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In the past few days Jinu has learnt three things.
The first, that he is an idiot (although he had already suspected as much). He’s spent an inordinate amount of time rehashing his last hours, wondering if he’d done even one thing differently things might not have ended this way.
Evidently it’s fun to torture himself.
The second, that he is in fact capable of love. Something he, and most of the people who knew him, had come to think was an impossibility. A) because he’s always been a touch self absorbed and B) given his status as a demon. And not just any demon. One of Gwi-Ma’s best, most lethal. Something he used to actually be proud of.
Refer back to point one. Certified idiot.
And the third, that he is dead. Or a breed of dead. Dead-adjacent maybe. A version of dead where he is somehow still conscious, aware (unfortunately), even if he is currently adrift in what he thinks might be a version of oblivion.
And by ‘days’ he means possibly weeks or possibly years or possibly decades — time is really not something one can measure where he is.
Which is a great next question actually. Where is he?
All around him is black. A stark, deep kind of black that’s so dark his eyes have still not adjusted. Part of him has to wonder if he’s gone blind, or had his eyes plucked right out, but he suspects that’s not the case.
What he surmises is that he’s in flux. Wedged between birth and death and rebirth, his being too malevolent to pass into the next life, meaning he’s stuck, bobbing eternally through a void. Alone.
Yippee.
And because he’s alone, with infinite time, and quite literally nothing to distract himself with — he thinks of her. Oh her.
The hunter. The prey.
He should’ve at least kissed her. Found the courage to taste her. Then maybe he’d know what her bare skin feels like under his hands. So many things he could’ve done...
Brushed his knuckles against her jaw. Twirled strands of silken hair around his thumb. Run his fingers over her demon marks and watched them shimmer, the violet hues glistening as she shivered under his touch.
He’s left wondering if their bodies would’ve fit together just right under cover of dark. He wouldn’t have to imagine it. The way her back might arch up and her mouth might part. The way she’d scrunch the sheets in a tight fist and keen high and sweet in his ear. The way her eyes might light up like kindling. Like sparks.
Maybe she would rise up to meet him. Run her nails down his back. Squeeze his waist with her thighs. Tell him go fast, go slow. Breath hot at his throat. Skin slick and smelling of heaven.
Never afraid.
Not his Rumi.
Instead he has visions whittled in desperation. What’s left of a man trying to piece together sensations from a dream he let die before it had the chance to fly. Become something. Something more than —
This.
He supposes this was always where he was going to end up. Floating in a void without a body. Outside space and time, nothing but a ribbon of consciousness hanging onto nothing. Listless and decaying. Forgotten and fraying.
It’s what he deserves. Selfish people who abandon their families don’t get happy endings. They don’t get love stories written in the stars and chances to redeem themselves. They’re not supposed to escape their chains.
He made the demon. Bartered his body, his mind, his soul. Traded who and what he was for shiny coins, a warm bed and a full belly.
He’d always been hungry.
Consumed by a desperate sinkhole kind of emptiness that infected him from the moment he tottered into the world and realised he would never have enough. Made him greedy. Gluttonous. A green-eyed boy growing into a starving man full of sharp teeth who could never understand where this insatiable need had come from.
He didn’t know before the deal all the things he would lose. That it was never a bargain where he was meant to win. In hindsight, he should’ve read the fine print. Though he doubts he would’ve spurned the offer anyway.
Stupidly, he hadn’t even noticed as he started to lose who he was. His empathy went first, because it had to, because if he still felt what others felt he would’ve broken himself on the steps watching his mother and sister staring up at him with betrayal as the palace doors swung shut.
His kindness went next, replaced with a cold, mean cruelty. How he used to laugh at all the people less fortunate than him. Point his finger at the dead and dying in the streets. Act as if he were better. More deserving of his fate.
His courage went after. Left him pathetic and weak. So scared of returning to the life he’d run from, that he’d toss anyone he could in front of potential disaster. Was easier to drink and fuck and smoke than feel. And after a while, he stopped doing that at all. Just became… numb.
A shell. A void.
Or at least that’s what he tried to convince himself.
That’s when the demon marks began to show. Tiny slivers at first he could hide beneath his shirt. Violet cracks in his skin, fissures spreading, growing, weaving their way over his chest and up and down his legs, wrapping snake-like around his throat until he couldn’t breathe.
He’d been at a party when Gwi-Ma took him for the first time. One moment he’d been sitting at a long table stacked high with steaming meats, glass of soju in one hand, a pretty half-dressed girl with hooded eyes and ruby-red lips perched on his knee whispering all kinds of wonderful things in his ear, and the next, in the snap of two fingers, he was somewhere else. Somewhere darker. Colder.
And there was a voice. A terrible voice. Low and husked and jagged. It was a sound that sliced through what remained of his nervous system and reverberated down to the bone.
“Jinu,” the king of demons laughed, the fire rising and falling as if it were breathing, alive. “I’ve been waiting to meet you.”
That’s when the whispers curled out of the dark and circled around him. A distorted rush that pushed and prodded. Hisses that cut.
You deserve nothing.
You betrayed them.
You left them.
All the awful things he’d done repeated over and over again until he thought he’d go mad. A deluge pounding against his eardrums, chip, chip, chipping away at everything that he had left and replacing it with shame. And how much he had to be ashamed of. How disgraceful he’d become. How vile and loathsome and utterly monstrous.
The patterns burned. Pain and pain and pain. A fire spreading across his skin until there wasn’t an inch of him left uncovered. Forked tendrils like bolts of lightning radiating outwards from his spoiled heart. Agony. That’s all he remembers. Agony.
“Here,” Gwi-Ma, chuckling, summoned a mirror for Jinu to look upon. “See what you have become.”
A cry and Jinu dropped to his knees, terror stealing what was left of his voice. Because staring back at him were two yellow eyes.
Centuries passed in servitude.
Was far too natural for him to melt into the shadows. Meld with them. Split the atom of his own existence and forge a newer, better version that didn’t have to care.
He made a surprisingly good soldier. Was easy to rise in the ranks, all he had to do was be the most despicable. The one willing to do what others would not. Lie and cheat and kill. Cut souls from his victims and send them back to Gwi-Ma one after the other. Hundreds. Thousands.
He never saw their faces. Knew their names. They didn’t matter. It became another kind of game. He’d keep score. Compete with the other demons and best them again and again. Prove that he was the most lethal of all his kind. Convince himself he could not hear Gwi-Ma’s whispers and even if he did, he was too heartless to care anyway.
And really what did it matter if he became a creature other monsters fear? As if it wasn’t exactly who he was supposed to be. As if it wasn’t his destiny. His doom. As if he was ever made for soft edges and soda pop dreams.
For a long time it was enough.
But then Jinu met him.
One of Gwi-Ma’s own sons. A demon who was supposed to be worse than all of them but wasn’t. A demon that liked to sit on rooftops after their kills and stare up at the stars, the moon.
The others used to laugh. To spurn him. Spit at the ground and turn away.
“Weak,” they hissed, returning to the demon realm, leaving Jinu behind.
Curious, Jinu would stay and watch him wait for the sun to rise. Watch him sit there and smile, arms folded in his lap, eyes closed and head tilted to let the golden rays bathe his face.
“You can sit with me if you’d like,” he offered one day, not opening his eyes. “I won’t bite.”
So Jinu did, not really knowing why. Not understanding at the time that he’d been lonely. Three centuries of being a soldier. Three centuries of fighting, of killing. Three centuries without a single person to talk to.
All the other demons ever wanted to talk about were souls. How to get them. How to extract them. How to sneak one past Gwi-Ma from time to time so they could gorge scraps on their own.
So Jinu sat and he watched the first sunrise. Then another and another and another. Decades passed and a friendship bloomed. A real friendship.
Thinking back now this is probably where the first crack started to form. Where his downfall began. Sitting on that stupid roof and pretending to be human again.
A silly game of make-believe where he could reach back through time and feel something other than shame. He’d tell stories about his life, omitting details, rewriting parts he didn’t especially like.
Gwi-Ma’s son had never lived among humans and so always wanted to know more. Unlike the rest of his siblings, he found humans fascinating. Captivating. Exciting.
When Jinu asked him one day he answered;
“They live such big lives. They’re always wanting new things. And it doesn’t matter how hard it gets, they're always trying. Creating. When they’re sad, they sing. Why? Why would they do that?”
“Because…” Jinu had to think for a while. Remember. “Because it makes them feel better. Brave. Like they can do anything they set their mind on. That they can change. Be different.”
He nodded, buttery sunlight making his patterns glisten and look almost gold.
“Maybe we can have something different,” he’d said, eyes unfocused, gaze honed on something Jinu couldn’t see. “Maybe we can change our fate.”
He died.
Of course he died.
Gwi-Ma would never accept insubordination. His demon army belonged to him. Bought with sweetened promises and candied lies twisted up in blood and misery. He could smell disloyalty. Caught every one of his would-be-deserters before they could truly escape. Made the rest of them watch as he ripped the remnants of their wretched souls and ate them whole.
Jinu couldn’t help his own little rebellions though. Became his modus operandi. Play the game, toe the line, but still find opportunities to dance with the devil. Risk ruin with his stupid gambits.
Why not?
It’s not like he had anything to actually live for.
Only reason he kept going was because he was afraid of experiencing a true death. He dabbled with defiance, out of boredom, out of spite, but he was never so outwardly hostile that he might gamble with disembowelment. The point was to trifle with Gwi-Ma not welcome a gruesome demise.
He wore his collar sure enough, a muzzled dog kept on a short leash. The faithful trickster. The careful fraud. A thing on a string.
Every year that slipped by he became more brutal. Hateful. Wicked and willfully so. A schemer that enjoyed hurting others. The rogue with a pretty face he could use whenever he needed it. And he’d intended to do just that.
Until her.
She who was so much like his friend, come to think of it.
He really should’ve killed her at the bath house.
It wasn’t part of the plan to kill a hunter that night, but realistically if the opportunity presented itself, he had no qualms slitting one or more of their throats and sending their souls to Gwi-Ma early. Would’ve only made their job easier in the end.
But then she’d put her blade to his throat and he’d — well. He’d felt something. A thimble of heat blooming deep down in his belly. A hunger swelling making his insides ache. A need to know more. Everything. Four centuries of nothing and then a kaleidoscope of colour. All of it at once rushing through his veins and lighting him up.
Because she had demon marks too.
She was like him.
Except she wasn’t. Wasn’t. She was a fighter. Brave and confident and willing to put herself in danger to protect others. A person. Human.
He’d moved before he was even aware he was doing it. Used his body to shield her. Protect her. Hide those marks that he knew had to bring her as much shame as they brought him.
And then, because he was still a coward, he ran.
Teleported himself back to the demon realm and vomited all over the ground. Dropped to his knees, heaving, choking, gasping for breath, unable to fill his lungs all the way. Lost and confused and stuffed full of all the parts of himself he’d thought had died.
Of course he sought her out. Sent the bird and tiger to bring her to him. He had to see her again.
Rumi. Rumi with hair the same colour as his marks. Rumi who could sing like the gods were spilling from her throat. Rumi with her topaz eyes and slightly curving mouth. Rumi who could laugh like the sun and make him feel brand new.
Rumi, Rumi, Rumi.
A dream. A curse. A confounding conundrum. The object of his desire and the weapon made to kill creatures like him. A woman. A knife.
The hunger only continued to grow, mushrooming into a full-blown storm that rattled his insides and threatened to tear him limb from limb.
How he wanted her. Wanted to be better, for her. Wanted to actually try again. Fight again.
Maybe we can change our fate.
It was someone else’s wish and how he started to cling to it. Believe in it.
He knew she hated herself. Hated her patterns. What that meant. Hated the demon parts of herself, same as he did.
But it didn’t matter.
She still fought. Still cared. Rejected what everyone said should be in her nature and chose to be the person she wanted to be. Someone who defended the helpless. Protected the weak. Made herself into a Shield, an unbreakable web of light and unending song that wrapped around the world and kept the shadows at bay.
Rather than cower and kowtow, she embraced all the ugly — her dirty, her dangerous, her demon — and became all the better for it.
How could he not hunger for that? Hold his hands close to the fires of her fury and hope the warmth might finally manage to sink past skin.
And yes, he’s well aware a life of blissful domesticity would likely drive him insane, but it wouldn’t have been like that with her.
Surely she could use him. His strength. His magic. His cruelty. She could wield him in the same way she used her sword. Sharpen him as a blade and use him to strike down her enemy. His now too.
Jinu has lived far longer than any man should and seen the edges of humanity, good and evil, in all its holy and terrible permutations. He’s journeyed into the darkest pits of the underworld and hiked to the tippy-top of the highest mountains. He recalls one that was so tall that it was flooded with cloud cover, thick and woolly and so ethereal that it made it feel as if he’d managed to breach the heavens at last.
And of all those years and of all those sights, he had never encountered anything so remarkable as Rumi. To be near her was to be scorched by an unbearable lightness of being. To be lifted up, cut open, flayed and left raw as an exposed nerve. She was stardust and seafoam and laughter on the wind. A memory half-forgotten, half-dreamed. She was a confession kept tucked behind his ribs and a silver-bright truth banging down the door.
He couldn’t pretend with her. Couldn’t lie. Couldn’t. hide behind the mask he made. Spent centuries in the forging. With iron and blood.
He did try. To stay away. That would have been the kinder thing to do. The good thing. The right thing. But he is, after all, a demon. And the goodness had been eaten right out of him.
How can he miss something he never even had? How can he feel it between his teeth, in his blood, in the cracks of his being? How is he supposed to forget, find peace? She was his peace.
If he had one more second. Just one. Out of all the seconds of his four hundred years. If he had it to give, he’d give it to her.
So he thinks of her now. Thinks of her and thinks of her and thinks of her. His Rumi. Not truly his, but his all the same.
If only he got to keep her.
Gritting his teeth (if he even has teeth in this hell dimension) he closes his eyes (if he even has eyes) and forces his mind to return to her. To play back their song, their dance, their one night of splendour.
And maybe this time he takes her hand. Maybe this time he stays. Maybe this time he’s —
Jinu’s thoughts stall as a shift ripples through the dark. He has only a moment to process, before the ripples return, this time pushing inwards as if he’s caught between two rogue waves, both of them determined to churn him into dust.
And well, Jinu starts to panic a little bit. Because, yeah ok, he’d been ready to die in the moment. With all that adrenaline flooding his veins, and fear making his heart pound in his eardrums. It’d been no big deal then. He’d seen Rumi in trouble and acted. Moved before his mind caught up with him. It was his big moment to be the saviour. The sacrifice. A good way to go.
Only he didn’t go. Not truly. No flash-band quick and brave ending for him, oh no. He got stuck. Left like a morsel of broccoli caught between two teeth.
Of course he’d known he couldn’t exist like that forever. That he’d find a true ending eventually. That the universe would deal the death blow when it was good and ready.
Which is apparently right now.
And it’s really quite painful.
He can feel his body starting to ache, his bones squeezing like he’s being pushed at from all sides. There's a fire sparking in his chest, the heat growing and growing until he’s sure he’ll combust.
And then the weightlessness is gone.
Jinu falls.
It’s a long and a short fall. One which feels boundless and infinitesimal all at once. A fall which starts and ends with a gasp and then his knees are jarring as his feet collide with something hard.
Surprised, Jinu blinks his eyes open, a frown pebbling his brow as something pink and fluffy comes into focus. There’s plush carpet under his boots and Jinu quickly shucks his shoes, kicking them away so he can feel the cushiony material under his bare feet. A startled laugh escapes him at the sensation. Because it’s real.
He thinks. Maybe.
Patting his palms down his arms, he tries to figure out if the faint sting is genuine. Taking stock of himself, he finds he’s dressed all in black, the ends of his robes ragged and torn, the wide brim of his hat obscuring his view. The exact outfit he’d been wearing when he ‘died.’
There comes a sudden burst of warmth at his wrist and he looks down sharply to see the bracelet Rumi had given him simmering as the knotted centre turns to ash as it burns. The tiny flames lick at his patterns, and then the bracelet slips from his wrist, vanishing before it can hit the carpet.
Awed, Jinu reaches up to tilt his hat back, eyes widening as he takes in where he is.
A bedroom, he thinks, with a large king-sized bed squatting in the centre. Dawn licks warmth onto the carpet, a golden shard cutting through the part in the sheer curtains and slicing a single bright line directly down the middle.
There’s a lump in the centre of the bed and a wisp of violet hair twisting out from beneath the sheets. As Jinu watches, heart lurching up into his throat, the lump moves, a muffled, disgruntled sound coming from the small mound.
“Zoey,” she groans. “Is that you? What’s with all the noise?”
She sounds annoyed, weary and weighed down. It makes Jinu’s patterns shine, the purple sputtering to life, emitting a writhing glow that spreads from his chest to his fingers and toes.
Rumi.
Rubbing her eyes she sits up, yawning so big her head tilts back. Smacking her lips, she lowers her hand — and freezes.
Jinu watches transfixed as her eyes widen to saucers and her mouth falls open again, this time in pure shock.
For a long time she stares at him, as if she’s not really sure of what she’s seeing. And he can see her thoughts flicker across her face in quick succession. She thinks maybe she’s hallucinating. Maybe she’s seen him standing here before, in a dream, in a nightmare, and doesn’t trust her eyes to believe he’s really there.
“I’m really here,” he says, surprised to hear his own voice after what feels like an age without a body. “At least I think I am.”
A choked sob, followed by a scramble of movement, arms and limbs fighting to get free of the sheets, and then she’s stumbling from the bed, half-toppling, half-careening directly into him.
Jinu catches her around the waist, one hand going to her face, tilting her jaw up so he can see her properly. See how her eyes light up when she looks at him. Not with fear or hate but —
“How are you here?” tears slip down her cheeks. “How did you — “
Her throat bobs, and his gut roils. Has she been crying? Has she been missing him too?
“How is this possible?” She grabs his shoulders, digging in her thumbs as if testing whether or not he’s a figment of her imagination. “I — I thought you died. I thought I lost you.”
Jinu’s heart swells. “I don’t know,” he answers honestly, chewing on a wince as she continues testing if he’s present. “It was dark. And then I thought of home. I thought of — “
You.
The word gets clogged in his throat. After all those hours pining for her, reflecting on everything he’d done and hadn’t done, envisioning all the different ways he would fall at her feet and swear his undying love for her, he can’t do it.
He’s still just a demon. Still just a coward who dreamt too big. Who believed he could change his fate. Could rewrite his stars.
Rumi’s eyes crease as if she understands. As if maybe she’s just as frightened as he is. Of this thing. This nameless thing that feels a bit like flying. A bit like dying.
Together they move, her lifting up onto her toes, him ducking his head down to meet her half-way.
He kisses her.
He kisses her until he forgets he was dead. Forgets he was a demon. Forgets he was ever anything except born to be here. In her arms.
He means it to stop there. Means to be satisfied with a kiss that makes his bones weak. Means to step back, pull away, sit down and talk maybe.
But then she makes this little noise. A feather soft sound between a keen and a moan and his body floods with heat. Then she reaches up and scrunches his hair in her fist, knocking the hat from his head. Then she flicks her tongue inside his mouth and he’s undone.
Lifting her from the ground, one hand under either thigh, splitting her legs around his hips and dragging her as close as bodies allow. She yips, a startled laugh spilling between her lips, and he’s capturing the sound with his mouth. Swallowing it down as he walks them across the room and tosses her back on the bed.
She laughs, looking up at him, expression dazed and scalding. Her hair is loose and wild, ribbons of purple draped over her shoulders. She’s in those pyjama bottoms again, the ones with the teddy bears and choo-choo trains, and a plain white t-shirt that hangs over one shoulder, baring her clavicle. Demon patterns swirl up over her chest and throat, some of them reaching out from under her ears.
Her chest rises and falls and her lips are kiss-swollen and ruby-red. Glistening.
His throat shrinks, his thoughts stalling as a flurry of scattered, lecherous wants blast common sense and decency to pieces. Chewing on a groan, he descends, crawling up her body and crushing her with a kiss. Her arms band around his shoulders, her hands sweeping up, her fingers dragging against the back of his neck. His palms roam over her body, her hips, her waist, her thighs, fingers digging into her softness.
She smells like fresh linen and something sweet. Strawberries and apricots. He rocks against her, settling himself between her thighs, feeling himself grow hard and throbbing. He leaves her lips, kissing along her jaw and she tilts her head back throwing breathy pants at the ceiling.
He inhales her, one devouring gasp after the next, burying himself in her embrace. Waxen light burnishes her features in amber, blurring her edges and bringing the plains of her face into sharp relief. The air all but crackles, a honeyed humming vibrating in the atmosphere around them. As if all of space-time is holding its breath.
Sucking a bruise into her jugular, he surreptitiously squeezes her breasts, drags a flat palm down her stomach, her thigh, her calf, exploring her contours, committing her to memory, knowing he won’t waste it. This opportunity. This impossible second chance.
He doesn’t really understand how a fleeting connection has led to this. His undoing. It was an involuntary takeover. An invasion. He fought it. Fought her.
What a fucking idiot he was. To think he could escape. Could win. That he should even want to.
Trying to resist her was like trying to hold back a sneeze. Rip out a rib. A pointless endeavour that served no one, especially him, and would only cause him discomfort and pain.
And maybe he would’ve minded more (falling head over heels and completely forgoing every shred of dignity) if she wasn’t so uniquely Rumi. Fierce and headstrong and daring. A little reckless and a little rash and a little damaged and all the more exquisite because of it.
Well he’s done with all that. Done with pretending he doesn’t want to surrender. Wave the white flag and yield to her power. Her body. Her mouth.
Curving one large hand over her bottom, he jerks her closer, angling her hips to flex directly over his. Positioning her just right, so his length lines up with the seam of her desire. She cants instinctively, following the friction.
Her eyes fly open and her pupils are blown, blackening the irises. The sight knocks the breath from his lungs. Makes the demon purr and puff up.
Gently, she reaches up, brushing Jinu’s fringe back from his forehead. Dark lashes fan against fine cheekbones, a myriad of expressions passing across her features.
How can she look at him like that? Like he’s a person. Like she can see past the ruin that he is and find something worth saving.
He kisses her, because he has to, because he’ll die again if he doesn’t, taking control, sweeping his tongue against hers with bold, fervent strokes. She tastes like a dream, like a dollop of pure sunshine.
He sneaks a hand under her shirt, sliding the fabric up. She sits up slightly, allowing him to pull the shirt over her head and toss it against the wall.
Bare from the waist, his breath hitches, taking her in, allowing himself a moment to appreciate the slope of her breasts. His gaze finds hers and there’s a pink flush on her cheeks and a wildness in her eyes that makes his heart beat off rhythm.
Slowly, he shuffles down, lowering his head to press an open-mouth kiss between her collarbones. Keeping his eyes up, he journeys south, one hand coming to cup her breast as his lips close over her hardened nipple.
With a sigh that cleaves a hole right through his centre, she tangles her delicate fingers in his hair, holding him against her as he nips and sucks, swirling his tongue. Enjoying this, he travels to the other one, determined to pay both nipples an equal, fastidious amount of attention.
A groan and her head falls back, her spine arching as she says his name. It’s the first time she’s said it since he returned and his cock jumps in his pants.
His name weighs on the room as it curls around her tongue, a siren hymnal and he’s collapsing at the pulpit. He’s assailed by devotion. Obliterated by two syllables that stretch into the infinite. Delivered into paradise having been so certain he’d been denied heaven. But there she is.
His very own nirvana.
Growing desperate, he hooks his thumb into her pyjama bottoms, yanking them down to expose her underwear. Just as lost, she kicks them off, legs tangling in her haste. Jinu laughs this time, joy lighting him from the inside as she finally gets free, lobbing them off the bed with one foot.
She’s wearing pink underwear with a little ribbon at the front and he nearly comes from the sight of her half sitting, propped on her elbows, legs open so that he can see a small wet patch between her legs.
She’s wet for him. For this.
He could explode into confetti.
Jinu puts a hand there, pressing his fingers against her core, watching as her elbows shake from the effort of holding herself up.
“Yes,” he says huskily. “Yes, pretty girl.”
Let me show you how good I can be.
Sliding his thumb under the fabric, he dances, he glides, dips long fingers into her. One, then two. Smiles with all his teeth as her hips lift off the bed.
Her knees try to come together but he yanks them back apart. She won’t deny him this. Watching her chase his swirling thumb is half the fun.
She’s so responsive, he smirks, head angling in surprise. He shouldn’t be but he is. That she’d whimper so beautifully. It truly is sublime. The way she gasps and whines. What a lovely sound that is. On the cusp of obscene.
He wants more. Wants it always. Decides it belongs to him. Only him.
He’d been prepared for the demon to step in at some point. Known the darker parts of himself couldn’t be kept at bay forever. That he’s still a fiend when it comes down to it.
It rises up, possessive, hungry. She’s done it now. Welcomed him into her bed, her heart, her soul. Let him walk into her world, danger and all, and now he’s too far gone.
He’s always been a permanent kind of person, even if he doesn’t seem that way, and the demon is the same. They’re aligned. In that truth.
That she’s unequivocally his.
And maybe, just a little bit, just a lot, he belongs to her.
He could keep her like this all day, he thinks. All week. All year. Could keep her flat-backed on this bed and feast on her, how she looks, how she sounds. Could kiss memories into every inch of her alabaster skin, lick the length of her patterns, finishing right at her centre and gladly gorge on her there until she’s screaming at the ceiling. He could refuse her anything else but him. Be her willing jailer, her captive, her beginning, her end.
He’d be so good for her. To her. Become everything she needs. He’d bend his knees for her in a way he never did for Gwi-Ma. Crawl for her. Chain himself to the end of the bed and let her use him whenever she liked.
He gawks openly at her core, sticky and glistening.
“Fuck me,” he hums in Korean. He wants to taste her.
He’s inundated with a primal instinct to lay her flat and spread her open. His own skin feels agonisingly tight, his body taught as a bow-string.
Rumi looks a mess, a vision, a snare. She’s all creamy curves and chaotic, tangled silk. Violet strands spill ink-like down her shoulders, her breasts, her stomach. Strings of fate enticing him in.
He wants to twist them around his fingertips. Wants to scrape his hands through the mass and fist at the root. Wants to flip her and push her down on all fours and fuck her from behind, knotting the hair through his knuckles, all the better to ride her. He wants to be rough and wild. Make her feel him. Know him. Forget her own gods-damned name.
A hand circles his wrist and he stalls, coming back to himself. Rumi’s eyes are on him, and he thinks she probably knows. Can sense the demon's power intensifying. Realising he’s breathing hard, that his teeth are gritted, he loosens his jaw a fraction. Looking down, he finds his patterns are a brilliant fuchsia, the spidery tiger stripes almost the colour of summer wine.
He expects her to tell him to stop. To get out. Leave and never come back. Monster, she might scream. Kick him. Scratch bloody, jagged lines into his arms.
His cock twitches at the thought.
In her eyes, he can see his own reflected back a stormy yellow.
“Take that off,” she tells him instead.
All the blood in his body rushes south. Dear gods he may just turn into a puddle.
“So bossy,” he quips, trying to keep his cool and failing spectacularly as he hurries to comply, yanking his robes off, pausing for a beat before drawing himself out, solid and veined, ruddy and leaking at the tip.
Rumi’s mouth parts. Clearly impressed, her eyes go a little wider, and he grins a devilish smile.
He’s in possession of a broad, muscular torso, and wide honed thighs. There’s a light dusting of hair on his chest. Skating down his Adonis belt too. His cock is nestled in a thatch of dark curls and he’s aware he’s larger than most.
It’s not vanity or ego but fact.
He knows he’s pretty. For a long time he used it. Enticed men and women to his bed, pretty young things who tripped over themselves to come to his room, and had the pleasure of watching their eyes glaze over when he finally stripped for them. Pushed them down. Whispered all kinds of sweet nothings in their ear, hot and breathy, before he slid a knife under their ribs. Watched the life sputter from their eyes and ate their soul before it could find its way back to Gwi-Ma.
That’s not him any more of course. He’s reformed, after all. He’d never hurt Rumi. Not unless she asked him to. And even then, he’d make her beg.
He intends to remove her underwear and is surprised when she hooks two thumbs under the band and shoves them down to her ankles. He barely gets a second to see her, the glorious stretch of her naked, toned limbs, before she’s reaching for him.
“Lucky me,” she steals his breath with a searing kiss, licking into his mouth, tangling their tongues.
Banding her strong, athletic arms around his shoulders, she pulls him flush against her chest. Unable to control himself, his hips roll forward, his cock sliding against the wetness of her core. She keens, hooking her legs up over his arse, urging him closer.
“I want you,” she rasps in his ear. “I want this.”
“Are you sure?”
He doesn’t know why he asks. Isn’t even sure if he could stop now. But he has to. Has to know.
“Yes,” she drags her nails over his shoulders. “Yes.”
One of her hands goes down, circling him. Biting on his lip, he tilts his head, watching her line his cock with her entrance. A beat of hesitation as they both suck in a breath, and then he’s pushing inside her.
And the whole world stops. Time unravels.
Four hundred years and he’s never known anything like this. Four hundred years and he’s been shackled to a shame of his own creation thinking that would be it for him. Four hundred years and he’s experiencing something wholly new. Something he wasn’t even aware was possible.
To be immortal and still be surprised.
In the throes of pleasure, a hint of pain, Rumi’s eyes flutter closed and she bites her bottom lip, small white teeth sharp against tender flesh. He can feel her pulse against his groin, her heart beating hard against his chest. Can feel her clenching around his cock as she adjusts to his size.
And gods above and below, she’s beautiful like that. Mouth slack and chest heaving, nipples wet and red from his ministrations. He can’t reconcile that any of this is happening. That he’s here. With her.
That she’s arching up to meet him, her patterns a complex web starting where his end. The two of them tangled in body and likeness. And he swears he can feel it. The remnants of his own soul shuddering back to life where he left it inside her.
Rumi comes apart under him. Slowly. By design. He pushes her to the precipice and holds back, setting the speed, the tempo, fast and slow, long drags and short, determined thrusts. He smooths his hands up her arms, lifting them over her head and securing her in place by the wrist.
He watches her skin grow slick. Watches her eyes get hazy and wild. Watches her gasp and writhe, head swallowed by the pillows as she digs her skull back into the mattress. Twists his fingers through her hair and drives into her, over and over. Grinds in little half-circles, working his hips possessively.
Their kisses deepen. Grow sloppy. He slides a hand between their bodies, directing his attention towards where he knows a woman to find pleasure and grins into her skin when she makes a low, guttural moan that causes a white hot flood of fire to burn down his spine.
Dropping his chin, he presses his temple against hers, their lips hovering an inch. He rolls his hips, dragging long and deep. Swirls his fingers, presses down. Eyes mashing shut, a piercing cry stains the air. He catches it with a kiss, speeding his pace, lifting her leg higher, finding the exact right angle.
“This is real,” he rasps. “Isn’t it? This is real. I’m really here.”
She looks up at him with big eyes. Rakes her fingers through his hair.
“Yes,” she kisses him. “Yes this is real. It’s the only thing that’s real.”
He feels it when she comes. In the way she clenches and shudders and trembles. In the way she falls back, going a bit boneless as euphoria erupts through her. In the way her patterns gleam a brilliant gold and his muscles tense as if he’s placed his hand over a live wire. When she opens her eyes there’s a yellow haze in the one on the left.
The demon in him snaps. Takes over. He chases her to the end. Moving faster and faster, hooking her leg over his shoulder, scooping his arms around her back and crushing her against him until with a feral, inhuman sound he comes inside her.
And together they’re… glowing. Skin lustrous as polished metal. Both of them glazed in brilliant light, their patterns shining, smouldering, their souls bright and dazzling and coiling into a singular knot, the Honmoon strumming as the universe sings to see them reunited.
It’s only when Jinu returns to himself, slowly, half-drunk on this, on her, he realises he should’ve probably pulled out. Part of him preens though. Pleased that he’s claimed her. She doesn’t seem to care, her head tossed to one side as they share inhales and exhales, their speeding hearts gradually easing.
His cock has begun to soften inside her, but he’s hesitant to extricate himself from her embrace. He’d quite happily live in her if he could. Keep her full and flushed and looking dazed as she is right now. At the thought he starts to swell again.
Demon stamina really is one of the few perks.
A pounding at the door, and Jinu jolts, dragging Rumi under him as he partially rises into a cat-like-crouch. His cock slides free at last and he internally hisses at the loss of her warmth.
He’s going to kill whoever thought to interrupt them.
“Rumi!” there comes a high-pitched shout. “Are you ok? I thought I heard you moaning. Are you sick?”
“It’s just Zoey,” Rumi giggles, reaching up to cup his cheeks and turn his face back towards her. “It’s ok.”
Heart thundering, murderous intentions fading, Jinu twists back, gaze landing on her. She’s so small and pink under him. Hair slick against her temple.
He knows she’s powerful. Hell, she’s stronger than him. Has proved it on more than one occasion.
But there’s this new creature swelling in the base of his belly. It’s all teeth and claws and has one agenda. Protect.
He’d exist between the beats of her heart. He supposes his soul already does.
“S — sorry,” he clears his throat, a little embarrassed at his overreaction. Lowering to her side he bands his arms around her, cradling her against his chest, nosing along her jugular, inhaling the sweet scent of her until he calms.
“That was,” his mouth falls into a crooked smile. “That was — “
“Yeah,” Rumi grins, licking her lips as if she’s almost ready to go again too. “Jinu I —
“Rumi!” another pounding fist against the door. Except this voice is deeper. One dimensional. Tone implacable. “We need a sign of life or Zoey is going to lose it. I think she might be thirty seconds away from busting the door down.”
Several animalistic snarling sounds slide under the door, a sign Zoey is indeed very close to snapping.
“She’s fine,” Jinu calls in answer, and has the pleasure of watching Rumi’s cheeks go beat-red. “She’s a little busy right now.”
Silence.
Jinu lifts three fingers, counting down to one.
“JINU IS THAT YOU!”
Zoey and Mira start to shout, their voices growing louder as they battle to be heard over one another, a veritable hurricane of sound, albeit a slightly muffled one.
Rumi ducks her head into his chest and bursts into a throaty snigger, her breath warm, her laughter like a song. Something in his chest cracks loose. He tugs her close, closer, buries his nose in her hair. Tells himself yes, I’ll stay right here. Forever.