You don’t—you don’t know what I could give you. What I wanna give you. What I think about every night with my hand on my cock, prayin’ for a dream of your fuckin’ voice.”

You raise an eyebrow. But you don’t stop him. And that’s all the permission he needs.

“I’d eat it for hours,” he blurts, voice breaking. “I’d keep my tongue on you till you forgot your own name. I’d fuckin’ cry for the chance, darlin’. You don’t know what I’d do just to smell you on my face. Let me clean you up with my mouth. Let me keep you sweet.”

He pants like a sinner, sweating through the knees of his jeans, forked tongue slipping past his lips as he mouths at the space near your ankle. Never quite touching. Never daring.

“I’d make it good for you,” he groans. “Better than anyone. I’d hold you down or let you ride. Whatever you wanted. However you wanted. I’d tear my fuckin’ throat out if it made you wet.”

You stay silent.

Let him spiral.

Let him beg.

Let him drown in everything you’ll never give him.

His jaw hangs slack again, saliva pouring freely now, staining the porch with slick, twitching need. He doesn’t even seem to notice. His hips rock forward once—pathetically—like he’s rutting against the air just from being this close.

Then—

“Say it,” he croaks, wrecked and delirious. “Say the word. Just the once. Just once and I’ll die happy. I’ll let you ruin me every night. Let you bleed me dry, fuck me dumb, use me up ‘til I’m nothing but bones and thank you for it. I’ll be your thing. Your pet. Your meal. Just say it. Say it and let me in.”

You watch him twitch.

You don’t speak.

And that silence?

It undoes him.

He presses his face into the porch and sobs—one sharp, cracked sound that makes your thighs clench—and you think, maybe next time.

Maybe.

But not tonight.

It’s late.

Later than you usually sit up for him.

The air outside smells like wet bark and heat lightning. You’ve just bathed—skin still damp, robe clean, lips glossy with something sweet and sticky you let melt over your tongue before you opened the door.

The floorboards are still slick from the storm earlier, and the moon’s a thin thing, half-ash and half-bone. Somewhere in the trees, something howls.

But he’s louder.

He’s already there when you pull the door open, sprawled out like roadkill—on his side, one cheek pressed against the porch wood, arms limp at his sides, knees bent in. Like he dragged himself here and died at the edge of your mercy.

But when he hears the door creak, he moves.

Head jerks. Eyes flash. His nostrils flare, and he moans—low and open-mouthed, like he’s just caught your scent for the first time all over again.

“Sweetheart,” he gasps, trying to sit up and immediately wobbling, weak from hunger or lust or both. “Sweetheart, I—I dreamed you were gonna open it tonight.”

You say nothing.

He drags himself upright, kneeling again, hands in his lap like a penitent priest waiting for permission to sin. His thighs are slick with drool and sweat and something darker—something old. You don’t ask. He’s trembling.

You step forward.

And he growls.

Low. Feral. Possessive. His shoulders hunch, his nails dig into the wood, his tongue flashes out—forked, twitching—and he presses his forehead to the threshold like it burns him.

“You smell like soap,” he whimpers. “Like you’re clean and warm and wantin’. You did it on purpose, didn’t you? You always do.”

You kneel in front of him, robe gaping where the sash has gone loose.

He chokes.

You brush a knuckle down his cheek. He shudders so violently you think he might break apart at the seams.

And then you whisper it.

Soft. Small.

The word.

“Come in.”

He doesn’t believe you at first.

His body goes very still. Breath caught. Eyes searching your face for the trick. His mouth parts around a sob so sharp it cuts his throat on the way out.

“Wh-what?” he croaks.

“You heard me,” you say, voice low. “You can come in.”

And that’s all it takes.

He lunges.

Not with violence. Not with fury. But with such pure, starved need it knocks the breath out of your lungs. He collapses forward into the doorway like a beast finally slipping its leash, dragging himself across the threshold like it hurts—but in a way he wants.

He weeps.

On his knees again. Hands clutching your thighs. Mouth open and dripping against your bare skin as he repeats your name over and over, shaking, whispering thanks like a dying man kissing dirt.

“Thank you,” he gasps. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, fuck—thank you—”

His tongue presses to your thigh.

You twitch.

And he wails—the sound muffled against your flesh, trembling like a man who’s tasted Heaven and is terrified he’ll be dragged back to Hell. His arms wrap around your hips, pulling you down with him, until your knees hit the floor and you’re seated right there in the doorway with him cradled between your legs like a body in prayer.

“I’ll be so gentle,” he babbles, licking a stripe up your inner thigh. “I’ll be good. I’ll be sweet, sugar, I swear it—I won’t bite unless you ask. I’ll eat and eat ‘til you shake and sob and soak my chin and then I’ll fuckin’ beg for seconds.”

You let your head fall back, lips parted, robe slipping.

He sees it.

And loses what’s left of his composure.

He goes slow at first—painfully, reverently slow.

Tongue pressed flat to your cunt, hands gripping your thighs like lifelines, the tip of that sinful, split tongue tracing soft, teasing figure-eights just to feel you tremble.

And you do.

Every flick, every moan, every whimper he pulls from your throat drives him deeper into madness. He cries as he eats you. Cries. Big, open-mouthed sobs against your pussy as he whispers nonsense:

“So sweet—so sweet, fuck—never tasted anything like you—please, let me die here—let me drown—let me be your floorboard, your shadow, your fuckin’ leash, baby, I’ll be anything—”

You come on his tongue once, and he doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t even pause.

Just whimpers like your pleasure is sustenance, like your slick is water and he’s been crawling the desert for years.

You tangle your fingers in his hair. Tug. He moans into you. Grinds his hips to the floor.

“Can I fuck you?” he begs against your cunt. “Please, can I? I’ll go slow. I’ll go soft. I’ll make you feel worshipped. You want it rough? I’ll give you rough. Want it sweet? I’ll make you sob. I’ll bite your throat open and make you scream my name ‘til the walls crack.”

He looks up at you, face wet, chin slick, forked tongue flicking out like a serpent sensing the heat of your body. His eyes are glassy. Wild.

“Tell me I can fuck you.”

You nod.

He breaks again.

And then—

He crawls forward, palms flat on the floor, reverent and quiet. His cock is hard, flushed and weeping, twitching against his stomach. You see the way his hands shake as he guides himself to you. The way he groans—choked and low and obscene—when the head of it brushes against your entrance.

He looks up at you, panting. Lips parted.

“You sure?” he whispers. Like he’s asking permission to live.

You nod again.

“Then hold on to me, sugar,” he says, voice raw and trembling. “I ain't never comin’ back from this.”

And he pushes in—

Slow. So slow. Like he’s scared you’ll vanish beneath him. Like your heat is swallowing him whole. Like the walls of your body were carved centuries ago to hold only him.

He moans into your neck, hips stilling halfway through.

“Fuck,” he whimpers, voice shattered. “You feel like—like you were made for me. I’m—I’m not gonna last. I ain’t—please don’t let go of me.”

You clutch his shoulders.

He bottoms out with a sob, every inch of him buried in you, shaking like a man who’s finally come home. His forehead presses to yours. His hips roll once, reverent, like worship.

He doesn’t move at first.

Just stays buried to the hilt, mouth slack against your throat, breathing like a dying animal in your ear. You feel him twitch inside you—thick, hot, leaking—and for a moment you think he might cry again.

Then he growls.

Low. Deep. Possessive.

And moves.

One slow pull out—almost all the way—followed by a brutal thrust that slams your back against the floorboards hard enough to rattle the doorframe. You gasp. He moans. Loud. Open-mouthed. Obscene.

“Fuck,” he chokes, already shaking. “Oh, sugar. Oh, baby, you—you don’t know what you’ve done. What you let loose.”

He doesn’t wait for permission anymore. Doesn’t need it. You gave it the second you said come in.

Now he’s fucking like it’s all he knows how to do.

His hips snap forward over and over, wet slaps echoing through the open doorway, sweat dripping from his brow, tongue lolling out as he pants like a rabid thing. He braces one hand beside your head and the other beneath your thigh, holding you open, dragging you into every thrust like he wants to feel himself hit the back of you.

You’re soaked. Wrecked. Clawing at his back and gasping his name over and over like it’s the only prayer you’ve got.

“You wanted me like this, didn’t you?” he snarls, his drawl thick and guttural now. “Wanted to see me come undone. Wanted to see the monster in me. Well, here he is, sugar. Here I fuckin’ am.”

He grinds down. Deep. You cry out.

He smirks, wild and broken and high off the sound.

“You feel that?” he whispers against your mouth. “That’s me in you. Deep as I can go. You’ll feel me for days. I’ll make sure of it.”

And he does.

He fucks you until your legs tremble, until your voice is raw, until the only sounds are slick, messy, filthy. He presses his chest to yours, forehead to your jaw, panting through clenched teeth as he drives into you like he can’t stop. Like if he slows down, he’ll die.

You feel the sharp tips of his fangs graze your throat. His voice is wrecked.

“Let me taste you,” he begs. “Let me drink while I’m inside you. Let me be full, sugar. Let me be whole.”

You nod.

He doesn’t even hesitate.

His mouth opens wide and you feel the bite—sharp, electric, perfect—right where your neck meets your shoulder, and suddenly his hips are slamming into you harder, messier, feral, rutting through your orgasm as he drinks, drinks, drinks.

It hits you all at once. Heat. Pain. Pleasure so sharp it blinds you.

You come hard, clenching around him, and he sobs into your throat like it’s sacred, like he’s breaking apart inside your body.

You feel him twitch. His breath goes ragged.

“Gonna come,” he warns, voice slurred, tongue lapping at your skin between frantic, messy thrusts. “Gonna—fuck, sugar, I’m gonna fill you—gonna mark you—make you mine—mine—mine—”

And he does.

Hot and thick and endless.

He spills inside you with a guttural cry, hips stuttering, teeth still buried in your skin. You feel it pulse into you—claiming you, over and over, like his body doesn’t know how to stop. Like his need has no end.

He finally stills, trembling.

Still buried inside you. Still panting. Still moaning your name into the crook of your neck like he’s worshipping it.

And then—

He kisses the bite.

Soft.

Gentle.

His hands cradle your face like you’re glass, and for the first time all night, his voice goes quiet.

“You saved me,” he breathes.

And for once, you don’t correct him.

You don’t know how long you lie there.

Could be minutes. Could be hours. The air has gone still, heavy with sweat and sex and iron and him. The storm’s long gone, but you can still smell the rain—sweet and earthy, mixing with the blood drying at your throat.

You feel it when he finally starts to move.

Just a shift.

The slow drag of his hand up your thigh, fingertips curling into the dip of your waist like he’s reminding himself you’re real. His body is still flush against yours, cock soft now but still inside you, holding you open. Keeping you full. Like he’s afraid pulling out will make the whole night unravel.

You reach up, bury a hand in his tangled hair.

He makes a sound—small, shattered—and curls tighter against you.

“Don’t go,” he whispers, voice hoarse and full of something too heavy to name. “Don’t make me leave. Not after that. I’ll—I’ll be good. I’ll be so good.”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to.

Your fingers stay in his hair, stroking gently. His body softens against yours.

There’s blood smeared across your neck, your chest, down your ribs. His bite still stings, the skin pulsing, raw—but it doesn’t hurt. Not really. It burns. Like a seal. Like a signature.

You glance down.

He’s watching you.

Eyes half-lidded. Glazed. Glowing, almost—faint and strange, like he’s lit from within. There’s a little blood on his mouth. More on his chin. But he doesn’t wipe it away.

You wonder if he’s ever looked more peaceful.

“You taste like sunlight,” he murmurs, dream-drunk. “Like nectar. Like the end of the world.”

You huff a laugh, quiet and breathless.

“Don’t get poetic on me now.”

“I ain’t,” he slurs, eyes fluttering. “Just honest.”

He nuzzles into your collarbone, forked tongue flicking lazily against your skin like he’s still trying to memorize it. His hands roam—slow, aimless, like he doesn’t know how to stop touching. One settles on your hip. The other slides beneath your spine and pulls you closer.

“I ain’t lettin’ you go,” he mumbles. “Not after this. You said it. You let me in.”

You nod. You did.

And you meant it.

He presses his nose to your pulse point, breath fogging across your skin. His lips ghost over the bite. He presses a kiss there, reverent.

“I’ll be good,” he repeats, softer now. “You just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. You want a house? I’ll build it. You want blood? I’ll bring you the whole fuckin’ town. You want me to rot on the floor again? I will. Long as I’m yours.”

“You’re mine,” you whisper.

And he moans.

Like the words filled him with something he’s never had in thirteen centuries.

You feel him soften completely then, sinking into your body like sleep. One leg slung over yours, one arm anchoring you to his chest, his cock slipping free with a wet noise that makes him groan as you shudder. Your body aches, raw and sore and claimed, but you don’t move.

Neither does he.

Eventually, he sleeps.

You know because the grip he has on you loosens—but only a little. He still breathes you in. Still holds you like something holy and fragile and violently his.

And you?

You stay awake a while longer, staring at the door still cracked open, the threshold now crossed, the air inside heavy with what you both became tonight.

The blood on your neck has dried.

The slick between your thighs has cooled.

But his body stays warm against you.

And outside, the sky hasn’t yet begun to lighten.

No birds. No blue.

Just that inky pre-dawn blackness pressing soft against the windows, holding the night still around you like a secret.

Because he can’t survive the sun.

And tonight, for once, you don’t want the morning to come either.

6K notes · View notes

savedenji · 25 days ago

Text

★ — Salt in her lungs

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 1 : ᴅʀᴀɢ ᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ꜱʜᴏʀᴇ

ᴘɪʀᴀᴛᴇ!ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ x ᴍᴇʀᴍᴀɪᴅ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | 5.7ᴋ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ

TAGS : Age gap, Mermaids, Pirates, Fantasy world, set in 1600s, blood mentioned

A/N : another fic that has been collecting dust in my docs

Summary : A curious mermaid princess saves a drowning pirate, breaking centuries of secrecy between their worlds. Sevika can't forget the girl beneath the waves, haunted by her even in someone else’s arms. Now, both are searching for each other—drawn by a connection neither fully understands.

Long ago, before salt crusted the corners of maps and before ships carved paths across the sea, the oceans were ruled by song.

Mermaids—known to themselves as the Thalassari—were not the glittering fairy tales whispered to human children. They were warriors, mystics, daughters of tide and storm. Born with sharp teeth and sharper tongues, they shaped the ocean’s mood with their voices: lullabies that calmed tempests, laments that mourned lost ships, and siren-songs that could drag a fleet to the bottom of the world. They lived deep in the trenches, in palaces carved from coral and whale bone, protected by magic older than the moon.

But once—centuries ago—humans and merfolk did meet.

The stories say a fisherman’s net tore through the kelp curtain guarding a mermaid nursery. Curious, the humans came closer. They captured one. Dissected her. What they didn’t understand, they feared. What they feared, they destroyed.

A war followed. Not one of armies or flags, but of quiet ruin. Ships lost with no trace. Islands swallowed by sudden tides. Harbors cursed with empty nets and dead water. In retaliation, humans built stories—legends to bury the truth. Mermaids were dismissed as sailor myths, drunken mirages, hallucinations brought on by thirst and madness. A convenient lie. Over time, belief faded like a tide pulling back. Mermaids became fantasy.

Below the surface, the Thalassari wove their own stories. Humans, they said, were extinct—burned out by their own fires, vanished into the sky. “Surface ghosts,” they were called, used to frighten little mermaids into obedience. Don’t swim too close to the shore, or the ghosts will steal your voice.

Generations passed. The sea kept its secrets.

Until now.

Until you.

You, the youngest daughter of the Sea King—mouthy, reckless, and far too curious for your own good. You’ve always wanted to see what was beyond. Not just the reef wall or the border tides, but the world above.

You weren’t supposed to be awake this late.

The reef pulsed with sleepy biolight, soft and dim, like the whole sea was breathing slow around you. Your sisters had long since curled into their shell beds, and even the guards stationed at the edge of the inner currents had grown lazy—hovering with half-lidded eyes, tridents drifting just slightly out of reach.

Perfect.

You moved silently through your chambers, brushing past strands of sea-silk and coral trinkets. Your father had filled the place with gifts. A necklace of blood-pearls. A singing conch from the Mariana Trench. A polished mirror carved from obsidian that always reflected you looking smaller than you felt. They were all meant to distract you. Soften you.

But none of it mattered when your heart was pulling toward something outside.

You ran your fingers through your hair. Tugged on your travel wrap—lightweight kelp-thread woven for speed, not elegance. No crown. No sign of royalty. Just you. Just the water.

You moved to the back wall of your chamber, where a curtain of kelp swayed lazily over the outcrop. It looked like just another patch of rock, but if you pushed it just right—there—the shimmerline faltered.

Just a flicker.

Your heart thudded in your chest, a rhythm too fast for deep sea calm.

One look over your shoulder.

Empty room.

You exhaled.

Then you slipped through the crack in the reef—outside Sanctum for the first time in your life.

And the sea felt different out here.

Colder. Wilder.

Free.

“You call that a tie-down? That knot wouldn’t hold a drunk mermaid’s panties, let alone a cannon!”

The deck of The Harpy’s Grin was chaos—ropes whipping in the wind, gulls screeching overhead, crewmen scrambling like wet rats as the sails snapped angrily above. The storm had passed hours ago, but its temper still echoed in the waves. And Sevika, captain of this barely-floating beast, was not in the mood.

She stalked across the creaking boards with heavy boots, the scent of brine and old smoke clinging to her coat. The sun caught the steel of her mechanical arm as she grabbed a dangling line and yanked it tight with a grunt, shooting a deadly glare at the nearest crewman.

“Reefbreak’s balls, if you lot can’t manage a basic lash, I’ll start tossing you overboard one by one and see who floats best!”

“Cap’n, the wind changed too fast—” one of them started, eyes wide and voice shaking.

“And the wind’ll break your jaw next time you whine instead of workin’.” Her voice was rough as gravel, but cold. Controlled. She didn’t raise her voice unless she meant it.

The man shut up real fast.

Sevika took a slow drag off the half-chewed cigar clenched between her teeth, squinting out at the horizon. The water stretched out, glittering like spilled coin under the sun. Endless. Boring. Predictable.

God, she hated calm days.

“Where’s the chart?” she barked, already heading for the helm.

“Below deck, Cap’n!”

“Well get it! I’m not lettin’ this damn ship drift like a tavern whore waiting for a kiss.”

She took the wheel in one hand, metal fingers tapping restlessly on the polished wood. Her jaw worked against the cigar, tension in her shoulders she couldn’t seem to shake. Not from the storm. Not from the crew.

From the feeling. That gnawing itch behind her ribs like something was coming. Something that didn’t belong on the sea.

She spat overboard.

“Fuckin’ sirens,” she muttered.

Except she didn’t believe in sirens.

Not really.

Sevika barked one last order and turned back toward the wheel, the wind catching her coat as she narrowed her eyes at the far edge of the water. Something shimmered there—a ripple too smooth for open sea, a flicker of color where none should be.

Probably nothing.

But her gut said different.

And Sevika had learned long ago to trust her gut more than gods, ghosts, or gossiping crewmen.

She took another drag from her cigar and growled, “Bring up the scopes. I want eyes on the wreck fields.”

A crewmember scrambled up beside her, already raising the scope to his eye. He adjusted the focus, then stiffened. “There’s... something in the water, Cap’n.”

“‘Something’?” she snapped. “That’s real fuckin’ specific.”

“Not a fish. Too big. Looks like... maybe someone fell overboard?”

Her cigar twitched at the corner of her mouth.

“Lower the rowboat,” she ordered, voice flat. “Two men. Careful hands.”

Oren hesitated. “You think it’s a survivor?”

“I think I didn’t ask for your opinion,” she said, turning on her heel.

But as she walked away, she muttered under her breath, just quiet enough not to be heard:

“Or a goddamn lure.”

You’d gone too far.

You knew it the second the light changed—the way it bled through the water in slanted, unnatural beams, not the warm shimmer of Sanctum’s safe magic but the sharp, raw glare of the surface world. The current had tugged you past familiar coral shelves and singing stones. Now, the water was colder. Still. Heavy with silence.

And wreckage.

You kicked gently through the murk, weaving past twisted metal and splintered wood, ghost-ships swallowed by barnacles and age. Sails shredded like jellyfish skin. Harpoons rusted and bent. A graveyard.

Your brows furrowed as you muttered, “Why would there be so many here...?”

You’d always been told humans were myths—surface ghosts that vanished long ago, burned away by their own greed. Old stories. Scare tactics. Tales told to mares to keep them close to the reef. No one you knew had ever seen one.

But the wreckage told a different story.

You drifted lower, nearly brushing your belly against the ocean floor as you approached a strange shadow ahead—huge, looming, far too intact to be part of the graveyard. Not a reef. Not a creature.

And then you saw it.

Half out of the water above: a massive dark shape, long and wide like a sleeping leviathan. Wooden skin. Metal teeth. Some kind of strange… hump-backed whale?

Right next to it, floating just beside the beast, was a smaller one. Sleek. Smoother. Almost cute, in a crooked kind of way.

You froze, breath catching in your throat.

“...What are those?”

You stayed low, heart thudding as you pressed into the sand, eyes wide and glittering with curiosity. Whatever they were, they hadn’t moved yet. Maybe they were just strange surface creatures. Maybe they were whales. Maybe this was why your father forbade you from leaving.

But gods help you—you had to know.

The rowboat rocked gently beside the ruins of the old wreck, creaking as it drifted in the lazy current. Sevika stood near the bow, one boot up on the edge, arms crossed, cigar tucked behind her ear. She was squinting into the water, watching the way it shimmered around the rotted timbers below.

“See anything yet?” she muttered.

“Hold on,” one of her men called back, leaning farther over the edge. His fingers gripped the railing as he tried to peer past the sun glare. “I thought I saw—wait, yeah—somethin’ shiny. Looked like—”

The glint was gone before he finished the sentence.

A plink broke the stillness.

They all froze.

The man’s hand went to his bare chest like he’d been stabbed. His face twisted. “No—shit! No!”

“What now?” Sevika asked, already annoyed.

“My necklace—!” he barked, voice cracking. “It—it was my late wife’s—shit!”

And then he jumped.

Straight off the side.

“Godsdammit!” Sevika cursed as water splashed over the side.

“Man overboard!” the second crewman yelled, standing and nearly tipping the whole boat in his panic.

Shouts rang out from the main ship—sails snapping above, boots pounding on the upper deck. Sevika didn’t wait. She tore off her coat and dove in.

The water swallowed her whole.

She cut through it like a knife, teeth clenched against the cold. The man was below her, flailing, reaching toward the shimmer of silver glinting just above the ocean floor—lodged between sharp black rocks. Stupid, reckless bastard.

He grabbed it, fingers closing around the chain.

But then he panicked.

His chest heaved. His eyes went wide.

Sevika reached him, shoving him upward with both hands. Her grip was strong, steady. “Go!” she yelled, voice lost in a stream of bubbles. “Get up!”

He kicked off, disappearing toward the surface.

She turned to follow—and pain lanced up her leg.

Her boot had caught.

She yanked, hard. The rocks didn’t budge.

The pressure was already building behind her eyes. Her lungs were screaming.

She kicked again, twisting, trying to slip free—

Still stuck.

Still sinking.

The decision wasn’t a decision at all. It was instinct.

One moment, you were crouched in the sand, hidden beneath a ledge of coral and bone, eyes wide as the strange surface woman thrashed against the rocks. The next—you were moving.

Your tail snapped once, twice, and you shot forward through the murk.

Her foot was caught tight between two slabs of stone. You yanked on them, fingers digging into the crevices, but they wouldn’t budge. Too sharp. Too strong. The woman’s dark eyes locked onto yours—wild with confusion and quickly clouding. Her mouth parted, a stream of bubbles escaping.

And still—she fought.

But something else moved behind you.

A shadow.

The shark.

You felt it before you saw it—the ripple through the current, the low thrum of hunger. It circled from far off, but closing fast, drawn by the shimmer of your scales.

You cursed under your breath.

Too shiny, stupid tail, stupid.

You twisted, diving down just as it cut through the water in a flash of grey muscle and hunger. Sevika flinched as it passed—still trapped. Still vulnerable.

You didn’t hesitate.

Your fingers found the knife strapped to her thigh—slick and cold, the leather sheath wrapped in thick cords. You yanked it free, spun, and darted directly toward the open mouth of the predator.

It came at you fast.

You were faster.

With a sharp flick of your tail, you spun to the side and drove the blade into the beast’s eye with all your strength.

A hiss of blood spiraled through the water. The shark jerked, convulsing, and fled into the gloom.

You turned back, breathing hard. Sevika was struggling against the rock again—and with a final wrench, she broke free. You caught her as she kicked off the bottom, her strength already faltering.

She was slipping.

You could see it in the way her limbs moved—slower, heavier, like her body was made of stone. Her eyes fluttered as she tried to stay conscious.

You grabbed her hand.

Your fingers locked around hers as you pulled, kicking hard toward the surface, dragging her up through the light and salt and silence.

When her head broke the surface, she gasped—choking and sputtering—but you were already gone.

Back beneath the waves.

A shadow disappearing in the blood-tinged blue.

Rough hands pulled her from the sea.

“Got her! Cap’n—breathe! Come on—damn it—”

Water spilled from her mouth as she coughed, hacking and heaving onto the wood of the little rowboat. Her chest burned. Her lungs felt like they were made of rust. Her limbs, heavy and half-numb, barely moved as someone braced her shoulders.

“Is she bit?” someone asked. “Shit, there was blood—a lot of it.”

Sevika blinked, vision blurry with salt and sun. Her throat felt like it had been scraped raw with sandpaper.

“Wasn’t mine,” she rasped, voice like gravel dragged across stone.

The two crewmen looked at each other. “You sure? Looked like a fuckin’ massacre from the top deck.”

Sevika coughed again, this time spitting over the side. She sat up slowly, her shirt soaked and clinging to her, the weight of the sea still wrapped around her shoulders like a ghost.

“I said it wasn’t mine,” she muttered, jaw tight. “Shark came in. Got chased off.”

“Chased off?” one of them echoed, brows lifting. “By what, a fuckin’ miracle?”

She didn’t answer.

Because she didn’t have one.

There’d been something in the water. No—someone. She remembered flashes. A face. A grip on her arm. Eyes wide and unafraid. No legs. Shimmering skin. A tail.

And then—nothing.

The rowboat bumped against the side of The Harpy’s Grin, ropes lowered to haul her up. Voices crowded her ears—more concern, more confusion—but she didn’t register a word.

She stumbled onto the deck with help, boots squelching against the boards. Her mind was still half-drowned.

“You hit your head, Cap’n?” someone asked. “You’re out of it.”

“Fine,” she growled, brushing off a hand from her shoulder. “Fine.”

But she wasn’t.

Because when she looked down, just before the crew peeled her soaked coat away, she saw something wrapped around her wrist—delicate, green, and glinting like sea glass.

A strand of kelp, knotted into a perfect little braid.

And Sevika never tied things pretty.

You didn’t realize it until you were almost back—until the shimmerline came into view, flickering faintly around the outer reef like a curtain of moonlight.

The knife was still in your hand.

Your breath caught. You paused in the current, tail curling beneath you, the knife suddenly heavy in your grip. You turned it over, saltwater glinting along the blade’s edge.

It wasn’t just any weapon.

The handle was worn but beautiful—wrapped in aged leather, darkened by years of salt and heat. Carved into the metal beneath were delicate engravings: waves, stars, a compass rose. On one side, stamped into the base near the hilt, was a name in old surface script:

Sevika Vexley.

You mouthed it soundlessly, letting the letters roll through your mind.

That woman—she wasn’t like the stories. She wasn’t shriveled or monstrous or cursed with fire-skin. She was strong. Broad-shouldered and wild-eyed, all sharp angles and tension, even as she drowned. And... gods. She was attractive. In a terrifying, deeply unfair way.

You shook your head, cheeks heating. This was not the time.

And yet—your fingers didn’t let go.

You could’ve returned the knife. Left it near the surface. Let it sink back into her world. But a part of you didn’t want to. A part of you needed to keep it. Not just as proof that it happened—but because it meant something. She had a name. A face. A voice. A life.

Humans aren’t real, you’d been told. And if they were, they’re long gone. Dangerous. Violent.

But she didn’t feel like a ghost.

She felt realer than anything you’d ever touched.

You sighed, slipping the knife carefully into the folds of your kelpwrap and turning back toward the shimmerline. You passed through the magic, your tail tingling as you crossed the barrier and reentered Sanctum.

Guards drifted lazily nearby, none of them noticing you.

You exhaled in relief. No one saw. No one knew.

And no one would believe you anyway.

Your chamber was dim and still when you slipped back in—just as you left it, though your heart was hammering like you’d been gone for days instead of hours.

You crossed quickly to the corner near your bed, where the coral flooring dipped slightly beneath your vanity shell. With a careful glance over your shoulder, you knelt and pried up a loose tile of polished shellstone. It had cracked months ago, but no one had bothered to fix it. Lucky you.

The knife slid in perfectly.

You let your fingers linger on the handle—just for a second—before pressing the tile back into place and smoothing the sand around it. You exhaled. Safe. Hidden.

But before you could rise—

“Where were you?”

You froze.

His voice filled the room like a wave crashing against the reef—deep, commanding, too calm to be harmless.

Your father hovered just inside the entrance, broad-shouldered and impossibly regal even without his crown. The water shimmered faintly around him, a sign of his rising temper.

“I asked you a question,” he said, slower now. “Where. Were. You.”

You turned, schooling your face into neutrality. “Nowhere.”

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying,” you snapped before you could stop yourself. “I just... went for a swim. I stayed within the boundary.”

“Don’t insult me,” he growled, his tone sharp now, dangerous. “Your scent is soaked in brine and blood. You reek of the outer currents.”

You stiffened. “I’m not a child.”

“No, but you are my daughter,” he barked, surging forward. “And I did not build this sanctum just for you to go wandering into cursed waters where things that shouldn’t exist still might.”

Your jaw tightened, hands curling at your sides. “So I’m supposed to spend my whole life locked in a cage of pearl? Singing at court? Smiling for foreign envoys? That’s not living.”

His face twisted. “That is safety.”

You held his gaze, unflinching. “Then maybe I don’t want to be safe.”

The water between you crackled with tension. Silence hung, thick and bitter.

His voice, when it finally came, was low. “One day out there will get you killed.”

You turned your back on him.

“One day here will kill me slower,” you muttered.

You didn’t look as he left. You couldn’t.

Because your hands were still shaking.

The reef was asleep again.

Soft glows pulsed through the coral towers like slow heartbeats, and the palace was quiet save for the faint echo of guards’ tridents tapping stone. You lay still in your bed until their patrol passed your chamber door—then you moved.

You slipped from the silkweed sheets, every motion careful, quiet. The room was still dim, only the bioluminescent drift-lamps casting gentle light across your floor. You knelt by the vanity again, fingers brushing over the loose tile. It popped free with practiced ease.

The knife was still there.

You pulled it out slowly, cradling the handle in your palm. The engravings were cool under your fingers, familiar now. You traced the name again.

Sevika Vexley.

There was no going back. Not really. Not after today. Not after her.

You needed to know more. You needed to see her again. Ask what she was. What the surface was. What the truth was.

You slid the knife into the belt of your kelpwrap, letting the folds hide it from sight. You glanced once more toward your door. Still quiet.

You slipped out.

Through shadowed halls and gently swaying curtains of sea lace, past the silver fountains that never ran dry. Past your sisters’ chambers. Past the court’s main hall. You moved like a shadow, like a whisper. Like you weren’t the king’s youngest daughter.

Like you weren’t royalty at all.

Except—you forgot.

The moment you passed the final shimmerline, leaving Sanctum behind, you felt the cool rush of wild sea against your skin—and a gentle tug at your temples.

Your crown.

You hadn’t even realized you were still wearing it—so familiar, so constant it felt like a part of your body. The delicate chains brushed your cheeks as you swam, gold glinting faintly in the dark, seashells and crystal pieces catching what little light filtered from above.

The teardrop gem gleamed like a beacon.

If someone saw you—

You swallowed hard, but didn’t stop.

The knife was secure at your hip. The water was cold again.

And somewhere out there, above the wrecks and waves, was a woman who should not exist.

And you were going to find her.

The dock buzzed with noise as The Harpy’s Grin pulled into its usual berth, ropes thrown and sails furled with practiced speed. Salt clung to the air, and the wood of the pier creaked beneath hurried boots as the crew began unloading barrels, crates, and whatever scrap was worth selling from the old wrecks.

Sevika stood at the gangplank, arms crossed, eyes narrowed at the chaos below. Her coat was back on, sleeves damp, and the braid of kelp that had been wrapped around her wrist was gone—tucked somewhere deep in her quarters where no one could see it.

She didn’t say a word as her crew barked and grunted, lugging gear onto the docks.

“Hey!”

A familiar voice cut through the noise.

Sevika looked up just in time to see Vi weaving through the crowd, her usual cocky smirk in place and a gleam in her eye. The crowd parted for her. It usually did.

“Finally,” Vi said, coming to stand beside her. “Took your sweet time.”

“Storm slowed us down,” Sevika muttered, voice low. “Got caught in a wreck field.”

Vi looked her over, brow twitching. “You good?”

There was a pause.

Sevika scratched the back of her neck, eyes flicking toward the crates being hauled off her ship. “...Fell overboard.”

Vi blinked.

“You what?”

“I said I fell overboard.”

Vi stared for a beat—then barked out a laugh, loud and obnoxious, smacking Sevika on the shoulder. “You idiot! I told you to stop standing so close to the damn edge when you’re brooding like a cliché.”

“I wasn’t brooding,” Sevika grumbled.

“You were,” Vi grinned. “You always are. Gods, you're lucky you didn’t drown. I’d be stuck drinking alone, and you know no one else can keep up with me.”

Sevika huffed a soft laugh through her nose, shaking her head.

“So?” Vi raised a brow, already turning toward the street. “We doin’ our usual, or what? I got us a table at the tavern.”

Sevika didn’t answer right away.

Her gaze drifted over her shoulder, back to the sea. The waves looked calm now—unbothered. Innocent.

But she could still feel the ghost of fingers wrapped around her wrist, dragging her toward the surface.

Not human. Not a dream.

Her jaw tightened. “...Yeah. Sure.”

She turned and followed Vi into the crowd.

But her mind stayed on the water.

The tavern was warm and loud—clanking mugs, the low thrum of music from the back corner, sailors laughing too hard over nothing. It was the kind of noise that usually helped Sevika drown out her thoughts.

Not tonight.

She sat at the booth, half-drunk cider sweating in front of her, boots kicked out under the table. Vi was mid-story—something about a guy trying to barter with a dead jellyfish and calling it “enchanted”—but Sevika wasn’t really hearing it.

Her eyes had drifted to the far wall, where a faded mural stretched across the plaster. It was chipped in places, water-stained at the corners, but still vivid enough to make her pause.

A mermaid. Painted in swirling blues and silver, hair flowing like seaweed, mouth slightly open in song. A fairytale. A warning. A joke.

Except it didn’t feel like one anymore.

“—and then the guy actually licked it, I swear on my—wait—”

Vi snapped her fingers.

“Hello? Not talkin’ to myself over here.”

Sevika blinked. Her gaze flicked to Vi, then back to the mural, then back again. She shifted in her seat, leaning back with a quiet sigh.

“Sorry.”

Vi raised a brow. “You good? You’ve been weird all night.”

There was a long pause.

Then Sevika just said it.

“Do you believe in mermaids?” she asked, voice low. “Or… sirens?”

Vi snorted a laugh, lifting her drink. “What, like the fish-girls with seashell tits and magic songs? That kind of mermaid?”

But Sevika didn’t smile. She didn’t even blink.

Vi’s smirk faded slowly. She lowered her mug and leaned in a bit, watching her friend’s face.

“…Did you see something?”

Sevika didn’t answer right away.

Vi scooted closer across the bench. “Sev. What happened out there?”

Sevika stared into her drink, fingers drumming once against the side of the mug. Her jaw worked like she was chewing on the words, deciding whether to spit them out or swallow them whole.

“I saw something,” she finally said, voice quiet enough that Vi had to lean in more to catch it.

Vi’s brows knit. “Like… what kind of something?”

Sevika hesitated.

“Something in the water,” she said. “When I was stuck. Thought I was gonna black out. Then she was there.”

Vi blinked. “She?”

“...I don’t know what she was,” Sevika muttered. “Had no legs. Fast as hell. Got me loose. Dragged me up. Then gone.”

Vi sat back slowly, mug forgotten. “You’re serious.”

Sevika nodded once, slow and deliberate. Her eyes flicked to the mural again.

Vi followed her gaze, then let out a low breath. “And you think—what? Mermaid? Siren? Sea spirit?”

“I don’t know,” Sevika repeated. “But she wasn’t a hallucination. She had weight. Heat. A face.”

Vi was quiet for a moment, chewing on her lip. Then she scoffed softly. “Well, damn. I thought I had a good story tonight.”

That finally earned her a ghost of a smile from Sevika.

“You still do,” Sevika said, lifting her drink. “Just not as weird as mine.”

Vi shook her head and grinned, clinking her mug against Sevika’s.

“You’re buying the next round,” she said. “And if this ends with you falling in love with a sea creature, I better be the best man at the wedding.”

The water was darker here. Colder.

You'd been swimming in circles for what felt like hours, trying to retrace the path from earlier. The wrecks weren’t where you remembered. The currents were different, pulling wrong, whispering strange things around your ears.

But you had to find it. Find her.

You darted around a cluster of sunken crates, eyes sharp, heart thudding with a mix of urgency and hope. You couldn’t stop now—not after what you saw. Not after what you felt.

Then the current shifted. Cold. Heavy. Familiar.

Your blood ran colder than the sea around you.

You turned slowly, and there it was. The shark.

The same one from before, its wounded eye now scarred and clouded with rage. It hovered just a few body-lengths away, tail swaying in slow, predatory rhythm. It had followed your trail.

Of course it had.

You backed away, body tense, hand reaching for the knife at your hip—but you knew you couldn’t outswim it in open water. You were fast, but not that fast. Its nostrils flared. It inched closer. Closer.

It opened its jaws.

And then—

“Tch. That’s enough, fish-breath.”

The voice came from behind you. Smooth. Teasing. Dangerous.

The shark froze mid-lunge.

Its entire body trembled before it spun, darting off into the gloom with a ripple of panic you could feel in the water.

You turned.

Floating just a few feet away was a woman.

A mermaid, but not like anyone from Sanctum.

Her hair was long—long—a brilliant, electric blue that shimmered even in the low light, trailing all the way down to where her deep indigo tail began. She was tall, lean, and wore a grin like she knew every secret the sea had ever whispered. Sharp teeth glinted behind her smile.

She cocked her head at you.

“Hey, kid,” she said, voice curling around you like silk. “Wanna turn into a human?”

Your eyes went wide.

The tavern was even louder now.

The music had swelled into a full reel, all frantic strings and stomping boots, and the crowd had doubled since sunset. Lanterns glowed low and golden above the bar, casting warm light over sweat-damp necks and flushed cheeks. The air was thick with the scent of spiced rum, woodsmoke, and something fried and probably burnt.

Sevika was drunk. Very drunk.

She was slouched in a chair near the back, one boot kicked up on a barrel, her coat half-falling off her shoulder. The smoke from her cigar curled lazily above her head, ignored entirely as her attention was focused on the woman seated across from her.

She had a voice like honey, one hand wrapped around a mug, the other idly playing with the end of Sevika’s collar. She laughed too loudly at something Sevika said—and Sevika smirked, leaning in, words low and slurred just enough to soften her usual edge.

From a distance, she looked like any other pirate relaxing after a haul—flushed cheeks, hooded eyes, the swagger of someone used to getting what she wanted.

But if anyone looked close enough, really close, they’d see the difference. The way Sevika’s gaze flicked—not quite focused on the girl in front of her, but through her.

Because the girl wasn’t her.

Not her.

The girl was close, sure—dark hair, delicate mouth, a laugh that danced in the air—but her eyes were too pale, her chin too sharp. Her hands were wrong.

Still, Sevika played the part. She leaned in, voice rough and low. “You always drink like that, or are you tryin’ to impress me?”

The girl grinned, tipping her mug. “Maybe a bit of both.”

Sevika laughed, mouth curling around the cigar, smoke exhaled through her nose as she tilted her head. “Dangerous game.”

“And you’re the warning label?” the girl teased, inching closer, eyes glinting. “Please.”

Sevika took a slow sip of her drink. It sloshed slightly as she set it down, the amber liquid nearly gone. Her elbow hit the table harder than intended. She blinked a little too slow.

“Just sayin’,” she muttered, “You got no idea what I’ve seen. What I’ve touched.”

She didn’t mean to say it like that, but the words slipped out anyway, thick with drink and memory.

The girl’s brows rose, but she was still smiling, amused, leaning in close enough that her perfume—citrus and sweat—brushed Sevika’s senses. “Then maybe you should show me.”

A smirk ghosted across Sevika’s mouth. Her hand drifted forward, fingers brushing against the girl’s wrist. Her touch was practiced, steady, but her eyes…

Her eyes were miles away.

The other woman leaned in like she was expecting a kiss.

But Sevika didn’t move.

Not yet.

Because all she could see, in the flicker of candlelight on this stranger’s face, was another face—wide-eyed, glinting with seawater and moonlight. That tail. That mouth when it opened in shock. The shimmer of scales, the cut of a jaw that didn’t belong to any myth she knew.

Sevika blinked again.

The illusion cracked.

“You alright?” the girl asked softly, drawing back just an inch.

Sevika rolled her jaw, wiped a hand down her face, and laughed—low and hollow.

“Fine,” she muttered, tossing back the last of her drink. “Just thinkin’ about someone who ain’t here.”

The tavern blurred as the night deepened—faces blending into laughter, music thickening into static, the hum of drink and desire drowning out all reason. Sevika didn’t remember leaving exactly. Just the heat of the girl’s mouth on her neck, her fingers tangled in Sevika’s shirt, and the way the air outside felt cold against her flushed skin as they stumbled down the uneven cobbled streets toward her place.

They barely made it inside.

The door slammed shut behind them, the girl giggling as Sevika backed her into the wall, one hand braced beside her head, the other sliding up her thigh. Their mouths met—hot and hungry, the taste of rum and desperation between them.

It didn’t matter that her name was wrong. That her voice was wrong. That the curve of her back didn’t fit Sevika’s palm quite the way she wanted it to.

She didn’t stop.

Didn’t want to.

Didn’t let herself.

The bedroom was dark, lit only by the moonlight bleeding in through the thin curtain. Clothes came off. Hands roamed. The girl made all the right sounds, said all the right things, wrapped herself around Sevika like she meant it.

And Sevika gave in to the rhythm—fast, rough, breathless.

She chased the high, moving harder, deeper, fingers gripping, mouth biting, needing something to burn out the feeling gnawing at her ribs.

But just as she tipped over the edge—

Just as her breath caught, her eyes squeezed shut—

She saw her.

Not the girl beneath her. Not the one gasping and moaning and clawing at her back.

Her.

The girl from the water. From the wreck. From somewhere else entirely.

Except—this wasn’t a memory.

It was an invention. A split-second fantasy.

The mermaid—you—laid out beneath her, body slick and glistening like she’d just surfaced, hair tangled in seawater, eyes wide and dark with pleasure. Your mouth open, lips parted around Sevika’s name—not Captain, not help, but Sevika, like it belonged to her.

Her expression was soft. Overwhelmed. Beautiful.

It wrecked her.

Sevika came hard, breath torn from her chest, muscles tensing as the world went silent except for that imagined sound—the voice of someone she didn’t even know, someone she couldn’t possibly forget.

And when it was over—

When the girl curled up beside her, pressing kisses to her shoulder, sighing into her skin like she meant it—

Sevika just stared at the ceiling.

Eyes open.

Jaw clenched.

Haunted by a fantasy she hadn’t meant to have

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