Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

I was five years old when I first tasted blood. 

My older brother cut his hand opening a can of mandarin oranges. A small mistake, but it bled more than either of us expected. He cursed, laughed it off, then went quiet when the red kept coming. I remember thinking it looked edible. That’s the only way I can describe it now, edible. I found myself wondering how it would taste, wondering if it would be edible, if there was anything wrong with that at all. And so I took a step closer, because I wanted to know what it tasted like. At that age, you don’t ask permission; you just do it. It was warm, and metallic, and sweet, not sweet in the way that sugar is sweet. He recoiled immediately, like I had burned him, shouting, pulling his hand away, holding it out of reach. Unfortunately, the damage had been done. I never ate meat again.

• ───────────────── •

I found myself staring at her at lunchtime. Her arms were covered in bandages and the short sleeves on the school uniform offered no place to hide anything. Perhaps she did not care if she was covered or not. She was not eating anything but was merely sitting there, lost in thought and staring into her phone while girls giggled around her, presumably talking about guys or assignments or other mundane things. 

“She’s a cutter.” It was Wáng Jùn. Not very handsome and not really knowing what talent he had.

“A cutter?” My throat tightened, the words sounding clumsy on my lips.

“Yup.” He leaned back with a grin. “They say she’s been sent over here from some wackhouse.”

I found myself staring at her once more. She made no movement but kept staring into the screen of her phone, ignoring everything else. The bandages on her arms were calling out to me, offering me something new and mysterious, something that was there but had yet to be discovered. I found myself intrigued, wanting to find out more. 

“You interested in landmines?” Wáng Jùn sneered.

I had heard about them, landmine girls. Teenage girls who mutilated themselves, obsessed rage exploding through the incisions on their arms, self-loathing going off in secret detonations within their minds. They often dressed in dark-cute fashions that no school would allow.

“…Fascinated. Intrigued. Not sexually attracted.” I raised the milk carton to my lips. It was a half truth, her bandages on her arms were calling out to me, offering me something new. An outlet, perhaps.

He smiled, eyebrows fluttering in that manner of his that made my guts clench up inside me. “You should speak to her if you’re so intrigued.” 

Some kind of primal fury filled me. I felt like bashing him right in the face, but I had no idea why. Not because of jealousy, not because of terror. Something more intense, more inscrutable, and more dangerous. The desire to harm him suddenly hit me like a brick. I reached towards him only barely, fingers twitching.

I stood up, shuffling toward the door before I did something stupid. My fingers grazed the walls of the bathroom like a guide to stability; some island of privacy amidst a sea of confusion, pushing me into the stall.

“You stare.” A small, shaky voice, firm, not timid, cut through the hum of the tiles. A girl. The girl.

“You shouldn’t be here, this is the Men’s room.” I turned to look at her, her dull, dark eyes unreadable. 

She nodded and scratched away at her bandages. “Did you want to see them?”

“Why would I want to see that?” I said, though my mouth was already dry and slick with anticipation.

“You looked curious.” She smiled. Her teeth, sharp. Wrong. Inhuman. Her shadow didn’t reflect on the tile beneath her, and if it did I struggled to find it.

“…Fine. Show me.”

She shrugged and removed her bandages layer by layer. Every piece she revealed, more blood pooled in the bathroom, oozing down the tiles in waves. The blood reached out to me, whispering and curling at my feet like I was what it had been looking for within her body. She chuckled gleefully, peeling skin away like a mask. I retched violently onto the floor, only just reaching the toilet in time. It was a metal smell, cloying, acidic, electrifying, horrible.

“You’re not real, are you?”

Surely enough, when I turned to face her, she was nowhere to be found. Her blood, the only evidence of what had happened, was no longer there. The cold tiles glistened before me as I watched the spot where she had been standing.  The idea of someone, a young girl, mutilating herself, of her displaying that mutilation to me, it warped something within me, and I felt tainted by it. I was made wrong, an inherent and innate issue carved into my bones. 

I stayed in the bathroom for quite a while after that. I stood there with my back against the tiled wall, trying to pretend that I was trying to compose myself. However, my mind was running through what had happened, her voice, her smile, the fact that the bandages were moving like they had a life of their own under her touch.

I could not help but picture her arms, every single scar line concealed by cloth, beating under her skin in some kind of private rhythm that no one else could see except for me. It was no longer just curiosity. It was something else that made my mind wander over her body, and I did not know what it was. But I wanted… something.

Despite washing my hands several times, the imagined smell stuck on my fingers. I could not remove it by scrubbing it off. Even splashing some cold water on my fingers did not wash off the memory of her stripping off the bandages, laughing at the same time. I realized I had memorized every subtle movement, every hesitation of her fingers, as if it mattered more than anything else in the world.

I had never even met her. Not the real her. To see her again was what I had hoped for. But not only that, but more than that. To learn the contours beneath her bandages, and to imagine them, to have knowledge that they were there. I was different on some level. But it wasn’t because of fear. Or not really. Neither was it due to curiosity anymore. There was something else there. Something older and more primal, connected to a distant memory I had hoped to forget.

Chapter Text

"Shěn Yì."

"Yè Líng."

She sat down in the empty seat next to mine. There hadn’t been any other options, the classroom was full, but it still felt deliberate. Like a test of fate was pulling us together. There was no denying the way she said her name. Flat and cold, not soft and sweet like I had imagined it to be. Like something had been drained out of it long ago.

The teacher lectured at the front of the classroom, the sound of chalk scratching against the blackboard piercing through the silence, but all I could focus on was her wrists. They were carefully bandaged, as if she had made an effort to wrap them up. I didn’t bother hiding it. Why should I even try to hide it? What would happen if she found out? If she acknowledged it, she’d have to admit she had a problem.

“…Do you want to see them?” Her voice was barely above a whisper, her eyes still fixed on the front of the class.

I felt a sense of deja vu. The bathroom, the smile, the ripping of skin. Though this time was real. It was all real, or so it should’ve been. My eyes drifted from the bandages back up to her face, and up close, I saw that she looked far worse than I had thought, the hollowed-out look to her eyes, the shadowed under-eye bruising that she’d never seem to be able to heal. And she had gone unnoticed by me. I hadn’t noticed her before. Not really. Only the bandages. She would’ve gone unseen by everyone else, too, if it weren’t for the fact that she had somehow already been drained down to nothing. Like she had already been dragged through something no one else could see. If she wasn’t so thin and lifeless, she would’ve been average looking.

“…What?” I asked, just to make sure that I’d heard right.

"You've been staring," she continued quietly. "More than any of the rest." There was no reproach in her tone. Just matter-of-factness.

"…Would you show me?” The question was out before I had time to consider it.

She shrugged, finally shifting slightly in her seat. “Why not?” A pause. “It’s something to do.”

I tried to speak, but found myself incapable of saying anything. Anything suitable would be hard to say in a situation like this. Anything appropriate would have been hard to say. She didn’t seem to be ashamed. She didn’t seem offended. In fact, she sounded… committed. Like this was the only thing about herself she could offer. A ripped up arm was her most valuable asset, and I couldn’t argue. I couldn’t say she deserves more respect, because I didn’t treat her with that respect. I was only there for her arms, and she was okay with that.

• ───────────────── •

We ended up in her apartment on the very day that we met. A tiny studio with just enough room to be in. Clothing was strewn around the room and dishes were in places they did not belong. There was a metal smell underlying some sickly-sweet odor, likely left over vape stench.

She had allowed me access without any questions. She trusted me, but I did not know why. Something within me felt sorry for that feeling she had. Another part wished it was not trust but indifference.

She sat at one end of her small desk. I sat at the other end. Neither of us said anything for a few seconds. Then she began peeling off one of her bandages. She peeled it off slowly and deliberately. The bandage came off in spiral turns, exposing three smooth, symmetrical, and carefully measured lines cut into her arm. They looked… boring.

Unlike anything I had envisioned. Unlike the tidal wave of destruction, mayhem, and spectacle that my imagination had created. Just lines. Restrained. Calm. Honest. 

Her arm rested upon the desk in front of us. I barely paused before extending my hand to meet hers. My fingertips touched the raised marks on her skin. Soft. Not grotesque. Not grotesquely jagged, but simply imperfect, warm, and alive.

My breath hitched. My teeth. The way they pressed against my tongue. How suddenly my mouth was filled with saliva. I swallowed fast, but not fast enough. She knew. Of course she did. There was a change in her face. Not shock, not terror. Something more definite. Serious and sharp, staring directly into me.

"Do you want to watch?" Her tone had changed. It carried gravity. Intentions.

I didn't think I would be able to trust my voice. I just nodded. A moment.

"…I have a favor." The words fell from my mouth, uncontrolled.

"Yeah?" She pulled out a box cutter from beside her, the heart-shaped sticker on the blade cracked around the edges. 

It wasn't too late for me to take back what I said. But I didn't. "Have you got a plate?"

“…A plate?” She chuckled for the first time. It was abrupt and hard, it seemed to escape from her mouth accidentally. “What the fuck for?”

I adjusted myself in my seat. The carpet was harsh under my butt. “I have a craving.”

She froze. Her eyes grew wide, not in terror, but in comprehension.

My throat closed up. “It’s been…” I faltered, but I kept going. “It’s been here a while now.”

There was a silence between us.

“Since I was a child.” I didn’t let my gaze falter from hers.

“And I don’t eat meat.” The whisper was almost inaudible. “Been doing that for quite a while now too. Easier that way.”

Much easier to ignore that it had been there at all.

“This is about as close as I’ve come.” The words slipped out, barely audible. “Just… one drop.”

I almost believed that I’d pushed her too far, that she would start laughing or tell me to get out or look at me as everybody else always would. Instead, she rose to her feet. My heart constricted. I prepared for refusal, disgust, an order to leave. She did not make me go.

She departed the room in silence, and time seemed to expand into eternity. I could sense some movement somewhere else in the apartment, perhaps drawers being pulled open, something ceramic moving around. And then she returned.

A plate held by her in her hand. One with rims. Simple. And she put it on the table. We were doing this. This was happening.

Without another word, she returned to sitting opposite me, box cutter in hand. The chipped heart sticker caught the light briefly, then hid from view as she took hold of it. Her blade found its place along the skin of her arm, and she dragged it down slowly, deliberately, expertly.

Another addition to the collection.

“…Not down?” It was an instinctive response, one that I couldn’t quite keep to myself. There was a certain something in my tone, edged with accidental disappointment.

She did not look at me as she replied, bluntly and without a second thought. “It’s harder to heal that way,” she said flatly. “And easier to kill myself.” A pause. Then, almost as an afterthought, “do you want me to die?” 

I searched her face for a trace of sarcasm. There was none. Just that same hollow steadiness, like the answer didn’t matter either way.

“No.”

The word came quickly. Too quickly. 

Not yet. The thought followed, uninvited.

I said nothing.

The blood pooled reluctantly before dripping out from the wound and into the plate placed between us, making that gentle, almost soothing sound as they hit the ceramic edges. 

The more my wound enlarged, the hungrier I got. It happened too fast for me to contain it, as my body started to betray me in little shameful ways.

It would have been nice if I could lean forward. Go closer. Snatch it up before it had even dropped. Suck right off the source. However, there was no way in the world I would do that on our first feeding. Too intimate. I barely knew her name.

Chapter Text

She started to clean the wound when the blood began to coagulate around her skin. I took the plate and found out that it had not much to spare. Not enough to justify anything more than what I was about to do. It was not worth using a spoon for. I took the plate close to my lips and just licked it.

The reaction was immediate. Wrong.

That taste that I had been craving, no, that I have been longing for, years, almost decades, I could feel it disintegrate upon the tip of my tongue.

Not this one. This was harsh. Watery. Hollow. Bitter. Bland. Absolutely nothing like I recalled.

It felt like someone had turned my stomach inside out. My body lurched backward as I forcefully placed the plate down, more violently than intended. Her eyes followed mine. And waited.

“So?”

My voice was dry, constricted. It was like some ancient, dormant part of myself was beginning to awaken. 

“…It’s not blood.” I could barely get the words out through a clenched throat.

“Excuse me?” There was an edge to her voice.

“I don’t have a craving for blood.” The realization settled in slowly, heavily, like something clicking into place far too late.

“Then what are you craving?” she snapped. “You were practically…” She cut herself off, jaw tightening. “You wanted it.”

I did. Just not this.

"My brother."

The room went dead silent.

Her head snapped towards me, too fast. "What?"

"His blood," I said, my voice lowering. "It's the only thing that… well…" My voice died in my throat. "It's the only thing that makes sense."

A moment passed, and then she nodded. Slowly. Carefully. Like she was thinking things over for herself.

“Got it…” Her eyes flickered downward to her own arm before meeting mine once again. “Would mine be enough? To feed you, but not fulfill you?”

I met her eyes and it clicked. She wasn’t questioning me out of simple curiosity. She wasn’t shocked by what I said, nor was she surprised by it. She was making an offer. Not of herself, she could do better than that. Of her purpose. Of how she could fit into this equation as well. How she could be used even now, right here, as a living, breathing supply of blood to a practical stranger. A vampiric blood bag.

“It could work.”

• ───────────────── •

She became my Saturday night every week, like clockwork. Nothing else mattered but the feeding. Nothing else mattered but the taste of her blood and the feeling of power that it provided me. Her thoughts and the pain were insignificant, as well as her reasons for being alone and for self-mutilation.

However, she wanted to know me. She listened to me. She paid attention to details that she did not need to hear and cared about my life and experiences. I only knew her name and the taste of her blood, which was sufficient for me.

I did not want to know her. Knowing her would mean that she would turn into a person who needs sympathy and understanding. I had to keep her on the border between human and monster, so that she remained an object for me and the ritual, an object of my desires.

If she left me or started treating me as an ordinary man, everything would be ruined. Therefore, I created barriers between us. The only thing that connected us was my voice, which filled the silence while she removed bandages and bled on the plate.

She did not pry into my personal information past what I provided. She stayed away from probing too deep into the areas I needed left alone. And yet, through all of this, some sort of odd trust built up between us. It wasn’t trust in each other, nor was it trust in our connection, but rather, it was the strange kind of trust one can develop toward something abstract, towards a repetitive ritual of destruction.

Every time I would leave her place, the only thought on my mind was her. It wasn’t about who she was, about her personality, or emotions, or even about the frailness of her physical form, but about the image of the blood, of the sensation of her skin beneath the bandages, and the movements that were clearly the result of extensive practice.

I consciously chose to avoid any association with her humanity, because that was the very thing that would break the spell and rob me of the excitement. I would no longer see her as just another human being, because she was more than that for me, she was a ritual object that willingly offered herself as such.

"Does it taste better this time?" She looked at me intently, dragging myself from my own thoughts. Serious, so much so that I felt a tightening in my chest.

"Based on what?" I wiped my mouth with the back of my sleeve, it did little good. I did not care anyway, I had long stopped caring about such minor things.

"You said it was sweet," she said, standing and lifting the plate. Her motions were slower, somehow different. "Your brother's," she said, pausing for a moment. "I've been having more sweets," she added, almost casually. "I thought it would change something."

I frowned slightly, unsure if it really mattered, wondering if it could have affected the taste somehow.

"…No, I don't think it has." Or maybe I simply wished it hadn't.

"Perhaps it's the method," I mused aloud.

She paused, turning to face me once again. "The method?"

"When I tried his," I explained, putting the puzzle together bit by bit, "it was different. It wasn’t collected."

"I mean," I continued, gesturing towards the plate she now held, "direct."

She leaned forward slightly, propping herself up on her elbows. "You think it makes any difference?"

“I don’t know.” But I wanted it to.

“You think his skin was the sweet part?” she asked.

I turned my gaze towards her. Her form was slimmer than when I had first met her, and paler as well. Something seemed fragile about her that hadn’t been there before. It was used up, in small pieces at a time. I noticed all this. I didn’t stop.

“…Maybe,” I said. “Skin’s supposed to be salty-sweet, right?”

She went quiet for a moment. Then, “…Do you want to try?”

She held out her hand across the desk. “Just like that.”

There was a little tremor in her fingers. Whether due to exhaustion or some other reason, I couldn’t say.

“And you can imagine that I am him,” she said.

It hung there in the air between us. I looked at her hand. Not her. Her hand. Outstretched. Patiently waiting. Every time I visited, she became a little more distant. I could see it in the emptiness of her voice and in the effort she made to sustain what I took from her.

I circled the table and took her hand in my own, intertwining our fingers.

It was not the same. Her hand was delicate. Fragile. Too light in my grasp, as if it would break under pressure. My brother’s hands had never been anything else, wide, roughened by years of labor. Strong. Tangible.

But this was not him, not remotely so. Yet if I shut my eyes…

I gently pulled her arm up. The cut was still raw, the skin slit open enough to glimmer.

Her eyes met mine. There was something in the way she looked that had been missing from her face before, the flush, almost unnoticeable, spreading across her face and into her eyes. Alive. It did not feel right. I shut my eyes.

I kissed her wrist with my mouth. She inhaled sharply, squeezing my hand with her own. Her whole body was shaking in a manner that passed on to me from her hand into mine. I could tell you everything about this moment, from the slight shivers to her uneven breathing. 

But it was all for nothing. It wasn’t sweet, it wasn’t right. 

Chapter Text

She went silent after I said that it hadn’t tasted like him.

The color in her cheeks faded just as fast as they had come. The same flame that had lit up inside her vanished. Was she ever there at all? She hardly spoke anymore. The room grew still in an awkward sort of silence, which lingered throughout the night until we finally approached the window. The distant drones of light that filled the sky. 

"... Happy New Year." She took a sip of her drink, her voice much softer now, reduced to nothing more than a whisper.

"And we're trapped inside," I said.

She nodded, not looking away from the glass and the colors that were not hers.

"You see, you know..." she said quietly. "They say Americans kiss at midnight."

"Interesting."

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her move a little closer.

"Thankfully we are not Americans," I remarked without turning to her. It was my brother calling on my phone, I could feel it vibrating in my pocket, but I did nothing.

It became quiet. She did not let go. Again, she came closer, initially tentative, then firmly until her shoulder touched mine. Her fingers touched my jaw gently but forcefully, moving my face to her direction.

She leaned in the rest of the way, putting her lips on mine. And I didn’t do anything. I didn’t resist. I guess I just thought that it would be easier to allow it rather than to say no and face whatever happens afterward. Her lips were rough. They were chapped. Our eyes stayed open. Her breath was coming in short bursts, too hot for what it should have been. The kiss lasted for too long. For an unnatural period of time.

And she took my lack of resistance for consent. Yes, why wouldn’t she? She pressed even tighter, attempting to take the kiss where it never had to go.

I bit her lip. Hard. Rough. In a manner it shouldn’t have been done. I broke the skin. Causing blood to come out. She let out a sharp cry and pulled away from me. Immediately after that, I snatched my bag and walked out.

• ───────────────── •

For some reason, when it came time for Saturday, we found ourselves right back in her apartment. It was a routine. One that was seriously messed up.

But she sat closer. Close enough for us to brush against each other whenever she shifted slightly, close enough that I could hear the erratic rhythm of her breath without even trying. In silence, she filled the plate.

The cut was not as deep as the previous time, though her hands did tremble slightly, showing how much things were escalating for her. Tear marks remained barely visible on her face, dry and forgotten. Maybe she no longer cared about covering them up, or maybe there were too many already. Either way, I watched. I always watched.

Emotions were supposed to be… complex. Or something like that. But I knew all I needed to know. She didn’t really care about me. Not that way. She was obsessed with  being needed by someone, with being somebody, with being someone who was irreplaceable. The exact same way as me, except her demands were greater than mine, while mine consisted of one thing only.

This time, I drank out of the plate. It was simpler. Cleaner. No sense putting her at risk for infection again by trying to press my lips against her skin, mixing life with death. Though, it wouldn’t have mattered much.

She watched me as always.

We spoke, but it didn’t really matter what we said. It was just something to fill the air. Meaningless words exchanged. A pointless dialogue, lacking any form of destination. I continued talking about my brother, wondering what he could be up to and where he might be. Absent facts that were impossible for me to know, but nonetheless I uttered, as if saying them would somehow make them true.

She listened. Naturally.

• ───────────────── •

Upon opening my eyes, I felt like my body weighed a ton. I must have fallen asleep sitting at the table. The air seemed different somehow, it had thickened and tasted metallic, leaving a foul taste in my mouth before I even knew what was wrong.

As I sat up, the plate was full. At first, this was all that registered. I turned my head slightly to look beside me, Yè Líng did not move.

The girl’s body was still there in its slouched position, her arms lying in a rather strange way on the desk. The bandages were gone. What was left behind was… too much. Messed up. Nothing like the neat cuts she used to do, it was chaotic and untidy. Too deep. Too much. Deep enough to see glimpses of bone beneath the spewage of fat.

I felt the urge to vomit, but suppressed it. I did not belong here. I needed to leave, and fast. Before I knew what I was doing, my fingers had dialed him, a call made just from sheer memory.

I didn’t know what to say. “She’s dead.”

The words rolled off my tongue flatly. As if I were stating some inconsequential matter. There was silence from the other end. I hadn’t called the police. It had not even crossed my mind.

There was only one person whom I needed to hear at such a time. One person whom everything made sense in my mind. Half an hour later, Zhōu appeared at her doorstep. My brother. He was the reason for all this.

I still didn’t know what I was supposed to do.

Chapter Text

The police never knew what had happened that day. Neither did Zhōu.

They would never realize that she died due to a craving. Mine, for my brother’s blood. Hers, to be loved.

There are things I will never know. Why she began to self-harm. Why she was living alone. If she wanted to die, or if she simply wanted to satisfy my desire.

I would never find out what her last words were. What kind of expression she made while she was doing it. I wanted to know. But now, all I have left are the memories.

Her face haunts me. I see her at school, standing somewhere at the edge of the crowd. I see her inside my closet, hiding inside the darkness where I know that there is no place for anything living. She looks furious. Sometimes, she is screaming. Other times, the blood slowly emerges from behind the bathroom door, dripping, until it is pooling at my feet. I could hear her knocking at it, begging to come out. I don’t think she knows she’s dead. I don’t think she’s real, either. 

Yè Líng, I wish you knew what you did to me.

I haven’t slept well in months. 

Zhōu moved back home after that. Said he wanted to take care of me. Keep me stable. As if that was ever possible. I was never sane. Not with him. Not when he was the only other person who saw her like that, before the police came. Not when he was the source of this. The reason she died.

I couldn’t tell anyone. People would blame me, blame me for killing her. I didn’t kill her. She killed herself. People would say that I’m the reason she killed herself. I’m not. My brother is.

Zhōu started it. 

“…Yì.” Zhōu’s voice cut through the haze of my thoughts.

Dinner. Right. We were eating dinner.

“Yes?” I muttered.

“Can I ask you something?”

He asked the same thing every night for months now. Are you okay? How are you feeling? Do you want to talk?

“I told you, I’m fine.” I forced a laugh and shook my head. “You worry too much.”

He didn’t laugh. “…Why was there a plate?”

My chopsticks froze midair. What?

“Excuse me?” Another forced laugh, weaker this time.

“Beside her… there was a plate. Filled with her blood. Why would she do that?”

Fuck. He noticed. That was the one thing I never wanted him, of all people, to notice.

“I… I don’t know… I…” I sputtered, words tripping over themselves. “I was asleep, Zhōu. I… I didn’t have time to ask her.”

“I know, but…” His eyes stayed fixed on his bowl, then slowly lifted to meet mine. “People don’t do that. Even if they’re crazy, they wouldn’t just… fill a plate with blood. Especially not in front of a sleeping person.”

“She wasn’t crazy. She was… troubled. Troubled people would do that.”

“Would they, Yì?”

Heat crawled up the back of my neck. My throat was dry, swallowing felt like sandpaper.

“What are you accusing me of?”

“I’m not accusing you of anything!” His voice cracked as he suddenly stood.

For a second, I believed him. He wasn’t accusing me, he was searching for understanding. For closure.

But then… his expression shifted. Confusion, calculation… unintentional confirmation.

“…Why would you assume I’m accusing you?”

Silence, that was the only way out of this. It had to be. 

“…I’m going to bed.” I rose slowly, every movement measured, calm, deliberate.

“Yì… did you kill her?” His voice broke again, raw, near tears.

I froze. Fuck.

“No. I didn’t.” My teeth clenched, my hands trembled slightly at my sides.

I needed to calm down. Now.

A knot formed in my chest, a low flame climbed my spine. Heat coiled in the back of my eyes, the back of my ears, burning into my fingers, itching for violence, for strength, for annihilation. Calm down, calm down. My heart pounded in my head, my breathing rapid and shallow, as though each word that fell from his mouth stoked a primal instinct in me. The walls closed in around me, the air grew heavy, and each syllable that escaped his lips was a match on tinder. I yearned to shout, to slam him into the wall, to make him realize that he had created me like this. Calm down.

“You did!” I shouted, my voice raw, trembling with the weight of every craving, every moment she had died for.

He scoffed, taken aback. “I didn’t even know her! What the fuck are you on about, Yì?”

“You made me this way!” I roared, stepping closer, hands trembling. “You made me do it. You made me need it!”

Tears pricked at my eyes. My lip trembled, unsteady, betraying me. I didn’t want to be like this, not like a monster, not like someone I didn’t recognize.

“I was only a kid, Zhōu. I didn’t know I…” My voice faltered, cracking at the end.

He tilted his head, slow. “Yì? Did you… do something?”

It was like a sword cut into me. Had I done anything wrong? Of course I had, but not for the reasons he believes or is afraid of. My insides churned at the thought of my deeds and the horror they caused me. The realization weighed on me heavily, a truth too scary and dangerous to bear. It was the truth of what I have done, that instead of me staying over at a friend's and falling asleep, I had fed on her blood and drank her life instead. Could it have been better if I had killed her with my own hands?

The worst part was that I didn’t feel bad about what I’d done. I didn’t have any regret for what I’d done to her. I didn’t feel any shame for what I’d done to her. I felt it when he found out what I did. I felt bad because I got caught.

I shouldn’t have said what I did, but the words slipped out before I could catch them. “You started it.”

His features hardened for a split second, confusion and pain and shock warring with each other. I could see all that in his expression, and I could feel my own heart thudding. I knew I’d crossed a line, that the sound of my own voice had betrayed me as much as my actions had.

Chapter Text

He opened his mouth to speak, but I cut him off before he could.

“You killed her.” My voice came out sharper than I expected, already shaking. “You made me this way. If you had just… if you had watched me, if you had stopped me, I wouldn’t have…”

“What did you do, Yì.”

It was no longer a question. I stopped moving. For a brief moment, I considered lying. Lying to him. But then I noticed those words, those damning words, stuck in my throat.

“I drank her blood.”

Silence. No confusion. No rage. Only... silence. As if his thoughts were frozen. I exhaled a chuckle of sorts.

“And every single time,” I went on, softer now, “it wasn’t even her.”

His look changed. Just that much was enough.

“I could only think about you,” I whispered, my voice breaking, but then steadying in the worst way possible. “How it tasted when I was five. How it tasted perfectly clear in my mouth.”

“Yi--”

“I have been thirsting after your blood for twelve fucking years, Zhōu.”

It hit home. I knew it by the look on his face. He finally understood it wasn’t some abstract notion anymore.

“I tried to find an alternative,” I told him, words pouring out. “That’s why I did this. That’s why I chose her. It failed. All of it did. None of it has been enough.”

My hands trembled, but I didn’t bother trying to keep that from happening. “And you want me to confess my sins to you? You already know.”

He appeared stricken, as if ready to cry any moment. For an instant, I felt like laughing. “You’ve created a monster.”

I moved closer, and he did not move. Another step forward.

“And are you just going to stand there?” Now, my voice sounded more threatening, more serious. “After all that?”

One more step. Now, close enough for me to see how he swallowed through his throat.

“You’re going to take the blame for that?”

“Yì…” Now, his voice wavered. He stepped back. “You’re scaring me.”

Something snapped in my heart--a feeling ugly and sharp.

“You’re scared of me?” I released a breath that could have been laughter. “This is scary to you?”

I’d moved even closer. He’d slammed into the wall this time.

“Was she terrifying? Was she scary?” I asked him. “While she sat there. While she bled for me. While I…”

I couldn’t finish the sentence. Not because I felt guilty. But because I was frustrated.

“You don’t get to be scared now,” I snapped. “Not after you made me like this.”

“I didn’t make you--” he started, too fast, too desperate.

“You did.” I leaned in just slightly, lowering my voice.

“You’re the only thing that’s ever tasted right.”

• ───────────────── •

We immediately went to sleep after that. I lied down, listened. Waited for it. Whisper of his voice through the wall. Phone call. Keys tapping softly. Dialing the police. Sending an email to some private investigator. Messaging a hotline—anything. Something. But nothing happened. Only the whisper of his body movements in the other room. Bedsheets moving. Breathings. Silence.

I was staring at the wall. Behind me was the bathroom door. Yè Líng scratched it yet again. She started slowly but gradually increased the intensity of her scratchings. She started scratching the wood hard with her nails, scratching it into splinters, tearing the wood with it until she scratched desperately, crazily, desperately screaming her pain through the scratches on the wood. And then I closed my eyes. I didn't remember her face. Sometimes I try, but I just can’t. It always slips from my mind, distorting and warping until the image is distorted beyond recognition, beyond comprehension. Except for the smell. Iron scent never leaves. Sweet and sickeningly iron. Slipping under the door frame slowly, patiently, as if there was all eternity for this. I knew it was not true. I knew it, but somehow...sometimes...slowly...carefully, I inhaled it again.

Other times, I tried opening the door. My fingers curled around the doorknob hesitantly, as if I expected it to retaliate against my touch. The scraping noise would always pause for a split second. But the silence that followed was too immediate, too perfect, as if it had not been there in the first place. 

I twisted the doorknob regardless. I opened the door. Nothing happened. No red staining the wood of the doorframe, no scent of death, no scream. Only the bathroom. Unchanged. Lifeless. Normal. I had grown accustomed to the shrieking, but the silence threw me off.

I heard a hiss coming from Zhōu’s room, along with some rustling noises. There was something about the sound that caused me to feel uneasy. My legs started moving towards his room even before I realized what I was doing.

“Zhōu?” I said, knocking lightly on his door. “Are you alright?”

There was a pause, and then the rustling noise intensified.

“Shit--I am…yes, I am.”

It certainly didn’t sound like he was okay. “…May I come in?”

“No.” It was too quick, and there was a brief silence before he continued. “I’ll be out here in a moment.”

After several moments, Zhōu finally answered his door.

Zhōu was standing inside the door frame without a shirt on, somewhat winded. He looked fairly normal--bed head, ragged breathing, sleepy-eyed as ever. 

Apart from one thing. His hand had a brand new bandage on it.

My gaze fastened itself there instantly.

“Did you injure your hand?” I said.

I made myself try to sound calm. I tried not to look at it. But I couldn’t help feeling it--the attraction, that familiar tug, coming into play in the back of my throat. Before my brain even had time to process it, my mouth started working on its own accord, salivating involuntarily.

“Yeah… um, my lamp broke.”

“...No it didn’t.”

His face changed. Slightly. But just enough. “What?” This time there was no question in his tone, but rather one of challenge. His tone hardened as he spoke.

My eyes never left his.

I knew the layout of his room. Too well. It used to be significant for me to do so--to find things for him, of course. Make things easier. Sort of. Not really.

“Your lamp is made out of plastic,” I replied softly. “It doesn’t break like that.”

Dead silence. Zhōu’s jaw clenched tight.

I thought he would slam the door in my face. But he simply moved his hand behind his back.

"Did you cut yourself?"

No reply.

"That’s a stupid spot to cut."

"Funny," he snarled.

I scrutinized him intently. "Did you do it for me?"

"No." Promptly. Far too promptly.

I tilted my head. "Are you sure?"

The response was different. Zhōu’s hands quivered at the corner of the door frame. Once. Involuntary. Tiny.

"Yes," he repeated, but slowly now. Forced. "Of course I am sure."

I took a step forward. Not close enough to encroach on his personal space. Just close enough to shift the dynamic between us.

"But why lie?"

He stopped. And then he let out a breath, as though the entire exchange had left him drained of energy.

“…How is it that you kids manage that?” he asked, almost to himself. “I struggle to cut deep enough with a hunting knife. How could a kid do that…”

His eyes darted away from me. Not toward me. Beyond me. As though he was reluctant to finish staring at the thought.

“I want to show you.” I whispered. No response.

Zhōu didn’t reply immediately, when he did, however, his tone was softer. Different somehow.

“I need to face up to my responsibilities.” He finally met my gaze. Truly met my gaze. There was something different about his face--a lack of evasion, a lack of fear. It was just something weary and resigned in his eyes.

Great.

There was nothing inside him that was moving anymore, like whatever fight he was having with himself was already resolved.

“I could’ve prevented it sooner,” he whispered. “I could’ve seen it coming. I could’ve done something. But I let it go on this long.” His eyes lowered, and when they lifted again, they were clear. “But since I didn’t prevent it, I will fix it now.”

Correct it. The thought was heavy between us. My lungs constricted.

“Fix it?” I asked gently.

He nodded sharply. Quick. As if he already understood what it would take. And he did not include himself or his needs anymore.

Excellent. No, not excellent. Essential. I took a step forward. Zhōu didn’t step away from me this time. It was different. It was vital.

“Finally, you’re being honest,” I whispered.

His eyes fluttered. Neither in acceptance nor denial. Just quiet. Almost a farewell.

Chapter Text

I was sitting on the couch, straddling Zhōu’s thigh as he lay there on his back, breathing in slow and controlled puffs of air. The blade of a pocket knife in his shaking hand, undoubtedly dull. Should I tell him? Maybe he’ll notice. Maybe he’ll press it against his skin until it gives out. I won't tell him yet.

He was terrified--not the panicked kind of terror but something deeper and worse.

Zhōu had always had an air of stability about him. He seemed too large for any space in which he stood. Even when he was younger, he held himself in such a way that made it clear he was someone who protected others. Now he was scared under me, breathing shallowly, the knife wobbling as he clenched tighter.

It was different from seeing Yè Líng do it.

She knew how far to go with each incision; she knew precisely where to cut and what to do with it. There was a precision to her actions, a ritualistic precision. No fear or uncertainty--only repetition. Only destruction. The bandaging was like taking care of herself before she sat to eat dinner. After… I sat to eat dinner.

But Zhōu was different. He lacked the necessary experience to mask his fear.

The first time he hurt himself, the wound barely punctured the surface. A mere scratch of blood that unwillingly trickled across the surface of his hand before clotting almost instantly. He had looked at it afterwards as if he had come to hate himself as soon as he had touched the blade.

Now the knife dangled above the inner part of his wrist. His hand trembled violently. I just sat there watching.

There was something about our positioning that seemed terribly off about it. The weight of my body resting against his leg made me aware of the muscle tautness that came with each breath. His other hand still pressed firmly on my waist, it wasn’t intended intimately nor tenderly but simply to keep one of us steady. I didn’t know which.

“You’re holding it too tightly,” I said softly.

His jaw tensed.

"I know."

"No, you don't." My gaze flickered over the useless position of the knife on his skin. "If you continue to hold it like that, it will cause you more pain."

He scrunched up his face in a very fleeting moment. That was what I wanted--even partially.

“You sound experienced,” he muttered bitterly.

I nearly laughed. Instead, I reached down and took his hand in mine.

"See?" I murmured. "Relax your grip."

His breathing stopped as I lined up the blade on his skin, slowly turning it by applying gentle pressure. This was an act that could have been intimate, if we were not brothers. But since we were brothers, it became grotesque.

I hungered for him.

It was not just the blood that I craved, it was the meaning behind it, the flavor that I had tasted so many years ago and that had never left me. Now, he was offering himself to me freely, putting the blade in my hand and allowing me to determine its depth.

It was perverted. It was wrong.

Saliva pooled in my mouth like a filthy traitor because of it. Because of the idea of having that taste on my tongue again after all those years, the taste that had left a gaping hole inside me and inside her for not being there.

Zhōu swallowed roughly beneath me.

“You’re trembling,” I whispered.

“So are you.”

I smiled at that. We were trembling for very different reasons.

His blade hovered on the inside of his wrist, applying just the right pressure to create an indentation but not break the skin. I could sense his heartbeat beneath my fingers, frenzied and irregular, giving away every bit of terror he tried to hide.

"Does it scare you?" I asked softly.

There was no reply at first.

"Yes," he said after a moment, his voice gravelly.

Oddly, having him confirm that he was scared just fueled my desire.

The blood came slowly, flowing in a dark river from the small slice as it finally made its way out through his skin. 

Zhōu shuddered beneath me, his hands spasming in a spasm of involuntary reaction to the rush of pain coursing through him. And I was high with excitement. Not because it hurt him. Not exactly. Because of him. Because this blood now spilled out for the first time in so long was my reward for searching for it for years. For pursuing it through the bodies of those who had none left to give.

“Okay…okay, stop, stop,” he choked, his voice cracking in a way that made me think he was about to cry out.

I withdrew the blade instantly, letting it slip from my hand and drop noisily next to the sofa, hitting the hard wood with a metallic clatter. My eyes were elsewhere now.

I squeezed my fingers harder around his wrist, watching the flow of blood slowly making its way down his skin. Not much. But enough.

“You’re not actually going to…”

I leaned down before he could finish.

It was the instant my tongue made contact with his flesh that broke within me.

Sweet. But not sugar sweet. Nor pleasant. Deeper, darker, more complex than that, just as I recalled from my childhood. The sensation of his flesh rasping across my tongue brought an electric shock straight to my spine, so powerful I could barely keep back the moan that came out after.

For the first time in ages, the craving began to loosen its hold on me.

Zhōu lay perfectly still under me. I could feel his eyes upon me. Not his brother. His creation. 

I raised my gaze to meet his while still holding onto his wrist. Zhōu seemed utterly defeated.

No, not physically. That hadn’t happened yet. But there was moisture gathering in his eyes, and his breathing had become jagged within his chest as if his body was now confused about how it should function. He wasn’t scared of the pain. The slash had been a minor one. He was terrified of the truth.

In that moment, I realized that I’d never seen my older brother look so vulnerable. Not weak. Never that. But trapped in some sense, exposed as a man underneath my hands. 

With every breath that left me, his grip on my waist tightened--painfully so. Perhaps as an act of revenge?

I dragged my tongue lightly across the wound again, savoring the lingering taste.

Zhōu flinched sharply beneath me, a strained sound escaping him before he could stop it. His fingers dug even deeper into my side afterward, like he regretted reacting at all. Like he hated that his body kept betraying him in tiny, involuntary ways.

I watched every single one.

The tension never left his body under me, his skin taut under the thin material of his shirt. With every shallow breath he took, his chest moved up and down with an effortful rhythm that seemed to try to control his emotions.

Finally, the blood stopped completely.

After a few more moments of stillness, I placed a soft kiss on his wound. The gesture surprised even me. Maybe it was impulse. Probably something uglier stirring within me.

Afterward, Zhōu became very quiet.

His hands that were pressing into me just seconds ago released their hold a bit. His injured hand moved higher up, seeking out my hair hesitantly, like it wasn’t quite sure what to do. I kept my head down by his wrist, his skin warm against my lips.

“...Do you hate me?” I murmured. It was an unexpected question that slipped out without me being able to stop myself.

I had never before been made so vulnerable within myself. Flayed wide in a way that the blade would not be able to accomplish.

Zhōu did not immediately respond. He studied my face intently, as if trying to see something that had remained untouched by the desire and brutality that I possessed. Something unmistakably human.

Then he traced his fingers slowly through my hair.

“...No,” he whispered finally. “Never.”

It seemed to hurt him to utter those words. But he wore a faint smile despite that, exhausted and lovingly so.

There was a sharp twist in my chest at the sight of it.

“You look pale,” I said softly.

He laughed lightly under the weight of his fatigue.

“You sucked me dry.”

Chapter Text

Zhōu hardly spoke to me afterward. But lack of speech doesn’t always imply absence.

I saw Zhōu everywhere even though he didn’t stand directly by my side. He hovered around rooms like a ghost, attempting to avoid looking too much like one. When I was in the kitchen, I would spot Zhōu a few minutes later when he had come ostensibly for water. When I was in the living room, Zhōu’s footfall would eventually stop somewhere close by for some inconsequential excuse to stay behind.

Looking at me without wishing to be caught at it. But I could see everything.

He had moments when he would stare at my mouth before turning away abruptly. There were other moments too, when he would look at my hands inadvertently, reminding him of the way they had pinned him down onto the sofa.

The pristine white cloth was tucked neatly into his wrist under his shirt sleeve, replaced often, meticulously cared for. I taught him the proper way to care for it after the cutting. He listened to me in absolute silence when I was speaking, his eyes not on mine but somewhere beyond.

“You should rest more,” I told him once after noticing the faint discoloration beneath his eyes.

Zhōu shook his head quietly. “I’m fine.”

“You’re pale.”

“You already mentioned that.” His tone was not harsh. It was worse, actually, because of that. He sounded tired, in some sort of irreversible sense, as if something had happened to him, and he didn’t know how to fix it.

He bound up his wrist with the clean bandage, using only one hand. As if he knew that he would have to do it again soon.

• ───────────────── •

A few days passed, and the hunger returned. It was inevitable. This time, though, Zhōu backed away from me. Suddenly. With no warning, like a door being slammed in the middle of talking.

“What’s the deal?” I hissed, sharper than I meant to.

“We can’t,” he said.

I blinked. “Can’t what?”

His jaw tightened. “My coworker noticed my wrist. I had to make up some stupid excuse. I can’t keep doing this.”

Ah. Peoples. They’re always making everything more complicated than it ought to be.

“So don’t do it where they can see,” I said.

His gaze rose to meet mine. 

“…Where?” he asked, like he didn’t actually believe there was an answer.

A silence fell between us.

“Your belly?” I suggested.

His throat moved as he swallowed. “That’s not what I meant.”

But he hadn’t left. He remained standing there. Listening. Begging.

I leaned forward just a little bit, watching him attentively.

“If you stop,” I said quietly, “then someone else will have to.”

His face twisted into something different instantly. Not anger. Something worse. It was guilt. That always-handy emotion.

“I mean,” I added, softer, “if you want someone else to take your place… if you want another girl to die instead--”

"No." The word was too quick, too harsh. For a moment, he closed his eyes as if hating himself for the speed of his response. 

“…Okay,” he said finally, voice lower now. “Just… not where anyone can see.”

In an instant, he was back under me, collapsing onto the couch as something unwilling to keep any sort of form.

He hadn’t bothered to take off his work clothes either. He let me untuck his shirt from the waistband of his pants, letting his shirt struggle under the process of getting untucked. It was as if he had tried to make himself as small as possible without actually becoming smaller, but this room was not big enough for such silence. Then I began unbuttoning his shirt until I could reach the flesh on his belly.

His request held heavy in the air.

“Don’t make me watch.”

His arm covered his face fully, putting pressure on it strong enough for me to see the tight muscles of his forearm and how tense his body became in preparation of something unpleasant.

I didn’t respond to him. Didn’t even need to. 

This time the knife felt different. Not unknown, but heavier.

I positioned myself automatically, as if my body had memorized the steps and was just awaiting approval to move on.

And when the time came, his breath hitched and he let out a strangled whimper. 

No scream. But a noise that tried to form a scream and fell short.

It didn’t stop him from recoiling, however, the reaction automatic and instantaneous, as if his body had let down whatever deal his mind had attempted to negotiate.

I stared into his face the whole time he refused to meet mine. This is where my gaze would not waver. Not the deed. Not even the man. Only the fact that he did not move despite a voice in his head demanding him to run.

I leaned in without thinking about it anymore.

The smell of iron filled the space between us--familiar in a way that made my thoughts blur at the edges.

He flinched beneath me, trying to keep himself still, but he couldn’t quite help himself from shifting in ways I knew were unconscious. Not resistance, merely panic grasping at something to hold on to. I had my hands on his hips as he writhed beneath me like a slug doused in salt.

I kept my hands tight around him so that he wouldn’t fall apart.

His breath came in ragged bits and pieces. Every intake of air seemed to be excruciatingly difficult. The thing that hurt the most was how truly present he was--how utterly real this was to him as opposed to how utterly disconnected everything was to me.

Like I was the only one existing in inevitability.

He leaned into me, trying to make it better, but it didn’t really help. He clung to me with a leg wrapped around my back. He was drenched with sweat from being eaten alive by his brother in a way that was all his doing. It made things clearer in that nothing was safe anymore.

But he did not leave.

He allowed me to lick the wound dry while his fingers twisted frantically within my hair. It was difficult to tell whether or not I was reducing or increasing the amount of his pain, but whatever it was that he was feeling was evident in the way his breath caught and became more labored. He was burning with fever, sweat breaking out upon his body cold and clammy.

I sat back slightly and stared into his face, noting the frantic dilation of his pupils.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah… I’m fine…”

I raised myself slowly, causing him to meet my eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Are you done?” he asked, panting heavily.

“For now.”

I glanced down towards his stomach where the hair was matted red from blood.

Just under his stomach was an area that belonged to my brother that I had never noticed before. I averted my eyes quickly, looking away because for his sake, but still the scene seared itself into my mind with a ghastly clarity.

I buried my head on his chest, sighing heavily as his hand returned to my hair. It was disgusting. It was sick. It made all that was sacred about our relationship perverse. However, the thought of him enjoying himself at his own expense, of taking pleasure from his perverted actions, made it even more sickening.

He was twenty-seven years old, completely sick in the world, and for him this kind of closeness was a rape. This physical connection was new, and yet, according to all the rules of nature, it should have been an abomination. Instead, it gave me a shameful thrill.

And there came a feeling like ice into my chest. He was mine for the taking.

If being ravaged in the worst possible way by his own little brother brought him pleasure, then he was in my power. I could make him do anything that I wanted to do with him. Not only would I bleed him dry until he was nothing but an empty husk left behind on my floor, but I would take the last breath out of him if he allowed it.

And there were ways in which I could torment him beyond the memory of that poor girl. If I wanted to make sure that he stayed with me forever, all that I had to do was tear him apart from within.

I propped myself up, towering above him, as he laid sprawled out and exposed upon the couch. His hand reached for the injury, his fingers quivering.

"I should... probably clean this," he said, trailing off into another faint giggle. It was the laugh of a man who has started to go insane due to his own blood loss.

"Right." But I didn't move. Not yet.

I bent down again, deliberately taking my time as the heat of my skin brushed against his. I heard his breath catch, a harsh, sudden intake of air in the stillness of the room. The same cold thrill of satisfaction flowed through me, so easily provoking him.

I kissed the edge of his wound gently, in much the same way as I did last night. I heard him choke, a pained cry that shook through his whole chest.

But then, just as he started to press forward into me, I pulled back and got off him, cold and calculating. Just a little tease. Just a small taste of what I could give him.

I heard him wince behind me as I walked away.

"Wait-"

I stopped and turned around to look at him. "Yes?"

He gulped and glanced at me. The intimidating aura that had always surrounded the older brother was slowly fading away, revealing the vulnerable side within him.

"Did you… see?”

A part of me wanted to pretend that I didn't understand what he was talking about by asking him what he meant. But then again, it seemed like an exciting game when he knew I knew. 

"No," I said.

My lie was obvious. If I truly didn't see it, I wouldn't have needed to ask him what he meant. He noticed it as soon as I did, which is why I saw fear and horror in his eyes. We both knew the reality but he was too afraid to talk about it directly.

I hoped he would give in and beg me to admit the truth. However, he did nothing else but stand up, clean his wound, change, and go inside the kitchen to cook dinner, and never spoke to me again that night. Not even at dinner.