meadowsweet doll

Sighing as you found yourself standing outside his room, pausing to peek through the now cracked window, watching Sukuna sitting on his too-small bed, back against the concrete wall with his muscled arms folded across his chest, completely fucking naked as his furry ears bristled in irritation. 

He was attractive, annoyingly so, enough to remind you every time you saw him why the hybrid population kept increasing every year, but you as quick as the thought floated up, you shoved it back down. 

You knocked twice on the door before scanning your card again, peeking inside before stepping in, feeling his stare on you before you looked up at the man of the hour. Or well, tiger of the hour. 

“Took you long enough,” he tch-ed, a low growl escaping his throat as he sauntered to his feet. 

“What did you do this time?” You wryly asked, nose scrunching up as you let your eyes scan the rest of his room. Someone must have tried to toss some toys in, as if he was a cub instead of fully grown, the remains of a plush mouse scattered across the floor. 

“The blonde tried to bathe me,” he indignantly scoffed, head held proudly up. You were tempted to tell him that he had a perfectly good bathroom already attached to his room – complete with a shower and tub he could use to wash himself, if he wasn’t so high and mighty to insist on being babied. Or, according to his perspective, treated like the king of this place he frequently insisted he hated so much.

You exhaled, shutting your eyes for just a second to massage your temples in an attempt to stall the headache brewing behind them only to open them and find him standing six inches away. Looking down at you. 

“I told her you’re the only one that can touch me,” he muttered, low and almost lethal. His hand reached out to skim over your bicep, barely touching but still enough for you to feel the pressure behind his fingertips. “She sent in the fucking vet to try to sedate me.” 

“And how did that go?” You sarcastically asked, as if you didn’t have a pretty decent inkling. 

“Well, they called you, didn’t they?” He sharply retorted, cocking his head to the side, jaw clenched as you chewed on the inside of your cheek. 

He got what he wanted. 

And you got to scrub a ridiculously oversized man in a tub for twenty minutes while he complained about not having enough bath salts, rubbing a sponge over his ridiculously ripped back muscles as he muttered about how awful everyone else here was. Grumbling with gritted teeth while your hands ran over his spine, damp sleeves rolled up over your elbows as you traced shapes along his strong arms, his slightly musky scent still invading your nostrils no matter how much soap you used. 

It wasn’t bad, even if it was strong. 

All masculine and warm, whatever pheromones he was putting off having a funny effect on your head the longer you knelt so close to him, sighing as you reached into the water and pulled up the drain. 

“Bath time’s over,” you muttered softly, standing up and grabbing a thick towel to hold out for him, making a point to not look past the thick patch of his happy trail when he wrapped it around his waist, even if you couldn’t not notice the way his damp tail dripped water behind him after he got out. 

“Where are you goin’?” He growled when you started to walk back out, his claws poking out in protest as your hand paused just before you could scan your key card to get out.

“Home,” you muttered. “You better have some clothes on when I come back.” 

The shelter sure spent fucking enough on custom robes big enough to fit him. 

He snarled, two seconds from making a snide comment, but you slipped out before he could. 

You were ready to crawl back into your own bed, curl up and get some sleep, maybe message your boss before you passed out that you’d be a little late in the morning since you had to come in overnight. Let yourself get an extra hour or two of rest before you had to deal with him again. 

Except, uh, your boss was already waiting for you in the lobby, Yaga leaning back against the receptionist desk and grimacing at the fluorescent lights as you stopped and stared. 

“Is everything okay?” You blinked a few times, just for him to fix you in a solemn stare.

And still, while your brain scrambled to come up with a reason for him being here too, you didn’t expect what left his mouth now as he jutted his thumb in the direction you came from. 

“Do you think you could foster him?” 

No. No, there was no way-

Except, um, apparently, there was a way when they offered you a hefty bonus and a few days off, and Shoko slipped a strong sedative in his breakfast so you could transfer him from his room back to your place – which you promptly had to Sukuna proof. 

You expected him to throw a fit when he eventually woke up, to try and break through your front door and escape. 

But he just sniffed the air slowly before he even lazily opened up his dark eyes to glance around your apartment, a crooked smile curling up as he centered his stare on you. 

“So I’m your problem now?” 

Was it too late to take him back? 

Trade in your annoying tiger hybrid for a fluffy housecat? 

In your personal experience, all felines were funny in that they could listen perfectly fine – they just didn’t care. 

And Sukuna was no exception. 

Shredding your curtains when you went out without telling him, sinking his sharp teeth into your pillows after you made him floss between them, turning your couch into his personal little nest and dragging your clothes from your closet into it. Judging the comfort of your blankets and commenting on how boring it was being here, acting like he’d rather be back at the shelter as he ate half the food in your fridge in a few hours. 

He was insufferable and spoiled and a million other awful adjectives you could assign him, but it wasn’t totally terrible to come home from your shifts to someone warm. Who’d begrudgingly let you scratch behind his ears and stroke his pretty, pink hair. You took him to the park as much as you could, ignoring the pointed stares you’d receive and the people who muttered that he should have a muzzle on while he begrudgingly stayed by your side. 

It wasn’t like you had a backyard he could stretch his limbs or lounge in. 

And two months in, you hadn’t exactly envisioned starting off your mornings with fur in your mouth and the weight of a full-grown man on your chest, but you guessed there were worse things. 

You might even miss him when all this came to an end, which, according to the text message you woke up to from Yaga, might be sooner than you think. Some rich guy had apparently called asking about him, claiming he owned thirty acres of land he used to house exotic hybrids and wanted to add Sukuna to his collection. 

Now you just had to figure out how to tell him that he might have a new owner. 

You tried to sneak over to the bathroom after carefully extracting yourself from underneath him, bare feet padding out while you glanced over your shoulder at the slumbering mass in your bed, a little bit of drool leaking down his lips as he snored on your pillow. 

He almost looked peaceful like this. 

As if you hadn’t gotten back from work last night to discover a stash of your panties underneath the daybed he’d currently taken over in your spare room. And the, um, dried substance they seemed to be coated in you’d desperately been trying not to think too hard about. 

Okay, perhaps he was closer to a perverted roommate than a pet. 

But you couldn’t scrub out the guilt that seemed to cling to your skin in the shower, hot water running over your body as you sighed to yourself and debated on how you’d break the news when he had started to settle in here. 

At least there he’d be able to have the space he needed, time outdoors, probably better nutrition than what you could afford to keep in your fridge and pantry, even with the added provisions your work provided for him. He was about as antisocial as it came – but there might be other hybrids there that he could actually stand being around. Closer to his spot on the food chain instead of the other ones he usually sneered down at. 

His new owner might even treat him like the king he thought he was. 

The shower curtain was abruptly pulled back, your arm rushing to cover up your tits, but his eyes were just on yours, his sharp nose scrunched up in a familiar scowl as he grunted good morning, his clothes already stripped off as he stepped in after you. 

“What is your problem?” You huffed at him, but he just yawned, toothpaste stuck to his bottom lip as he reached past you to grab the bottle of specialty hybrid shampoo you bought for him. 

“Didn’t you tell me yesterday we have to conserve water or some shit?” He grunted, lathering up his hair like his rock hard dick wasn’t out and poking you in the thigh. 

“I didn’t mean-” You started to groan, lips pressed together in a flustered frown. Swallowing hard as you struggled to keep your stare somewhere appropriate. You’d like to pretend your relationship was entirely platonic. That it fit perfectly in the boundaries of what it was supposed to. 

Where the only spot of your heart he occupied was pure. That the growing intimacy you’d been ignoring was innocent. 

It was getting a lot fucking harder to believe it when he felt more and more like a person to you every day. More human. 

“You were takin’ too long,” he added, moving over to bump his hip into yours to start hogging the hot water for himself. 

You stepped back, goosebumps trailing down your arms once you were out of the stream, holding your breath as you debated on ripping the bandaid off while he was washing himself for once. 

“Someone wants to buy you,” you heard yourself say, unsure of what emotion it was in your voice as he suddenly went still, tail twitching as his shoulders straightened. “Um, adopt, I guess.” 

He turned his head, just barely, enough for you to catch his nasty side-eye and locked jaw. 

“That’s not fucking funny,” he growled. 

“Yaga texted me,” you continued, careful to keep your tone steady. “Said some guy with a ton of acres wants to take you in. Guess he like, collects rare-” 

“No.” 

“No?” You incredulously repeated. “You can’t just-” 

“I’m not going to be some fucking breeding stock for an asshole who wants to stick me in an enclosure,” he declared, your mouth hanging open at the wild assumption he jumped to just from a couple sentences. 

“Who said anything about breeding?” You gaped, eyebrows arching up as you stopped yourself from stomping your foot. 

“You’re delusional if you don’t think that’s the only reason someone would want a problem hybrid like me,” he half-glared at you, molars grinding as you tried to come up with a reason to argue with him. 

“I-” You stopped yourself, blinking too hard and fast. 

“Tell them no,” he spat the word back out, thick brows furrowed together tightly as he shut off the water. 

“What if someone else wants to-” You started, and his whole body twisted around, his arms suddenly caging you in as you shrank back against the cold walls of the shower, all the air in your lungs ripped from you as he pinned you in. 

“I’m yours,” he hissed. “You can’t just toss me out like I’m some fuckin’ stray.” 

You were pretty sure you were gawking, grasping at straws to push him away when heat was pooling and simmering in the pit of your stomach. 

“They’ll be able to give you a better life than-” 

His mouth crashed into yours, fingers tangling in your hair while he shut up your stuttered gasp with his tongue slipping past your lips. 

He didn’t ask for permission. 

But maybe it was because he didn’t need to. 

Because when it boiled down to it, you’d let him into your home. Your shower. Let him slice and carve out half of your heart, even when you knew he’d probably just chew it up and spit it out. 

“Mmph, S’kuna,” you tried to breathe, placing a damp hand on his bare chest, fingers pressing down as he just kissed you again, struck by how strange it was to taste your own toothpaste on him, smell your soap on his skin and see the strawberry-scented shampoo suds running down his chiseled chest. His cute fuzzy ears standing up straight between his wet strands of pink hair. 

“You want me to stop?” He dared between kisses, moving down to your jaw, painting your skin with greedy wet sucks as he dragged his rough tongue across the sensitive skin. “Wanna keep pretending that I’m just your pet?” 

He wasn’t. 

And when your eyes skimmed down his pretty chest and his dripping cock, you couldn’t bring yourself to tell him no. 

“You know you’re not,” you whispered, as close as you could come to a confession. 

Let him grab you by the ass next, hoisting you up as his mouth returned to yours, matching his starving fervor, wrapping your wrists around his neck as he groaned into the kiss. And maybe it was how wrong it was, but you didn’t think any kiss before this had ever felt so right. 

His fingers dug into your soft flesh, dimpling it as he tried to claim you with his tongue and teeth, a low growl ripping from the deepest part of his chest you felt his cock catch right at your entrance. 

You sort of expected him to just cave into the desires you knew were hardwired into hybrids like him. Just jam his cock in and breed you until he had his fill, or uh, filled you up. It wasn’t like he could even get you pregnant, not when you’d been on birth control far before you met him. 

But before you could brace yourself for the burning stretch that was surely coming, he was ripping free from the kiss to lift you up higher. Like, a lot higher. 

Using that ridiculous strength of his to balance your weight as he pressed your damp body against the cold wall of the shower, ignoring your squirming until his your cunt was presented right in front of his mouth. 

Dragging his rough tongue across it, worming his way in before you could so much as mumble the probably needed what the hell was he doing. 

You guessed you already knew what the answer was. 

He was always starving, after all. 

You’d just become his breakfast. 

Your head leaning back against the shower wall while his hands steadily supported your weight, keeping your thighs spread enough to make room to bury his head between them. Sloppily swirling his tongue inside you, using the thick muscle to map you out, explore you with an expertise you hadn’t expected. An attention to detail you hadn’t thought he was capable of when it came to something that didn’t benefit him. 

Although, judging by the feral moans reverberating through you from his mouth, you guessed he was getting some pleasure in eating you out. 

Fingers digging in possessively to your soft flesh, his tongue flicking in-and-out fast, your chest straining to contain your rapid heartbeats as little jolts of electricity raced through the rest of you. Arousal and anticipation bleeding into each other as they overwrote your anxiety over what you were letting him do.

Just when his tongue slid back out, traced a messy line up to your needy clit, and you foolishly thought he was about to make you cum for him, his head turned up, looking up at you almost accusatory through half-lidded eyes. 

“You’re soakin’, brat,” he scoffed, and you could make out a hint of a crude smirk on his lips. 

“We’re in the shower,” you tried to retort, like heat wasn’t flooding your face – and between your legs. 

“Water’s been off for like, five minutes,” he reminded you. 

Your mouth fell open, but you couldn’t come up with a reply sharp enough to shut him up. 

It didn’t matter though. Because his hands shifted, and you were falling, a scary second passing before he grabbed you and pinned you back in the first position, chuckling with amusement as he lifted your thighs up, pressing them against your chest and squishing your tits as you tried to wiggle in his renewed grip. 

Stupid. 

He was too strong, his hold too tight, the tips of his claws teasingly pressing into your skin as you whined, more aware of the emptiness in your pussy than you’d like to be. The ache he’d left you with desperate to be soothed, stuffed. 

“You should go dry off,” he mocked, your heart stopping at his suggestion, playing right into his hand. “Aren’t you going to be late for work?” 

“Can’t you just shut up and fuck me already?” You hissed at him, swallowing the spit pooling in the back of your throat instead of stomping your foot like you instinctively wanted to. A little swish, a flash of orange caught your attention in the corner of your vision, a smile curling up on your lips when you realized his tail was wagging. 

He could play coy. 

Act sly and in control. 

But his body gave him away. 

And while you were distracted, he’d taken the chance to line himself up, angle and all, just to slide himself in like it was nothing, his saliva acting as lube as he shoved inch after inch in. His rather, ah, large girth barely able to make it through, your thoughts immediately fizzling out into a chorus of holy fucking shit, how much more is there only for it to keep going. 

His mouth returned to your face, leaving messy kisses all over your cheeks, down your jaw, wherever he could reach, like it could coax you through the mean stretch of his cock spearing you open. 

“So fuckin’ tight, brat,” he groaned, teeth gritted, his breath warm on your skin as you whined at the intense sensation of his hips moving, rolling up while you were struggling to even manage breathing at all. 

“Not my fault you’re so-” You couldn’t even finish, lips clamping shut as you realized you were about to stroke his ego. 

“M’so what?” He dared you to finish anyway, stalling inside you, making it obvious he wouldn’t move a muscle until you said it. 

Biting your lip as you begrudgingly murmured, “Big.” 

You were wondering who was really the pet here when it felt like you were being rewarded for good behavior after he pulled his cock out and pushed it back in, quickly picking up a steady rhythm – one that seemed specifically designed to unravel you. 

Pull you apart until you were reduced down to your basest instincts. 

Until you were like him. 

And even worse? 

It was working. 

A babble of syllables that sounded like his name falling from your mouth when he kept grinding into the soft, spongy spot in the back, pressing into it over and over again like it was a button built for breaking you down. Your sanity slowly dissolving into something he could swallow, his sharp teeth glinting when he bared them at you in a crooked smile. 

“You love me rutting into you like this, huh?” He growled, your head bobbing uselessly as his cock split you open deeper, grinding meanly into your cervix like it was his to claim. 

You did, and it, you were his, even if you sold yourself some other story to make yourself feel better. 

“A-asshole,” you groaned, grabbing a fistful of hair to try and find something to pull on, holding onto the slivers of rationality you had left by threatening to rip some of his hair out of his scalp. 

“Filthy fuckin’ girl,” he half-spat out, kissing you again so you couldn’t argue with him. His tongue returning to your mouth as he thrusted up faster, fucking you so full you were pretty sure you felt him in your lungs. Whining into the kiss until he pulled back, his dark red eyes glinting in the warm yellow lighting of your bathroom as he smirked, “What would your friends think if they knew you let me fuck you like this?” 

Pushing his lips out in a dramatic pout, but you just pulled his hair harder, trying to make him wince to match the weird feeling he kept stuffing down your throat, the hint of humiliation at knowing what he was trying to imply. 

That everyone you knew would judge you for sleeping with Sukuna. Say that you shouldn’t fucking have sex with the hybrid you were literally fostering. For good reason, too. 

But how the hell were you supposed to say no when his hands felt like they fit you? 

When every ridge of his swollen cock stretched you open just right? 

“I-I don’t care,” you protested, puffing out your chest despite your sore thighs being pinned to them. Muscles aching, straining as the rubber band you were currently clinging to threatened to snap hard the longer he rutted into you. 

But then, right as his fat tip grinded up against your womb, he stopped, ignoring your irritated huff for him to continue. 

“Kuna,” you started, but before you could form another syllable, you felt it. Him. 

The base of his cock slowly ballooning, his knot trying to take hold and work its way up inside you, to lock himself in. You made some strangled noise you didn’t even know you were capable of, a guttural sound torn from the deepest part of your throat as the pressure built and soared, feeling yourself getting molded and practically reshaped by his size. 

“C’mon,” he growled, just as raw and rough as you expected from him, one of his huge hands slipping between your thighs, a calloused thumb covering your clit as he started rubbing mean circles over it. Distracting you from the fact you were being destroyed, remodeled around his cock, flames of lust licking over your sensitive bundle of nerves as he sent another set of shudders down your spine. “Don’t tell me you can’t take it.” 

You could. 

You would. 

Just as stubborn as he was, even if you were shutting your eyes and biting the inside of your cheek until you tasted blood, the pain of the stretch melting into white-hot pleasure as he began kissing your collarbone, trailing up higher until his lips were pressed against the crook just above it. 

His teeth sank into your throat, your entire body shivering under the sheer force to it, something inside you pulling tight as you gasped some broken cry of his name. But he didn’t let go. Didn’t retract. Just bit down harder, feeling you spasm and squirm around him as he held on, the knot at the base of your entrance somehow managing to inflate more. 

You dragged your nails down his back, probably shredding the skin there, leaving long scratches of your own to mark him as yours too. 

“Mine,” he growled, licking the sore spot while your brain struggled to process what was happening. What he’d just done. 

You couldn’t exactly drop him back off at the rescue when he’d made you his mate. 

Left a huge fucking hickey you’d be stuck living with, a bond forged from baths and breakfasts and boring movies. 

You knew it was a bad idea. 

But you didn’t want to break it. 

He was yours, wasn’t he? Wasn’t it only right that you were his too? 

Letting all those negative thoughts fade as you gave into how fucking good he felt, his mouth on your neck and his thumb massaging your clit and his cock filling up every crevice until you weren’t sure where you started and he ended anymore. 

“Say it,” Sukuna gruffly grunted, his thumb hesitating, knowing just how close you were and still teasing you anyway. 

“I’m your mate,” you admitted, your weak voice coming out in a whimper as he dragged you to a climax with just a harsh swipe of his thumb. White stars splotching and staining your vision, heat simmering through you as your thighs trembled, muscles begging for relief as his heavy breathing undercut the drone of the bathroom exhaust fan. 

“That’s fuckin’ right,” he hissed, cumming right after you, still rubbing your clit through it, warm ropes of cum filling you up and getting plugged inside by his knot. Not even able to leak down your thighs as it held fast, your thoughts distant and dreamy as slowly floated back down to earth. 

Hesitantly meeting Sukuna’s dark eyes only to find them already focused solely on you, clouded with something that looked an awful lot like love up this close. 

“I’m staying here,” he grumbled, nose scrunching up as his tail wrapped around your leg. 

You didn’t think you’d be able to get rid of him even if you wanted to. 

Now how the hell were you supposed to tell your work? 

reblogs + comments are always greatly appreciated <3

his sharp grin loomed above you. watching you over the rim of his copper-framed glasses. and within his eyes, you saw something that terrified you.

hearts.

 𔘓  ·  yandere researcher!nerdjo perfectly prepared your jar. he cushioned the bottom with soil and moss. a slab of bark laid on side, with a network of flourishing, pink mushrooms growing along its length. a polished pebble for you to perch on, right beside the singular, blooming daisy where you could sleep. he wasn't a monster, after all…

 𔘓  ·  yandere researcher!nerdjo watched you with fascination as you tapped on the glass helplessly, your wings batting and your tears shimmery. so fairy dust was real.

"please."

your tiny hands smacked into the glass. peering up at the man as he sat at a table and chair. "please, why won't you let me go? I'll do anything."

he had scooped the jar into his hand, levelling you with those terrifying blues. "now, why would I let something so pretty go?" he crooked his head, snowy hair dangling to the side.

"i've waited for you for many years, sweetheart. don't be selfish."

 𔘓  ·  yandere researcher!nerdjo would give you everything you ever needed. food wasn't an issue, every day, he fed you something new. a juicy strawberry. honey and puffballs. mango slices. crackers. one time he even tried to hold you in his palm and feed you a small piece of vanilla cake.

you bit him.

he smiled.

"I suppose even pretty things can be feisty." his grip tightened on you, ever so slightly. a thumb brushing over your wings that fluttered erratically.

"let me go! you monster!" you squeaked.

he tutted, stroking his thumb over your back in a tender path. "sshhh, sweet thing. you'll bruise your little lungs…"

he continued the motion until your wreckless squirming melted. your head limped on his knuckle, your limbs still, and your head droopy.

he chuckled, carefully scooping you back into your jar. "thankfully, I've studied your kind extensively. I know you intimately, sweetheart."

 𔘓  ·  yandere researcher!nerdjo sometimes lets you out of the jar, but only when you have manners. he doesn't have to worry about you flying away, because he always so meticulously ties your wings with a silk ribbon.

"remain still for me, okay?" he hushed at you, kissing your head as you thrashed and shouted at him.

he even tied it into a pretty bow, before he set you atop one of his books.

"why do you do this?" you huffed, balling your little fists as you helplessly tried to flutter your wings. "how can you be so twisted to keep me here?"

satoru always spoke to you as if you were a flower. even lowering his head to be at eye level with you. lashes fluttering, almost droopy in the presence of your beauty.

"am I so twisted for being in love with you?"

the way your eyes gaped at him made him smile. he brought his pinkie to gently poke at your head. "what? am I?"

"you're insane…" your murmur sounded frightened. fear looked pretty on you, too.

"maybe," his voice lowered to a whisper. "or maybe I'm just very dedicated to my work."

 𔘓  ·  yandere researcher!nerdjo made little tools out of silver to help fix your hair. he'd do the usual routine of scooping you out of the jar, tying your wings and sitting you on his palm, before he set to work on carefully helping you.

"I made these for you." he'd say affectionately.

and when you didn't respond, he blew a bit of air onto your wings until you squirmed and giggled.

 𔘓  ·  yandere researcher!nerdjo makes sure to let you have a little soak in one of his favourite teacups with some warm water. no, he doesn't peep at you. he's not a creep. a pretty little lady like yourself needs her privacy, after all.

 𔘓  ·  yandere researcher!nerdjo sometimes takes you out to dance you around the windowsill when the moon shines just right. he lets you hold onto his pinkies. twirls and dips you all night long. treating you as delicate as a flower as he watches you with awestruck eyes.

 𔘓  ·  yandere researcher!nerdjo brings you bundles of flowers to drink nectar from. he'll nudge your chin up so gently with his index nail and feed you himself. makes sure you don't choke.

 𔘓  ·  yandere researcher!nerdjo wraps you up in his glasses cloth when it gets too cold, or sometimes even scoops you into his pocket where you can nap to the sound of his heartbeat.

 𔘓  ·  yandere researcher!nerdjo despite being so gentle, would remind you what kind of man he was. not all of the times he plucked you from the jar were for your benefit.

at times, he'd tie your wings a little tighter. laying you out on a leather-bound notebook and analysing you piece by piece.

"fascinating," he mumbled, prodding at your arm with a flat, wooden stick. applying pressure. testing. "your limbs are stronger than they look. is it your magic, I wonder?"

he spoke about wanting to take you apart. bit by bit, to understand you better. when you gave him a horrified look, he chuckled, cocking his head as he tickled your wings.

"what, sweetheart? wouldn't it be intimate?"

 𔘓  ·  yandere researcher!nerdjo wouldn't ever hurt you. he didn't think he had it in him. you were too soft, too elegant, too pretty. it broke his heart whenever he'd see you weeping in your jar.

"don't cry… please don't cry," he'd whisper as he laid his head beside the jar. watching you with sullen blue eyes.

you'd cry for him to let you go, and it ached a deep part of him.

"I can't. I'm sorry, sweet thing." his lips brushed the glass, a sincere apology from a man so sadistic. "I need you." came his shaky breath.

"I need you here. with me. I'm just so lonely. please don't hate me."

 𔘓  ·  yandere researcher!nerdjo saw you staring at the wall of wings while he worked, once. silent and wide eyed.

he sorely misinterpreted you, tilting his head with a crooked smile. "do you like any of them?"

scooping you out of the jar, he cradled you in his palm. "I could make you a dress… would you like that?"

your look of horror bewildered him, and when tears streamed down your face, he rushed to soothe you. brushing away your tears with a petal plucked from a flower on his desk.

when you told him why you wept— because you thought the wings were your fallen brethren, his face twisted. almost disgusted that you could compare your pristine, perfect wings to those baneful butterflies. still, his shoulder shook with a little laugh. he found it morbidly amusing.

"oh, my sweetheart. of course not," he cooed at you. "those are butterflies. you are the only fairy I've had in my grasp."

pale lips brushed your little head, ever delicate. as he whispered. soft, lovingly.

"that's why you're so special to me."

you didn't look too convinced. your small sniffles broke his heart, so he sighed as he gently nudged you over. till you were slumped over his thumb and forefinger.

"sweetheart, please don't insult yourself so," he lightly scolded. "butterfly wings are so brittle. so dull. but yours…"

his other index slowly, tenderly brushed down your spine. tracing your wings in that same gentle, sick fascination he always had.

"yours are pristine. delicate… perfect."

his shaky breath tickled your wings, and they twitched. his throat ran dry. heart hammering a bit faster at this little, intimate moment.

with a gentle squeeze to you, he leaned down. pressing a slow, velvet kiss to your wings. smiling into them as they fluttered and you pitched a whine.

"see?" satoru breathed, lips brushing over their little twitches. his smile was soft, sick.

"these are all mine. my special little sweetheart."

© 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒔𝒎. no plagiarism or ai training authorised. art cred: @/poafie (ig)

🌷♡ enjoyed this piece? consider joining my patreon or commissioning me <3 I appreciate all the support!

You sway and look around the platform. There’s a bench you can post up on until your train gets in. Two hours… oof.

You sit, blinking as your eyes burn with fatigue. What a long day already. It was all such a whirlwind and you feel swept away by it all. New things are supposed to be exciting but you just feel even more nervous than before.

You take out your phone and call your mom. She doesn’t pick up. You text her instead to let her know you missed your connection.

“Missed it, didn’t you?” A deep voice makes you squeak and flinch on the bench.

You look up at the same man from your morning commute. Bucky. You show your teeth anxiously.

“Yeah. But there’s another.”

“Two hours away. It’s almost dinner time.”

“I’ll be okay,” you assure him as you clutch your phone against your work bag, balancing it on your lap.

He lingers. “Can I sit?”

You look over at the bench and shrug. “Sure.”

You stiffen as you measure the odds of him showing up twice in one day. You don’t think it’s chance. He saw your ticket earlier. And yes, it’s New York. People probably see each other all the time and don’t even realise it.

“So… how was your first day?” He asks.

You smile. “You don’t have to pretend you care.”

“Hm?” His brows furrow. “No. Why– why would I pretend?”

You shrug again. “I… I know people just ask to be nice.”

“They do?” He watches you as you wilt against his blue eyes. They are made even bolder against his dark hair and stubble. A few glimmers of silver weave into his thick hair.

“Um. Maybe.” You chew your lip. “No, I’m sorry. I appreciate you asking. It was… okay. A lot.”

You look forward and sing your feet.

“Doesn’t sound very positive.”

“It wasn’t bad.” You insist. “I just…” You pause as your phone jitters. “Sorry, one sec.”

You check the message on your phone. It’s your mom. ‘Make sure you get there in time tomorrow.’ That’s it. You quickly lock the screen.

“It’s just my mom. Let her know I’m late.” You push your shoulders up and hide your disappointment.

“Oh yeah? You can reply. I don’t mind. Don’t let me get in your way.” He says your name. It’s like syrup on his tongue; warm and rich.

“No, it’s… fine.” You hug your bag tighter. “Don’t let me get in yours.”

He hums. “She worried?”

“I… guess.”

“That connection is always early.” He says. “Anyway you can cut out a few minutes ahead of time?”

“I could ask but… I’m new and… it might seem… lazy.”

“Right,” he nods thoughtfully.

You look down and rub your neck, keeping one arm on your bag. You feel so foolish. You have no idea what you’re doing; not at work, not on the train, not even at home.

“Well, you got some time. You had a big day. You must be hungry.” He says.

You tilt your head and scratch beneath your chin. “A late supper, I guess.”

“I know a place nearby. Sandwich shop. Opened in 1936.” He says.

“Oh? That’s old.” You comment. “And very specific.”

“Well, I was there.” He chuckles.

You look at him sharply. He watches you. You frown.

“What?”

His eyes search yours. “I’m not really one for…the whole recognition thing but you really don’t know?”

“I…” You swallow. Bucky. Gloves. 1936. “Wait. I learned about you in history class.”

He chuckles. “So you do know me.”

“I… guess. Oh, I’m so stupid.” You clap your cheek in embarrassment. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t even put it together. I—” You scoff. “I have to admit, I liked learning about the princesses more than the wars.”

“I don’t blame you. War’s… heavy.” He nods. “So, you like history?”

“Some of it. But… I don’t really know much more than a few things. Do you know… Eleanor of Acquitaine? She married two kings.”

He laughs again. “Think I heard of her. Impressive resume.”

“Yeah, I know. Lame.” You murmur.

“I don’t think so. Not if you like it.” He leans his elbows on his knees and tries to catch your eye. “So, you hungry? They got a meatball sub that tastes just like my mom’s cooking.”

“You really don’t have to.” You run your fingers anxiously on your bag.

“Why not? You got through your first day. That’s something to celebrate.”

“Not really. Should you be… saving someone?” You ask.

“I am.” He says. “I’m saving you from sitting here for two hours alone. And from that guy over by the bins, watching you.”

He lifts his head and glares across the platform. You follow his gaze. There’s a man there, twitchy as his eyes flit to you and away, then back again. You didn’t even notice.

“Oh.” You blink in shock. “Oh, I didn’t… know.”

“That’s alright. You can’t learn if you already know.” He assures you. “So, how about it?”

“Hm. I… okay. I guess I’m hungry.”

You stand and shoulder your bag. You tuck your phone inside. He gets to his feet and the difference in height makes you lightheaded. He gestures you along with him as he falls into step.

You walk across the platform together. Your stomach is doing that thing again. He walks behind you as you ascend the steps as pedestrians crowd the other side.

“So what’s this job?” He asks.

“Um. Oh. It’s nothing special. It’s just… admin work. I’m a secretary. They just don’t call it that anymore.”

“It’s still a job. Still work.” He assures.

“It’s a realty office. For condos.” You explain. “I didn’t know they were so expensive! They showed me the prices today… it was so many numbers and I got so lost.” You sigh. “I kept getting it wrong.”

“It’s only your first day.” He says.

You smile and laugh dryly. “Yeah, but first impressions and all.”

“You know, my first job, I worked at a cleaners. I was the delivery boy. Rode my bike all over. It wasn’t hard work, not really. All the housewives would make me have a roast beef sandwich or some pie.” He shakes his head. “I could put it back but never that much. I used to wrap it all up and hide it under the parcels. I’d bring some to Steve and his mom and a few other kids around the block.”

“Steve?”

“That one, yes,” he says.

“Oh, sorry, I just… that’s real cool. I never… I never did anything exciting. Not really.” 

He points you to a storefront and opens the door for you. He follows you inside.

Bucky woke with a start, his lungs feeling as dry as sand and his eyes bloodshot. He blinked rapidly, struggling to adjust to the delicate, warm light emanating from the bonfire beside him. His body felt cold, almost frail; even his own heartbeat felt unfamiliar.

“W-what…?”

“Oh, Ashen One,” a soft voice drifted from the shadows.

His head snapped toward the sound.

You stood there, draped in a long, modest dress of charcoal colored fabric. Heavy wraps bound your arms and hands as if shielding a hidden wound, and a tattered mask obscured your eyes. Though the sight was haunting, the tenderness of your smile offered the slightest warmth.

“You are finally awake,” you murmured, kneeling beside him. “I feared you might never rise. How do you feel?”

As you reached out to check his temperature, he flinched, throwing up a hand between you—a desperate and weak attempt at self defense.

“Who are you?” he rasped.

You retracted your hand with a slight, knowing frown. It was to be expected, really. Every soldier you had summoned before him had shared this same fractured fear.

“I have no name,” you explained gently, resting your hands primly in your lap to show you meant no harm. “I am merely a woman who tends the flame that keeps our world alive.”

Keeps our world alive.

A thousand questions swirled through Bucky’s mind—thoughts that felt hauntingly familiar, yet entirely out of reach.

“You’re some sort of... Firekeeper?” he asked, his confusion deepening.

“Yes.” You nodded firmly. “Something of the sort.”

Bucky groaned, trying to sit up. His body strained under the weight of his armor. He looked down, taking in the intricate patterns of the steel and the cut of the dark fabric. He recognized the craftsmanship, yet he couldn’t put a finger on where he had seen it before.

“This… what am I?” He lifted a hand tiredly, staring at the etched iron of his gauntlet. “How did I—ugh.”

“Save your strength,” you reassured him, placing a gentle hand against his back. “You will need it soon. I am sure you have many questions.”

“Several,” Bucky muttered, bracing himself up and rubbing his throbbing head.

You let your hand fall back to your lap, your voice softening as you explained. “We live in a dying world, you and I. Outside these walls, the land is a hollowed grave. Beasts and monsters roam the streets, seeking to harvest souls to sate their own hunger. This keep is the only sanctuary left to us.”

Bucky furrowed his brow, dark, sweat dampened strands of hair falling over his blue eyes as he looked at you. “Then why would anyone ever want to leave?”

Your lips pulled into a small, weary frown. You had summoned several soldiers before him, and every time you delivered the next line, the result was the same— a cold blade pressed against your chest, or rough hands tightening around your throat.

You couldn’t truly blame the poor souls.

They were unwillingly pulled back from the grave into a world on the verge of total ruin. Their only purpose was to slay beasts and harvest souls—all to feed the very flame that kept the earth alive.

And in the end, the cycle demanded the ultimate sacrifice.

Themselves.

It was a cruel fate, but alas, you were the Firekeeper destined to bring the world back to life by any means.

Besides, the man before you was likely to be slain the very moment he stepped beyond these walls. It was only a matter of time before he fell, and you were forced to summon the next unfortunate soul to take his place.

“You see the flame there?” you gestured to the bonfire beside him, its light flickering weakly in his direction. “The fire is on its last life. If the flame is completely snuffed out, nothing but darkness will remain.”

You turned back to him. Though he couldn’t see your eyes through your mask, you looked directly into his. “That is why I summoned you, Ashen One. You are a soldier destined to fight the creatures, harvest their souls, and feed the flame to bring the world back to life. The flame chose you.”

You braced yourself, waiting for the devastating weight of your words to process in his already fragile mind. You expected him to lunge for your throat, as every soldier before him had done—toppling you to the cold stone and cursing you for dragging a soul who had finally found peace back into a life where they were better off dead.

But the attack never came.

He simply blinked, his gaze drifting as if something far more troubling was weighing on his mind.

“My name…” he uttered quietly. “Is James Buchanan Barnes. That much, I know.”

The breath that you released was one of part relief and shock.

Relief that his hands weren’t around your neck, and shock that he possessed such a rare fragment of himself. None of the others had remembered who they were—yet you had known every single one of their names.

“You… you know your name?”

“I do,” he confirmed, rubbing at his temple as if trying to grasp the rest of his distant memories. “But Bucky sounds familiar. It feels… more right.”

You swallowed hard. “Bucky it is, then,” you said, despite already knowing his name. You leaned in closer, trying to gauge his expression—if there was any at all—after the words you had sputtered. “Do you understand your duty, soldier?”

“If souls are so important,” he said, turning to face you, his armor rattling with every move. “Then why don’t you get them?”

You frowned, looking down weakly at your bandaged hands. “I have tried. But I am too weak, soldier. The most I can do is hunt the wolves outside these walls with a dull blade—it is enough to keep the flame alive, but only barely.”

You raised your head back to him.

“But there are monsters out there far greater than wolves. Monsters that carry souls vast enough to keep the fire burning for months. This is why you were brought to this world. The flame saw your potential—it deemed you a worthy knight and decided that you would be the one to save us from this unbecoming world.”

Bucky furrowed his brows.

Despite the commands you were making of him, his body felt too weak to even move. He had only just been summoned into this world—how was he expected to fight off monsters to save it?

“I understand it may seem like a lot to you now,” you spoke, your voice growing softer and more gentle. “But for now, allow yourself to rest, soldier. When you awaken, there will be a blade ready for you to begin your journey.”

By the time Bucky woke again, his muscles felt livelier than they had during his first awakening. He felt almost completely healed—both mentally and physically. It felt as though he had been asleep longer than he had been back on this earth, and when his eyes opened fully, he found you sitting right beside him.

“You’re still here, maiden?”

“Of course,” you said softly. “Where else would I be?”

You had been waiting with him this entire time?

For a man who hardly recognized his own heartbeat, he felt something indistinguishable stir in his chest. It was a fond feeling, one he didn’t quite understand, but he knew he felt comforted knowing he wasn’t left entirely alone in this dark world.

Bucky raised his head to look at you, and his heart fluttered. Seeing you there once more—knowing you had stayed by his side for God knows how long—made him feel a sudden sharp attachment to your presence.

“I thought you would have gone to tend the flame,” he admitted, his voice still raspy but stronger than it had been. “Or that you’d be... somewhere else.”

“There is nowhere else,” you replied. “A Firekeeper’s purpose is bound to her champion. As long as you remain here, so shall I.”

“Champion?” Bucky huffed a tired, self-deprecating laugh. “That’s a heavy title for a man who hasn’t fetched you a single soul yet.”

A small, gentle chuckle escaped your lips—the sound only making the warmth in Bucky’s chest grow. It seemed that even you could possess a sense of humor.

“Oh, I suspect that will change very soon,” you added, a trace of a smile lingering.

To your side, you strained to lift a heavy blade, moving to offer it to him. Bucky tilted his head, his brow furrowing as he watched you.

Without thinking, he reached out and took the sword from your hands with ease.

His heart pulsed in his chest when he saw the relief in your shoulders, and from there, he never wanted to see you struggle again.

It was a longsword, its crossguard etched with the same weathered, ancient patterns that adorned his own armor. As his fingers closed around the hilt, the metal felt familiar, as if it had been waiting for his touch.

“There are several monsters lurking around the perimeter,” you explained, watching as Bucky examined the carvings on the sword. “You can test your strength by slaying them first. Every time you are hurt, or you feel you cannot carry on, you can come back to me. I will take care of you.”

Bucky blinked at you, that strange fondness in his heart growing even deeper. “You’ll… take care of me?”

You nodded firmly. “Always.”

There was a sense that washed over Bucky every time you spoke. Your voice was gentle and reassuring, and despite being pulled back into a world that had little to no hope for resurrection, he felt better knowing that, at the very least, you would be there with him in the darkness.

As long as you remain here, so shall I.

Your words echoed in his mind like a peaceful reminder. They stayed with him, giving him the courage he needed to finally turn away from the fire and step outside the safety of the walls and into the lion’s den.

Bucky moved through the gray, ashen landscape with determination. Every time his blade met the flesh of a hollowed monster, his muscles reacted before his mind could even process them as a threat. It was as if he was moving on muscle memory.

The more souls he gathered—wisps of cold, pale light in his pockets—the more his confidence grew. He found himself wondering about the man he used to be. Had he been a knight of renown? A commander? The way he moved suggests he wasn’t just a soldier, but a weapon.

He had hoped, that in his previous life, he had been a good man.

And he also wondered, if in his previous life, he had someone who cared about him the way you did.

Thinking of you sitting by the bonfire, waiting for his return, filled him with a feeling he couldn’t quite name. All he knew was that his heart felt far too large for his chest, thumping faster with every thought of you.

Souls were important to you, and he wanted to bring back enough to keep you happy. He wanted to see that gentle smile again.

Fueled by that warmth, Bucky ventured further than he should have. He pushed past the perimeter you told him to stay in, and into the crumbling ruins of a high wall, where the monsters were larger and faster.

The fights were costly—he barely managed to take down an undead knight, but the victory came at a price.

His breathing was labored, his armor was dented, and deep gashes along his ribs and thigh wept blood everywhere. Exhaustion finally dragged his heels back toward the faint, golden glow of the keep— to the place where you stayed, where you had promised to take care of him.

When he finally stumbled back into the shrine, his sword slipped from a weak grip, clattering against the stone. He was just about to collapse to his knees when you ran to his side, catching him before he hit the floor.

“Bucky!”

His strength had vanished the moment he felt your touch, and Bucky slumped against you, his heavy armor and weight dragging you both down. You slid down the cold stone wall together until you both found the floor.

Gently, you adjusted him, guiding his head to rest against the soft curve of your chest. He let out a long, shuddering sigh, his eyes fluttering shut as your scent filled his senses.

You placed your bandaged hands over his deepest wounds, and a soft, golden light began to emit beneath your palms.

“Just try to stay still,” you soothed. “I’ll take care of you.”

As the magic seeped into his skin, Bucky’s entire body shook, then went slack. It wasn’t just the absence of pain your magic was giving him. It was the flood of pure, overwhelming sensation.

The healing felt like liquid sunlight pouring into his veins—a warmth so intense it made his body hum with a pleasure he didn’t know he was capable of craving. A soft, helpless whimper escaped him as the magic worked.

“God…” he rasped weakly against your chest.

Dazed and intoxicated by the feeling, his hands began to roam. His fingers, still stained with ash and blood, hooked into the fabric of your dress, pulling you closer and closer. He pressed into your softness shamelessly, his face hiding in the curve of your neck as he moaned quietly, lost to the heat.

“Is this hurting you?” you questioned, one hand coming up to push the damp, dark strands of hair out of his face to see him better.

His eyes remained fluttered shut, his face flushed. His hands wandered up your arms, desperate and searching as his hands mapped your curves. He squeezed and clung to you, his leg tangling with yours.

“So warm…” he mumbled, his words slurred with a hazy bliss. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t. It feels too good.”

Your breath hitched when you felt Bucky’s hips rock against your leg.

The sensations coursing through him were too much to comprehend. The magic made him feel alive, but it was also your body—soft and inviting—that fed the tightening ache building in his groin.

He kept rocking his hips, seeking some sort of pleasure, some sort of release.

“Bucky,” you stroked his hair, but the touch only seemed to spur him on. “Are you alright?”

Bucky only babbled incoherently against your chest, his hips rocking uncontrollably as he squeezed you tighter, making you gasp—not even realizing he was hurting you.

All he knew was that he needed something warm. Something tight and wet to sink himself into—something he could grab and toss around for his own pleasure.

Anything to free him from this painful, tightening ache between his legs.

“There, there,” you cooed gently, your soft hands lacing through the sweaty strands of his hair.

Bucky’s eyes fluttered open, lost in a haze of lust, as he looked up at you. You looked down at him, and his eyes could only stare at your lips—soft, plump, and inviting.

They looked small too, probably tight. Tight enough.

It was exactly what he needed to feel good.

“I…”

“You’re all healed up now,” you interrupted suddenly. You rose slowly to your feet, leaving him there on the cold floor to collect himself.

His face burned with embarrassment as his heart thumped wildly in his chest. He wanted to grab you, to pin you back down so he was the one on top this time, and use you for his own pleasure. You had promised to take care of him—and sure, the physical pain had left his body long ago, but what about the hot, throbbing ache that still remained?

It made him feel restless.

Even he knew that magic wouldn’t be able to heal this kind of hurt.

You turned back to him, extending your palm as he gazed up at you from the floor.

It would be so easy to grab your hand and do it—he was much stronger than you, that much he knew. He could sink into your tight heat right now, and use you until you cried—

“The souls, Ashen One.”

“… Huh?”

You frowned slightly. “You went hunting for souls, did you not?”

Bucky looked at your open palm, then back at your face, feeling like a fool. He had been imagining ruining you with dark, carnal thoughts flooding his filthy mind, while you were simply waiting for him to fulfill the very purpose he had been resurrected for.

Shaky hands reached for the leather pouch at his belt. His fingers felt clumsy as he untied the drawstring.

“I… yes. I have them,” he muttered.

He poured the souls into your hand. They flowed like liquid starlight as they glowed a soft, ghostly blue against your skin.

“Is it enough?” he asked, watching the way the light reflected in the silver of your mask.

You tilted your head, inspecting the haul. He found himself wishing you would look at him with that much care instead.

“It is more than enough to stoke the flame for another week, Bucky. You did well,” you praised with a small smile.

You began to turn away toward the bonfire, but Bucky reached out, his fingers catching the hem of your dress.

“Wait,” he rasped.

You paused, looking back over your shoulder. “Is there something else you need, soldier?”

Bucky swallowed hard and looked down at his lap, not knowing how to explain the prominent bulge pressing against his trousers where they were free of armor. He pressed a palm over his length, trying to will the throb away.

“Are you still in pain?” you asked, noting the grimace on his face.

“It’s not painful,” Bucky grunted, continuing to palm himself, oblivious to the shame of the gesture. “It… it feels suffocating. Hot and throbbing. Like… I need—”

“Rest, perhaps?” you suggested, completely clueless to his circumstance. “It’s been a long day, soldier. Rest now, and when you feel better, you can hunt for more souls.”

You walked back toward the fire, leaving Bucky on the floor with a frustration he couldn’t quite name.

He grit his teeth, watching with a growing erection as you tended to the flame with such gentle touch.

He knew you were saving the world with the souls he gave you, but god, did he want that loving attention focused on him instead. He wanted your hands all over his body instead.

He wanted you nowhere near that damned fire—he wanted you beneath him.

He was hungry, but not for food.

He was hungry for you.

Since then, he did exactly what you expected of him.

He ventured further out, fought monsters and beasts, and returned with more souls than any soldier before him ever had. He grew stronger with each battle, his movements becoming more lethal and precise.

But in return, he came back to the shrine bloodier and more battered than ever.

In your eyes, you believed the flame had chosen correctly. It had finally selected a champion who could bring about the world’s resurrection and peace. You felt that everything you had lived for—every century of waiting—would finally be put to rest.

But for Bucky, the world was an afterthought.

All he looked forward to was being in your arms after every grueling battle. He relished the moments when he was nestled against your chest, your magic washing over his body with a gentle, intoxicating calm. He lived for the pleasure that came with your touch—a pleasure he craved more than the victory itself.

It was like a drug he couldn’t escape from.

The latest gift he brought you was the soul of a Greatwood—a large mass of light dropped at your feet before his knees finally gave out.

Stripped of his heavy armor, he looked raw and vulnerable as blood trickled down his face, matting his dark hair in copper scented clumps and sweat. The blood loss left him shivering, and you didn't hesitate to pull him into the sanctuary of your lap, cradling his head against you.

Over the last few days, you had noticed Bucky becoming dangerously imprudent in his battles.

He pushed himself to the very brink of death, and every time you were there to mend the damage, he grew bolder with his whimpers and his touch.

“You’re becoming reckless, Bucky,” you murmured. Your hands hovered over his mangled chest as you began to heal him.

A broken moan escaped his lips—not of pain, but of pure, unadulterated ecstasy.

Your magic turned the agony of his wounds into a searing, sexual heat that flooded his entire nervous system. His hands, caked in dried blood and dirt, clawed at your thighs, bunching the fabric of your dress in his fists possessively as the pleasure took over his body.

“Ah… God, yes,” Bucky choked out, his hips jerking upward in a desperate search for friction against your leg.

The soldiers who came before him had never harbored such a visceral reaction to your magic, but Bucky had been unraveling this way for a while now. You were no longer oblivious to the bulge he pressed against you every time he was in your arms.

Bucky’s hands trailed upward, sliding underneath the fabric of your skirt to give your bottom a firm squeeze. He pulled your body flush against him, grounding his hips into your thigh with a needy motion.

“Stay still, Bucky,” you tried to command, though your voice was shaky. “I’m almost finished.”

“Fuck,” Bucky growled, his hands tightening around your body harsh enough that made a small whimper escape your lips. “I’m almost finished, too—”

As the golden light continued to flare from your palms, Bucky’s hips moved faster, grinding harder against your leg and forcing your body into a rhythm with his. He hiked your dress up, exposing your bare thigh to the cool air of the shrine, his breathing turning into a series of heavy hitches as he pressed himself further between your legs.

You were warm—so warm, and he was painfully aware that the very thing his body was screaming for was only guarded by a flimsy layer of fabric.

He knew he could tear it open with his bare hands in a heartbeat.

The urge to be cruel was right there, lurking in the dark corners of his mind. He wanted to pin you down, sink into you, to make you cry out and whimper beneath him as he took what he wanted.

But he couldn’t—not to you.

Not yet, at least.

“Just a little longer, soldier,” you reassured him gently, your hands hovering over his remaining injuries. “You’re doing so well—”

But before you could offer another word, Bucky lifted his head up. His hands tangled in the hair at the back of your head, tilting your face back as his mouth crashed against yours.

It was a kiss—though you weren’t sure if you could truly call it that.

The soldiers who came before Bucky had shared kisses with you, but none of them were like this.

Those had been soft, gentle, and reverent. Bucky’s was possessive and claiming. His grip on your body was tight, his fingers buried so roughly in your hair to pin you in place that if you had moved even slightly, you would have winced.

A small mewl left your lips when he groped your breast through your dress. Emboldened by your sweet noises, Bucky nestled himself between your thighs, the hard bulge of his cock finding the heat hidden beneath your thin fabric.

He ground his hips directly against your cunt, the curve of your covered slit felt like the most incredible thing he had ever felt.

“Bucky…” you whimpered.

“I’ve been thinking about this every time I’m out there bleeding for you,” he groaned against your lips.

He rocked his hips into you, crowding you back against the cold stone wall.

“I bet you’re so tight under that dress,” he muttered between messy, sloppy kisses. His hand slid down to squeeze your hip, pulling you flush against the pulsing outline of his cock. “I bet you’d scream if I finally got inside you. You’d cry for me, wouldn’t you? But I know you’d take it all for your champion.”

You weren’t quite sure what was happening to him.

The soldiers of the past had never reacted to your healing in such a way. But you were bound by your oath to mend your soldier, so you kept your palms pressed to his skin and allowed him to find his pleasure in your body.

“Just a moment,” you spoke softly. “Try to hold still.”

“Am I…” He breathed hard, looking into your eyes with his own, hazy and dazed. “Am I doing good?”

“Very good,” you praised. “The best I’ve ever seen.”

“I need you to swear it to me,” Bucky’s voice broke, desperate for your approval. “Tell me you really mean it.”

"I promise, Bucky.”

The light of your magic grew brighter, and Bucky let out a hungry growl that vibrated in his throat as he closed the distance between your mouths again.

His body continued to move hungrily against yours, his fingers digging into your hair. The fabric straining against his hard length darkened with damp patches of pre-cum, making a mess of himself as he ground against you.

It felt good—too good, and he couldn’t bring himself to stop.

Bucky kept going, his hips stuttering and moving unevenly against your thigh before a broken moan left his lips.

“My god…” he groaned weakly.

His cock twitched violently in his pants, releasing a warm, thick spurts of cum as it pulsed out of his cockhead—the sensation making his face and body burn hot. His eyes, half lidded and dazed, stared down at the wet patch in his trousers that grew until it made your own thigh feel sticky.

He was panting, his chest heaving against yours, his sweat cooling in the drafty shrine.

Bucky was still high on the sensation, the magic and the pleasure blurring into one strong, overwhelming sense of euphoria—and in that haze, his mental strength vanished in an instant.

“I love you,” he blurted out suddenly.

The words echoed softly against the stone walls. He pulled back just slightly, his eyes blown wide and glassy, looking at your silver mask with desperation—as if he were waiting for you to say it back.

“I love you,” he repeated, his voice cracking as if you didn’t hear him the first time. “I think... I think I’ve loved you since the moment I first reopened my eyes. Everything I do out there... the blood I shed, the souls I obtain... it’s all so I can come back to this. So I can come back to you.”

The silence in the shrine was suffocating, the tension broken only by the crackle of the embers.

You weren’t supposed to feel. You were a vessel, a caretaker of the flame, yet the broken rasp in his voice made your heart stutter.

Gently, you reached up, your bandaged fingers brushing the dark hair away from his damp forehead.

“Bucky,” you whispered, your voice soft and careful. “I… I care for you deeply. More than I have ever cared for any soldier who was brought back to life.”

Bucky leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering at your warmth. He was listening—waiting for the very three words that would change everything, the words he had just bled for.

“In this dark world,” you continued, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw, “you are the only light I have. I find myself waiting for the sound of your footsteps long before you arrive. I care for you just as much as you care for me, soldier.”

Bucky let out a long, shaky breath. He wasn’t entirely satisfied, and he feared he wouldn’t be until you told him you loved him back—until you gave yourself to him completely with your mind, body, and soul. But for now, he let himself bask in the warmth of your body, his hands squeezing your hip tight enough to remind you that regardless of what you said, you would always be his.

“Everything I do…” he breathed shakily, “I do for you. Only for you.”

Determined to please you, Bucky remained in a constant, grueling battle against the undead. He hunted every soul—big or small—with a singular focus: you.

He believed that by relinquishing the beasts and returning their power to you, you would finally restore the world. He fought for the dream of a sanctuary where you both could live long, healthy lives.

Together.

When he finally felled the greatest beast of all and returned to the shrine, he was more bloodied and broken than he had ever been. He collapsed to his knees, the leather pouch at his belt spilling over as wispy, powerful souls poured out onto the stone floor. Through dazed and blurry eyes, he saw your frame rushing toward him in a panic.

“I… have returned—” he managed with a broken rasp.

As he extended a shaking hand to reach for you, you dove past his reach, ignoring his outstretched fingers to grab the souls that were scattering across the floor.

You gathered the shimmering light into your arms, clutching them to your chest.

“My God!” you said, breathless. “You’ve felled the Lord of Cinder? You’ve actually done it!”

The light from the souls pulsed and glowed in your hands. As you fed the essence of the Lord of Cinder into the bonfire, the flames roared a bright gold, casting long, dancing shadows against the ancient stone.

You were radiant, your face warm with glee, wearing the brightest smile Bucky had ever seen.

“The ritual is almost over,” you whispered with joy. “At last… the dark is receding. At last, we have enough.”

On the floor, Bucky was a wreck of broken armor and torn flesh. His vision swam as he felt himself drifting in and out of consciousness. He tried to drag himself towards you, his fingers scraping uselessly against the cold floor.

“I need... your care.. my maiden—” he choked out, his voice pathetic and weak.

He was reaching for the sanctuary of your lap, waiting for your drug like bliss to stitch him back together.

But you didn’t look at his wounds. You didn’t reach for his head to cradle it.

You instead grabbed his hand and helped him to his feet, dragging his exhausted body toward the edge of the roaring bonfire.

“Come, Bucky! Look!” you cried, ignoring the way his knees buckled and how his weight slumped against you. “We’ve just about saved the world—we’re so close.”

He looked at you with a dazed, almost dreamy expression. Was this truly his salvation? Had he finally saved the world to exist in a new one with you? Could he finally become your lover, and you his?

“Now, we just need the last step,” you said, turning to him.

Your hands lifted to your mask, removing it.

Finally, he got to see your face fully.

Your eyes were the most beautiful things he had ever seen, making his heart clench painfully in his chest. They were bright, shining with hope. This was it—everything he had fought for.

Then, you continued to speak.

“The ultimate sacrifice. The soul of the champion must be returned to the source to truly seal the age.”

Bucky froze.

“What?” he rasped, not quite understanding. “But you… you said you cared for me. You promised to take care of me.”

“I am,” you replied gently, your hands finding his face—not to soothe him, but to guide him backward toward the center of the bonfire. “I’m giving your life meaning, Bucky.”

Bucky couldn’t believe it. He refused to believe it.

All along, after all the blood, sweat, and tears he poured into every fight—all just to make you happy—the very end meant he had to sacrifice himself?

But what about everything you told him? All the words you spoke—telling him you cared about him? The times you held him in your arms while he came undone from just your touch and magic alone? The kisses you shared?

Was it all for nothing? Was he just a lamb being fattened for the slaughter?

Bucky’s breathing grew labored and his heart began to race uncontrollably. He didn’t know what to name this feeling—was it anger? Sadness? Or insanity? He looked at your beautiful, smiling face, and for the first time, it didn’t look like salvation. It looked like a trap.

Whatever the emotion was, it led to him finding the hilt of his sword, sheathed at his side. His fingers curled around the grip, the cold metal a sharp contrast to the blistering heat of the fire behind him.

“You lied to me,” Bucky rasped, his voice so low you didn’t catch it.

You tilted your head, your fingers still resting over his cheek as if he were nothing more than a wounded animal you were trying to calm.

“What do you mean, soldier?” you asked softly. That sweetness Bucky once loved now felt haunting—hollow. “Everything is going exactly as it should.”

A low, animalistic snarl escaped Bucky’s lips as his fingers tightened around the hilt. Adrenaline, fueled by pure hate and betrayal, flooded through his veins. He lunged forward, his hand shooting out to seize your shoulder while his other hand ripped the sword from its sheath.

The ring of steel echoed through the shrine as he tackled you, the force pinning you hard against the stone floor.

You let out a sharp, startled gasp as the back of your head hit the ground, and before you could cry out, the cold blade was pressed firmly against your throat.

Bucky’s heavy body hovered over yours, his chest heaving with ragged breaths as his dark hair fell over his eyes. He stared down at your face, the face he had been worshipping all this time, with nothing but anger.

“You used me,” he seethed. “You used me—just as you did with the soldier before me, and the one before that, haven’t you?”

He didn’t even give you the chance to respond. He pressed the blade closer against your neck, forcing you to strain your head back in a desperate gasp.

“Bucky, please—”

“You held them in your arms—you kissed and touched them the way you did with me, isn’t that right?” he growled, leaning in even closer until his hot breath fanned over your lips.

His hand roughly grabbed your cheeks, forcing you to look him in the eye as the skin of your neck strained against the sharp edge of the blade.

“Do you even remember their fucking names?”

“Of course I do!” you gasped desperately, tears pricking your eyes. “Rogers, Wilson, Walker—I remember all of them—!”

“I should kill you,” he claimed, his hot, heavy pants ghosting over your face. “I should slit your throat right here—make you cry and bleed all pretty for me.”

“Bucky, please, you have to understand—” you choked out, searching his eyes for even a flicker of hope. “This is how the ritual must go. The soldiers before you... they were all weak. They weren’t as strong as you. They passed before they ever reached the final sacrifice.”

You swallowed hard, trying to choose your words carefully as you felt Bucky’s grip tighten around the hilt.

You couldn’t believe it. You had truly thought he was different from the rest. You never expected him to turn around and pull his blade on you like the other soldiers had when they were first summoned.

“In order for the world to even have a chance of revival—what’s dead must stay dead,” you strained, a single tear streaming from the corner of your eye and splashing onto the stone floor. “And that includes you, James.”

Bucky grimaced when you said his first name, and even more so as he tried to process your words. You could see the conflict behind his eyes—the way he tried to believe you. For a second, a quick flicker of understanding passed through those cold, cruel eyes.

But it vanished just as quickly as he pressed the blade even deeper, drawing a thin trickle of blood from your neck.

“Tell me you love me.”

You remained quiet, trying to compose your breathing as you felt blood trickle down the side of your neck.

“Say it!” Bucky roared.

His shout was like an explosion that echoed off the ancient stone walls, vibrating through your very bones.

You believed that telling him what he wanted to hear would not only spare your life—but that a part of him would relish the admission, finally giving him the peace he needed to take that last step and sacrifice himself.

You sucked in a sharp, shallow breath, your voice coming out shaky and thin against the steel.

“I love you.”

Bucky’s body began to shake, the steel pressing harder against your skin. He grimaced at the sight of your pain, as if hurting you only hurt him more, yet he didn’t pull back.

“I don’t believe you,” he rasped. He searched your face, hunting for the lie he knew was there, even as his eyes pleaded for it to be true. “You’re just saying it so I’ll die for you. You’re just saying it to save your own.”

Your heart raced as panic flooded through you. You had to make him believe—if he didn’t go into the fire, the world would end in nothing but ash and silence. You reached up, your palms framing his face, and tried your best to ignore the sting of the blade.

“I love you!” you cried out desperately. “I’ve loved you since the moment you came back to me. Please, James, believe me. I love you more than anything.”

You watched him intently, and for a long, breathless moment, Bucky went still. A small, disbelieving smile graced his lips.

You should have felt relief. You should have seen it as a sign that you were finally getting through to him. But there was something twisted about the way he was looking at you now—a dark, possessive spark that only filled you with a deeper unease.

He leaned down, his forehead pressing against yours, his warm breath interlacing with your own.

“Good,” he whispered, the blade still biting into your skin as his lips tickled yours. “If you love me that much, if I’m truly the only light you have… then we’ll let the world burn.”

Your eyes widened in horror as you realized your mistake.

“The ritual—”

“Damn the ritual,” he hissed.

His hand slid from your cheek to tangle firmly in your hair, pinning you harder against the stone as the bonfire behind him began to flicker, starved of its champion.

“If I don’t get to live to have you, then nothing gets to live at all.”

dark souls is my favorite game of all time, and i wanted to write a quick fic based on it. this is a little different from my usual style, but i hope you guys like it <3

if you’ve gotten this far, as always, thank you so much for taking the time to read my work.

I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.

The apartment is too quiet.

You don't notice it at first.

Not really.

It's just one of those long evenings where the city feels farther away than usual, where the traffic outside sounds muted beneath the steady rain tapping against the windows.

Frank should be home in an hour.

Maybe two.

You glance at the clock on the microwave for what feels like the hundredth time.

9:17 PM.

The pasta water bubbles lazily on the stove. His favorite. You smile despite yourself. The man could survive on military rations for six months straight, but put a bowl of pasta in front of him and suddenly he's acting like you've personally invented happiness. Your phone lights up. Frank. Immediately, you grab it.

FRANKIE Running late. Don't wait up for dinner.

You roll your eyes.

YOU Too late. Already made it.

The typing bubble appears.

Disappears. Appears again.

FRANKIE You're stubborn.

A smile tugs at your lips.

YOU Says Frank Castle.

Nothing for a moment.

Then:

FRANKIE Love you.

The words hit just as hard now as they did the first time he'd said them. Your chest warms.

YOU Love you too.

The typing bubble appears again.

FRANKIE Lock the door.

You snort. You glance toward the front door. Locked. Deadbolt engaged. Chain on. Exactly the way Frank likes it.

YOU Done.

A few seconds pass.

FRANKIE Good girl.

Heat blooms instantly across your cheeks.

"Asshole," you mutter. The smile never leaves your face. You set the phone down and return to the stove. Outside, thunder rumbles somewhere in the distance. The apartment creaks softly around you. Old building. Nothing unusual. You stir the sauce. Check the clock again.

9:24 PM.

Still too quiet. The realization prickles at the back of your neck. Normally, you don't notice sounds here. The pipes. The neighbors. The elevator. Tonight, it's like the building is holding its breath.

You frown. Then shake it off. Rain. That's all. The rain is drowning everything out. You reach for a glass from the cabinet. And freeze. A sound. Very faint. Metal. A tiny scrape. Your head turns toward the front door. Nothing. Silence. You stand there for several seconds, listening.

The apartment settles. The refrigerator hums. The rain continues.

You're about to laugh at yourself when— Scrape. Again. This time louder. Coming from the front door. Every muscle in your body locks. The glass slips slightly in your grip. You stare down the hallway. The deadbolt is locked. The chain is on.

Frank is still an hour away.

Another scrape. Slow. Deliberate. Like somebody is trying very, very carefully not to make noise. Your heart drops into your stomach. And then the doorknob moves. Just once. A tiny test. Someone is on the other side. Someone who definitely isn't Frank. Fear strikes your chest so hard, and you back up slowly, your chest heaving. What follows next makes you want to gag. You hear a gun cock.

Oh god. Oh god, oh god, oh god.

A gun shot echoes through the walls, and the deadbolt comes flying clean off. You dive for the cutlery cupboard, you hand wrapping around the handle of the biggest kitchen knife you can find, before spinning on your heel and running as quietly as you can to the bedroom.

Your socks slide against the hardwood as you sprint down the hallway.

Behind you— A crash. The front door slamming into the wall.

Someone is inside. Your stomach drops. You reach the bedroom and throw yourself inside, shutting the door as quietly as you can.

Don't lock it. Frank taught you better than that. A locked door tells them exactly where you are.

Instead, you duck into the closet, dropping low to the floor, and locking that door.

Your phone. Where's your phone? Kitchen counter.

Of course. Of fucking course. Tears sting your eyes. The knife shakes in your grip. You force yourself to breathe.

Think.

Think.

Frank. You need Frank.

The apartment falls silent. Then— Heavy footsteps. Not rushed. Not panicked. Slow. Methodical.Whoever it is isn't worried. Which means they either know you're alone— Or they don't care. The footsteps move through the living room. You hear drawers opening. Cabinets. The sound of something crashing onto the floor. Your pulse pounds so hard you can hear it. The bedroom door remains half-open. From where you're crouched, you can see only a sliver of the hallway. Nothing else.

Another crash.

Then silence. A long silence. Too long. The kind that makes your imagination do terrible things. You grip the knife tighter. Your palms are slick with sweat.

And then-- A voice. Male. Deep. Close.

"Come out, Frankie !" Your blood turns to ice. "I know you're here, scumbag ! Come out." Your whole body is shaking, your hand clamped over your mouth. "What ? Don't wanna come say Hi to your good pal Billy Russo ?"

Billy Russo.

The name means nothing to you.

But the way he says it— Like a joke. Like a grudge. Like he genuinely expects Frank to answer— Makes your stomach turn. You clamp your hand harder over your mouth.

Don't make a sound.

Don't.

The apartment creaks. Rain taps against the windows. And Billy laughs. It's a terrible sound. Warm. Friendly. The kind of laugh that belongs at a bar between old friends. Not inside a stranger's apartment with a gun.

Your foot hits something soft, and you look down.

A duffel bag ?

Oh thank god, a duffel bag.

Shifting your weight side to side, you maneuver the bag into your lap, clammy palm still clutching the knife as you open in, wincing at the loud noise the zipper makes.

Your eyes scan the contents, your chest heaving.

Emopy gun, no bullets. His vest with the skull on it. Boots, a few shirts and-

Oh thank god.

A burner phone.

Your hands shake so badly you almost drop it. The burner phone slips against your sweaty fingers.

"Oh my God." The words never actually leave your mouth. You don't dare. Outside the closet, Billy keeps moving. You hear the bedroom door creak open. Then footsteps. Slow. Unhurried. The sound makes your stomach roll. He's looking. Searching. The burner phone feels like salvation in your hands. Please work. Please.

You fumble the power button. Nothing. Your heart stops.

No no no—

Then the screen flickers. A dim blue glow illuminates the darkness around you. You nearly cry from relief.

Your thumb shakes as you scroll through the contacts. There aren't many. Just numbers.

Micro. Curtis. A handful of names. Then— FRANK. You almost sob. Outside, a drawer slams. Billy whistles softly.

"C'mon, Frankie." The footsteps move closer. Your pulse skyrockets. You press call. The phone begins ringing. Once. Twice. Three times.

Pick up.

Pick up.

Pick up.

The ringing stops. Your heart leaps.

"…Yeah?" Frank's voice. Low. Distracted. Alive. For one terrible second you can't speak. You just sit there clutching the phone with both hands. Breathing hard.

"Hello?" His voice sharpens immediately. Because he hears it. The panic. The fear.

"Who is this?" The knife nearly falls from your fingers.

"Frankie." The whisper breaks. A sob escapes before you can stop it. The change on Frank's end is instantaneous.

"Baby?" No distraction anymore. No softness. Pure focus. "What happened?" You hear movement. Fast movement. A car door slamming. The roar of an engine. Your throat closes. "Why are you whispering, baby ?" You whine out a silent breath, gulping.

"F-Frank." You gasp, looking at the gaps of light shift as Billy traipses across the room.

"Baby, fuckin' talk to me."

"Someone's here."

"What ?"

"Frank, someone's in the house."

"C'mon, Frankie." His footsteps move again. Slow. Casual. You can hear drawers opening in the bedroom now. The scrape of wood. The rustle of clothes. Your clothes. Tears sting your eyes. Frank's voice is gravelly when he answers.

"What ?"

"Someone's here. B-Billy Russo. He shot the deadbolt off the door. Frankie, i'm scared." You whine, sobbing quietly. Another thud echoes so hard you flinch.

"Thought you'd have a better hideout than this." Another drawer. Another laugh. "Though I gotta admit…" A pause. "This is cute." Never expected you to wear a lacy red thong. Your blood freezes. Cute. He's looking at your things. The photographs. The blankets. The life you've built together. You bite down on your fist to stop a whimper. The mattress shifts. Billy is sitting on the bed. "Oh, wow." A low whistle. "You really went domestic, huh?" The knife nearly slips from your sweaty hand. He's close. Too close. Only a few feet away. You can hear the springs of the mattress creaking under his weight.

"Baby, you need to breathe."

"I-I'm in the closet. Frank, he's in our room." You choke. "Hes in our room." For a second, all you hear is the engine. Then—

"Okay." Frank's voice changes. Not softer. Not calmer. Focused.

The way a knife gets focused.

"Listen to me, sweetheart." Another creak from the mattress. Billy is still sitting there. Like he owns the place. Like he's got all the time in the world.

"I need you to keep breathing." Your chest heaves. You nod even though he can't see it.

"I can't—"

"Yes you can." The response is immediate. Absolute. "You can." Outside the closet, Billy chuckles to himself.

"Never would've guessed it." Silence. Then— The bedroom door clicks shut. Your heart jumps. Why did he— The closet handle rattles. You stop breathing. Once. Twice. A testing movement. The lock holds. The silence afterward is so complete it hurts.

"I'm on my way, mama." Frank huffs. "I need you to hang up."

"No, Frank-"

"Baby, if he finds you with a phone, he'll hurt you." He gulps. "More than he already might."

"Please, Frank—"

"Baby, listen to me." The engine on his end roars louder. You can hear him driving far too fast. Can hear the strain in his breathing. The fear. Frank Castle is afraid. Not for himself. For you. The realization makes your throat close. "Sweetheart." His voice drops lower. Steadier. The way he talks when he needs you to listen. Really listen. "I need you to put the phone on silent." Your hands shake.

"Okay."

"I need you to keep whatever weapon i know you got on you." You look down at it. The blade trembles violently in your grip.

"Okay."

"And I need you to stay hidden." The closet handle rattles again. Harder. You choke on a sob.

"Frank—"

"I know." His voice cracks. Just for a second. Then it's gone. Covered by steel. "I'm coming." Outside the closet, Billy sighs dramatically.

"Y'know, Frankie." His voice carries through the room. Casual. Amused. "I always hated these closets." The blood drains from your face. The handle rattles again. This time accompanied by a soft chuckle.

"Too obvious." Your pulse thunders. Frank goes deadly quiet. The engine revs. Tires scream somewhere on his end. Then—

"Baby." The word comes out rough. "Hang up." You squeeze your eyes shut.

"No."

"Sweetheart."

"I don't wanna be alone." The confession slips out before you can stop it. Raw. Terrified. Honest. For a second, neither of you speak. Then Frank exhales. Long. Slow. The kind of breath someone takes before jumping into freezing water.

"You aren't." Your eyes sting.

"Frank—"

"You hear me?" The closet door shudders. Billy testing it. Playing with it. Like a cat. "You're not alone."

Another shake. Wood groans. Your eyes dart toward the sliver of light beneath the closet door.

Nothing moves.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Then— A soft knock. Three taps. Right beside your head. You nearly scream.

"Oh, sweetheart." Billy's voice is right outside the door. Warm. Friendly. Terrifying. "Frankie's not home." Your heart stops. Another tap. "But I know somebody is." The engine on Frank's end suddenly cuts. A car door slams. Hard. Frank's breathing changes.

No longer driving.

Running.

Fast.

"Baby." His voice is a command now. "Do not answer him." The closet door creaks. Billy leaning against it. Close enough that you can hear him breathe.

"Y'know." His voice lowers. "I've always wondered what kind of woman could convince Frank Castle to play house." You bite down on your fist. Hard. The taste of blood fills your mouth.

"Now I get it." A pause. Then— "You're exactly his type." Frank makes a sound on the phone. A sound you've never heard before.

Please. Please walk away. Please— Another rattle. Harder this time. Your pulse explodes. Billy goes quiet. On the other side of the door. Thinking. Listening. Your eyes squeeze shut. You can practically feel him standing there.

Then— A soft chuckle.

"Well." The voice is right outside. "Who do we have hiding in here ? " Terror floods every nerve in your body.

He knows. Of course he knows. Frank would've kicked the door off its hinges by now. Would've put a bullet through the wall. Would've done something. You are not Frank. And Billy Russo knows it. The closet door suddenly shudders beneath a heavy impact. You gasp. The phone slips. Clatters against the floor.

"Oh." Billy laughs again. "There you are." The sound tears through you. Another slam. The entire closet shakes. Wood splinters somewhere near the frame. You scramble backward on your hands and knees, pressing yourself into the farthest corner.

"Please—" The word escapes before you can stop it. Silence. Billy stops moving. On the other side of the door. For one horrible second, neither of you breathe. Then his voice comes. Different now. Softer. Almost curious.

"You're his girl." Not a question. A statement. The realization in his voice is worse than the threats. Because suddenly you matter. Not because of who you are. Because of who Frank is. Another long pause. Then-

"Well." The gun cocks. Slowly. Deliberately. "I bet that'll get his attention."

"Baby ? What the fuck's going on ? Baby, answer me !" You can hear Frank yell over the phone. You're clinging the knife to your chest, your eyes blown wide, trying not to cry as the closet door shatters inward. A boot comes crashing through the wood, landing right on the burner phone, shattering it.

"Well. There you are." Your chest squeezes pathetically when a face peeks through the shattered closet. "Wow. You're prettier than on the picture."

You don't answer. You can't. Your entire body is locked up with terror.

The knife shakes so hard in your grip it rattles against your wrist. Billy notices. Of course he does. His gaze drops.

"Aw." He sounds almost amused. "She's got a knife." Your breathing comes fast and shallow. The closet suddenly feels impossibly small. Too small. Too hot. Too close. Billy grips the ruined door and yanks. The remaining wood tears away with a horrible screech.

Light floods the space. You scramble backward instinctively. There's nowhere to go. The wall presses against your spine. Billy crouches slightly. Studying you. Like you're an animal he found under the porch.

"Easy." You nearly laugh.

Easy? Easy?

The man who shot your front door off its hinges is telling you to relax. Your fingers tighten around the knife. Billy's eyes flick to it again. Then back to your face.

"Frank tell you to grab that?" You don't answer. "Yeah." He nods to himself. "That sounds like Frank." A step forward. You jerk the knife up immediately.

"Stay back." The words come out shaky. But they're words. Billy actually pauses.

Then— He smiles wider.

"There she is." Another step. Your heart hammers.

"Don't."

"Or what?" His tone isn't mocking. That's somehow worse. Like he genuinely wants to know. You swallow hard.

The knife trembles between you. Billy looks at it. Looks at you. Then sighs.

"I really don't wanna hurt you." The lie lands like poison. Because he's already hurt you. He's standing in your home. He's terrified you half to death. He's holding a gun. And somehow he still sounds reasonable. Like you're the difficult one.

"Stay back." Your voice cracks. Billy takes another step. Your survival instinct finally snaps. You lunge. It's sloppy. Panicked. Nothing like Frank would've taught you. But it's enough to surprise him. Billy jerks sideways. The knife flashes through empty air.

"Oh, shit."He actually sounds impressed. Your shoulder slams into him. Both of you stumble. You try to pull back. Try to run. Billy catches your wrist. Instantly. The knife hand. Strong fingers clamping down. You cry out. The blade falls. Clatters across the hardwood.

"No!" You wrench against him. Adrenaline flooding every muscle. Billy's grip tightens.

"Easy—"

"Get off me!" You slam your free hand into his face. Not hard. Not enough. But enough. His head snaps back. Enough to make him lose balance for half a second. Enough.

You twist violently. Your wrist slips free. You don't think. You run. Bursting out of the closet. Billy swears behind you. The bedroom blurs. The shattered door. The overturned drawers. The ruined phone.

And there— The knife. Lying on the floor. A few feet away. You throw yourself toward it. Fingers stretching. Billy lunges. His hand catches the back of your shirt.

Fabric tears.

You hit the floor hard. Pain explodes through your shoulder. But your fingers skim near the knife. Relief crashes through you. Billy sees it. His expression changes. The amusement disappears. His hand wraps around your ankle, and he drags you forward before you even have the chance to grab a hold of the knife.

"Oh, no you don't." The world jerks. Your stomach slams against the hardwood as Billy drags you backward by the ankle. You scream.

Not from pain. From panic.

The knife is right there. Right there.

And getting farther away.

"No!" You claw at the floorboards, nails scraping uselessly against the wood. Billy laughs. Not warm anymore. Not amused.

Mean. Cruel.

Like he's enjoying every second of this.

"Jesus Christ, Castle really picked a live one." He yanks harder. Your body skids across the floor. You twist violently, kicking with your free leg. Your heel catches him somewhere in the ribs. Billy swears. His grip loosens. Just for a second. You wrench forward.

The knife is inches away. You dive. Your fingertips brush the handle— And then a hand buries itself in your hair. Agony explodes across your scalp. You shriek. Billy hauls you backward so hard your shoulders slam into his chest.

"Gotcha." His arm locks around your waist. The knife slips away again.

"No!" You elbow backward blindly. Connect with something. Billy grunts. Not enough. His grip tightens.

"You know," he pants into your ear, "Frank always had terrible taste in apartments." You thrash harder. Every survival instinct screaming. His hand leaves your waist. For one horrifying second you think he's reaching for a weapon. Instead he grabs your jaw. Forces your head forward. Makes you look at the knife lying a few feet away.

"So close." Your stomach turns. Billy shoves you forward. Hard. You hit the floor again. Your cheek slams into the hardwood. Stars burst behind your eyes.

Then he's on top of you. Not fully. Just enough weight to keep you trapped. His hand catches your wrist before you can crawl away. Pain shoots up your arm. You cry out.

"Stop moving."

"No!" You twist. Kick. Fight. Billy's patience snaps. His hand slams against the floor beside your head. The sound cracks through the room.

"Stop." The friendliness is gone now. Completely gone. You see it in his eyes. Cold. Violent. Unstable. The look of somebody who might genuinely enjoy hurting you. Fear hits so hard it steals your breath. Billy sees it. Smiles.

"There it is." You hate him. You hate him so much. And somehow that hatred gives you strength. You jerk sideways. Hard. Unexpected. Billy shifts to compensate. His grip slips. Just enough. You tear your wrist free. Scramble. Crawl.

The knife.

The knife.

The knife.

Your fingers close around the handle. Relief floods you. For half a second. Then Billy's hand crashes into your forearm. The knife doesn't leave your grip. But suddenly both of you have it. His hand over yours. Your hand clinging desperately to the handle. The blade wavering between you.

"No!" You pull. Billy pulls harder. Your shoulder screams. The knife jerks upward. Downward. Sideways. Neither of you has control anymore. The struggle becomes frantic. Wild. Your hands are slipping. His hands are slipping. Everything is sweat and panic and desperation.

"Let go."

"No!" The blade twists. Billy grabs your wrist with his other hand. Tries to wrench it away. You fight harder. The knife swings between your bodies. A dangerous blur of steel. For one second both of you pull in opposite directions. Then Billy suddenly shoves forward. At the exact moment you yank back. Everything happens at once. A stumble.

A slip. A collision of momentum.

And then— Both of you freeze. The knife has stopped moving. Billy's eyes widen. Not much. Just enough. You don't understand why. Then you realize. The blade isn't between you anymore. It's buried.

In his chest.

Silence. Complete silence.

The room seems to stop breathing. Billy looks down. Then back up at you.

For the first time all night— He looks genuinely surprised. Your fingers release the handle instantly. You scramble backward on hands and knees. Horrified. Billy presses a hand against the wound. Stares at the blood on his palm. Then slowly lifts his eyes to yours. The look there makes your blood run cold.

Not pain. Not fear. Anger.

Pure, terrifying anger. The kind that promises consequences.

"Well." His voice is very quiet. Very calm. Which somehow makes it worse. He stumbles to his feet, coughing up blood. You push yourself back on your hands and heels, gasping in fear.

You have no more weapons.

Nothing to protect yourself with.

"P-Please." You gasp, shaking your head. "Please. Don't." Russo coughs up more blood, clearly actively dying- but still coming for you.

"You..." He heaves through the blood in his lungs, "Little... slut." He falls forward. Right in front of you. His heavy body thuds on the hardwood, blood pooling around him like some sick blossoming flower.

For a second, you can't move. Can't breathe. Can't think. Billy's body lies sprawled across the hardwood between you and the bedroom door. Blood spreads beneath him. Too much blood. Way too much.

"Oh my God." Your voice sounds far away. Like someone else's. Your hands are shaking so violently you can barely see them.

"I didn't—" The words die in your throat. You choke on a sob, staring down at your hands.

Your blood covered hands.

You stumble away from the pool of blood you realise has reached you, covering most of your lower body and clothes in deep crimson red.

You curl up into a ball, sobbing into your knees as you try not to stare at the dead body in your bedroom.

The dead body you left there.

The apartment falls silent. Not normal silent. Not the kind of silence that exists when nobody's talking. This silence is wrong. Heavy. Like the entire world has stopped to stare at what just happened. You curl tighter around yourself. Your forehead pressed against your knees. Your body shaking so violently your teeth chatter. The blood on your hands is drying.

Sticky. Real. Every time you look at it, another wave of nausea crashes through you.

"Oh God." The words come out broken. A whisper. A prayer. A plea. You don't know how much time passes. Ten. An hour. It all feels the same. You sit there on the floor while rain taps against the windows and blood spreads slowly across the hardwood.

Waiting. Listening. Certain every sound is Billy getting back up.

Certain every creak means he's standing behind you. Certain if you look up you'll see him staring.

You never look. You can't.

Then— A noise. Far away. The front door. Your entire body locks.

No.

No no no.

Your heart launches into your throat. You scramble backward until your spine slams into the wall. Another sound. Heavy footsteps. Fast. Running. A man's voice. Muffled. Distant. Then louder.

"Baby!" Your breath catches. The voice sounds wrong. Far away. Like you're underwater. "Fuck, sweetheart- Where the fuck are you !"

Frank. It's Frank.

He's home. Relief should come. Instead panic hits.

Fresh and sharp. Because now he has to see. The ruined apartment. The blood.

Billy. You.

Covered in all of it. Footsteps thunder down the hallway. Closer. Closer. Then stop. The bedroom doorway fills with a silhouette. For one terrible second nobody moves. Frank stands frozen. Taking it all in. The shattered furniture.

The closet. The blood.

Billy. And then finally— You. Curled into a ball in the corner. His face changes. You watch it happen. Confusion. Shock. Fear. Pure, naked fear.

"Baby." The word barely leaves his mouth. You burst into tears. Not crying. Not sobbing. Breaking. Completely.

"Frank." He crosses the room so fast you barely see him move. Suddenly he's kneeling in front of you. His hands on your face. Your shoulders. Your arms.

Checking. Searching.

Making sure you're real. Making sure you're alive.

"Look at me." You can't. You physically can't. "Baby." You shake your head. A fresh sob tears loose.

"I didn't mean to." The words tumble out immediately. Over and over. Like you've been holding them in for hours. "I didn't mean to, Frank. I didn't—I wasn't trying to—I just—"

"Hey." His hands tighten. Not hard. Just enough to ground you. "Hey." Your eyes finally lift. The second they do, Frank's expression shatters.

Because he sees you. Really sees you. The blood. The terror. The guilt. The fact that you're still shaking. "Shit, sweetheart. I need you to fucking listen to me." His voice breaks. Actually breaks. "Are you hurt ? Did he hurt you ?" And that somehow makes everything worse.

"I killed him." Frank immediately shakes his head.

"Baby."

"I did."

"Stop that." The response comes harder. Sharper. "You hear me?" You stare at him. Tears running freely down your face.

"He was gonna kill me." Your voice is tiny. Childlike. Lost. "He was gonna kill me." Frank closes his eyes. Just for a second. When they open again they're shining. Not with tears. With rage. The kind you've only seen a handful of times. The kind reserved for people who've hurt someone he loves. His gaze flicks briefly toward Billy's body. Then immediately back to you. Like Billy doesn't matter. Like nothing matters except you.

"You defended yourself." You shake your head.

"It doesn't feel like it." Frank's jaw tightens. Then he reaches forward and pulls you into his lap. You go willingly. Boneless. Exhausted. He wraps both arms around you. One hand cradling the back of your head. The other pressed firmly between your shoulder blades. Holding you together.

"I got you." You bury your face in his neck. The familiar scent of him finally breaking through the nightmare. Soap. Rain. Gun oil. Frank. Home. And for the first time since the gunshot blew the lock off the door— You believe you might survive this.

"I was so scared." The confession dissolves against his skin. Frank's arms tighten immediately. Painfully tight.

"I know." His voice is rough. Raw. "I know, baby." Another shudder wracks your body. He huffs out a heavy breath. "He can't hurt you anymore, my love. He can't." You sob into his shoulder.

He-He pinned me down." You rasp, shaking your head. Frank's entire body stiffens. He pulls back, cupping your cheeks.

"What was that, baby ?"

"He pinned me down." You rasp, shaking your head. "D-Dragged me across the floor." Frank goes very still. Not the calm stillness from before. Something sharper. Dangerous in a different way. His hands stay on your face, but his thumbs stop moving. The air around him seems to change—like the temperature drops a few degrees.

“Say that again,” he says quietly. You flinch.

“I—he—” Your voice breaks. “He dragged me. Across the floor. Frank, I tried— I tried to get away, I swear—”

“I know.” His voice cuts through yours immediately. Firm. Controlled. “I know you did.” But his eyes have gone dark. Not at you. Never at you. Over your shoulder. Toward the body on the floor. Billy. Frank exhales slowly through his nose. One hand slides from your cheek to the back of your head, pulling you back into him like a reflex—like he can’t stand the idea of you being even an inch away right now.

“Did he touch you anywhere else?” he asks. The question is careful. Measured. But there’s something underneath it that makes your stomach twist. You shake your head quickly.

“No. No—just that. I swear.” Frank nods once. Once. Like he’s filing it away somewhere very far away from you.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay. Good.” His arms tighten again around you, almost protective to the point of pain.

“You did good,” he says, softer now. “You hear me? You did exactly what you were supposed to do.”

“I killed him,” you whisper again, like if you say it enough times it might turn into something else. Frank’s hand slides up your spine, steadying you.

“No,” he says immediately. “You stopped him.” Your breath stutters.

“I didn’t— I didn’t mean— I just— it happened—”

“Hey.” Frank tilts your face back to his again, forcing you to look at him. “Look at me.” You do. You don’t have a choice. His expression is still intense, still burning with something you don’t fully understand—but his voice is gentle when he speaks again.

“This is not on you,” he says. “You understand me?” Your lips tremble.

“But he’s—he’s—”

“He’s done,” Frank says flatly. A beat. Then, quieter:

“He’s done touching you. Done looking at you. Done everything.” Your throat tightens. Frank glances past you again for half a second, jaw flexing like he’s physically holding himself in place. Then he focuses back on you instantly. Like it’s effort. Like you’re the only thing keeping him anchored. You choke on a sob.

"Where were you ?" You wail. You hate the fact that it sounds like you're putting the blame on him, but your chest aches. "You were supposed to be home. You were supposed to be here." His grip on you tightens instinctively, then immediately softens again, like he’s afraid of holding you too hard in this state.

"I know- Fuck. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry." His lips are everywhere, pressing them wherever he can reach, his hands smoothing over your sides. "But you did so good. You did so fucking good." You hiccup on a sob and he sighs, pushing your hair away from your neck before pressing a soft kiss to your jaw. "Can you walk ?"

"Hmm- What ?" You sniffle.

"Can you walk, mama ?" He asks again. "I need to get you out of here." You choke on a sob.

"Please, please, get me out of here." Without second guessing it, Frank stands up with you still clinging to him like a baby monkey, side stepping around Billy.

"I called Madani the second the call dropped." He hums. "Homeland'll be here soon. With NYPD." You nod, burying your face in his neck, refusing to look up from him. You hear the sirens getting closer, the sound of the street, the sound of people shouting and Frank telling them to go upstairs. You don't even realise you're somewhere else until Frank is lowering himself into his car and the door closes behind him.

The sudden quiet feels wrong. Not peaceful. Just… muffled. Like the world has been wrapped in thick blankets. You blink slowly.

The interior of Frank's car comes into focus piece by piece. The worn dashboard. The scent of leather and gun oil. The rain streaking down the windows. Frank. You're practically folded into his lap in the driver's seat, still clinging to him with both hands. Neither of you says anything for a moment. You can hear the distant chaos outside.

Sirens. Radios. Doors slamming. People moving around your apartment building. But it sounds far away now. Like it belongs to another world. Frank reaches up and carefully brushes blood-matted hair away from your face.

Not his blood. Not yours.

Billy's.

The realization makes your stomach lurch. Immediately, Frank notices. His hand cups the side of your neck.

"Hey." Your eyes squeeze shut.

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Make me think about it." The words come out broken. Small. Frank's face softens instantly.

"Okay." No argument. No lecture. Just okay. His thumb strokes slowly beneath your ear. You realize he's checking you again. For bruises. Cuts. Anything he missed. The realization almost makes you cry. Again.

Frank notices that too. Of course he does.

"You hurt anywhere?" You shake your head. Then pause.

"My shoulder." His jaw tightens. "From when I fell." A beat. "And my wrist." Another beat. "And my—"

"Sweetheart." His voice is gentle. You stop immediately. Frank exhales slowly. "You don't gotta apologize for bein' hurt." Fresh tears spill over. Because somehow that's worse. The kindness. The concern. The fact that he isn't angry. Isn't disappointed. Isn't looking at you differently.

"I killed somebody." The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. Frank goes quiet. Not cold. Not distant. Just careful. Outside, red and blue lights flash across the windshield. He studies you for a long second. Then reaches up and cups your face.

"You didn't." You choke on a sob.

"I did, Frank. I pushed that knife into his chest, I-"

"Baby." He rasps, his voice low and dangerous. "He signed off on his own death the second he went into our apartment. If you hadn't done it, I sure would have- and trust me when I tell you it wouldn't have been a slip of a hand." His hand reaches up into your hair and slolwy massages your scalp. "You wanna know what I see?" You don't answer. Frank continues anyway.

"I see my girl." Your breath catches. "I see somebody who was alone." His thumb brushes away a tear. "Somebody who was scared." Another tear. "Somebody who fought like hell to stay alive." Your lower lip trembles. Frank's forehead touches yours. "And somebody I almost lost." The last words come out rough. Raw. Like they hurt him to say. For the first time since he arrived, you realize something. Frank is shaking too. Not visibly. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But you're pressed against him. You can feel it. The tiny tremor running through the hand holding your face. The slight unevenness in his breathing. The way he keeps touching you. Like if he stops, you'll disappear.

"Frank…" His eyes close. Just for a second.

"You scared the fuck outta me." The confession slips out before he can stop it. When his eyes open again, they're shining. Not tears. Close. But not tears. "I got there and all I could think was…" He swallows hard. His voice drops lower. "I was too late." Your chest caves in.

"Frank…"

"I thought he killed you." The words are barely audible. Honest in a way Frank rarely allows himself to be. You make a broken sound and immediately reach for him. His arms lock around you so fast it's almost desperate. Like he was waiting for permission. "I thought Billy Russo took away my family again."

The words hit you harder than everything else.

Harder than the blood. Harder than the fear. Harder than Billy.

Because Frank doesn't say things like that. Not easily. Not often.

Your face crumples immediately.

"Oh, Frankie…" The nickname breaks apart halfway through. His eyes squeeze shut. Just for a second. Then he's pulling you closer. Closer. Like he can't physically get enough of you against him.

"I walked into that apartment," he says quietly, his voice rough against your hair, "and I saw all that blood…" His hand slides up the back of your neck. "You weren't answerin'." A pause. "I couldn't find you." Another pause. His breathing goes uneven. For the briefest moment. The kind of crack only somebody holding themselves together by sheer force of will would make.

"And I thought…" He swallows hard. You feel it. "I thought I was gonna have to live through that again. I thought I was going to have to pick your cold body off the floor like I did with Maria. And my babies." Your chest caves in completely.

"Frank." His arms tighten.

"No." The word comes out instantly. Like he doesn't want comfort. Like he doesn't want you apologizing for something that isn't your fault. "You don't gotta fix it. You don't gotta fix me." His hand cups the back of your head. "You don't gotta do anything right now." Another kiss presses into your hair.

Then another. And another. Small. Absent-minded. Like he can't stop himself.

"I'm just glad you're here." The confession is barely audible. You start crying again. Not the violent sobbing from before. Just tears. Quiet ones. The kind that come when the danger's over and your body finally realizes it survived.

Frank lets you. Doesn't rush you. Doesn't try to stop it. He just holds you. One hand slowly working through your hair. Massaging your scalp in slow circles. Patient. Grounding. The way you'd do for somebody after a nightmare. After a long while, you feel him press his cheek against the top of your head. His beard scratches softly against your hair.

"I'm so sorry you had to go through that. He was in there, looking for me." He sighs. You sniffle.

"It's not your fault."You mutter. He groans, running his hands down his face.

"I should've protected you more. I should've- fuck." You lift your head enough to look at him. Frank rarely looks lost.

Angry? Sure.

Tired? Constantly.

Haunted? Every day.

But lost? Almost never.

And right now he looks like a man standing in the wreckage of something he can't fix with his fists.

"Frank." His eyes stay fixed somewhere beyond the windshield.

"I knew this was a possibility." The words come out rough. Like he's confessing something. "I knew anybody close to me became a target." Your chest tightens.

"Frank—"

"No." His jaw clenches. "I should've moved you." A bitter laugh escapes him. "I should've put you somewhere safer." His hands flex uselessly. "I should've—"

"Frank." Stronger this time. Enough to make him finally look at you. You reach up and grab his face. Both hands. Forcing him to focus. The same way he'd done to you earlier. Immediately, his eyes soften.

"Baby."

"No." Your voice wobbles. But you keep going. "If you keep talking like that, I'm gonna get mad at you." A tiny huff escapes him.mNot quite a laugh. Close.

"You gonna get mad at me?"

"Yes." His mouth twitches.

"That's scary." You glare at him through your tears.

"Frank."

"Okay. Okay." One of his hands settles over yours. Big. Warm. Steady. But you can still feel the tension in him. Still feel the guilt. Like a living thing.

"I mean it." His gaze drops briefly. Then comes back.

"I know."

"No, you don't." You sniffle. "Wanna know what would've happened if you'd been there?" Frank raises an eyebrow.

You point vaguely toward the apartment building.

"You would've gotten shot." His expression actually softens a little.

"Maybe."

"No."

"Maybe."

"Frank." Another tiny twitch of his mouth. You know he's doing it on purpose. Trying to get you to argue. Trying to get you out of your own head. You know all his tricks. Unfortunately.

"You absolutely would've gotten shot."

"Well." His shoulders lift. "I do that sometimes." Despite everything, a tiny laugh escapes you. Frank immediately latches onto it. A real smile appears this time.

Small. Tired. Beautiful.

"You got a cute laugh."

"Oh my God."

"There it is again." You shove weakly at his chest. Frank catches your hand before it gets very far. Brings it to his mouth. Presses a kiss against your knuckles. Then another. Then just holds it there. For a long moment neither of you speaks. Rain continues tapping softly against the roof. The flashing lights outside paint brief streaks of red and blue across Frank's face. Eventually his thumb brushes across your wrist.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Like he's reassuring himself you're still here.

"I don't know what I would've done." The words are so quiet you almost miss them. Your breath catches. Frank stares at your joined hands.

"If I'd gotten there and…" He swallows. Doesn't finish. Can't finish. You don't make him. Instead you slide closer. Until you're moulded to him. Frank immediately wraps both arms around you. Like breathing. Like instinct. Like he can't help it. You tuck your face into his neck. Feel his heartbeat beneath your cheek.

Still too fast. Still scared. Just like yours.

"Frank?"

"Yeah, baby?" You close your eyes.

"I'm really glad you're here." For a second, he doesn't answer. Then you feel his arms tighten. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to say everything he can't quite get out loud. A kiss lands against your hair. Then another. Then another. And when he finally speaks, his voice is thick. Warm. Full of something fierce and aching.

"Yeah." His nose brushes your temple. "Me too, sweetheart." Another kiss. "So fucking much." You look up at him, kissing your way up his throat and jaw, sniffling.

"You're a good man, Frank Castle. You came to save me. Even if you were a little late." You mutter. He snorts, shaking his head at your attempt to loosen the mood, his hand softly squeezing your ass. Frank snorts. A real one this time. Low and rough. The sound vibrates through his chest beneath your cheek.

"Oh, is that right?" You nod solemnly against his jaw.

"Absolutely." His hand gives your hip a squeeze.

"Little late, huh?"

"A little."

"A little." You pull back enough to look at him.

"Maybe if somebody wasn't workin' himself into an early grave—"

"There it is."

"—and maybe if somebody answered his texts faster—"

"There it is."

"—and maybe if somebody actually listened when I told him to take a day off—" Frank's mouth finally twitches into a proper smile. Small. But there. You haven't seen one all night. The sight of it makes your chest ache.

"There she is," he murmurs. You blink.

"What?"

"My girl." His thumb brushes beneath your eye, catching another tear. "The one that bosses me around." You roll your eyes.

"I do not boss you around." Frank actually laughs. The nerve of him. The absolute nerve.

"Baby."

"I don't."

"Sweetheart."

"I don't."

"You absolutely do." You poke him in the chest.

"You carry military-grade weaponry."

"Mmhm."

"You break into buildings."

"Sometimes."

"You have approximately seventeen concussions."

"Probably more."

"And somehow I'm the problem?" That earns you another laugh. Warmer this time. The kind that makes the tension in his shoulders finally ease. Just a little.

"You know," he says, pulling you closer again, "you stabbed a guy tonight." Your eyes widen.

"Frank!"

"What?"

"You can't just say that!" A grin flashes across his face. Gone almost immediately. But it's there. For a second. And somehow that's enough.

"Pretty sure I can."

"Oh my God."

"I'm just sayin'." You hide your face in his shoulder. Mortified. Traumatized. Exhausted. And somehow still arguing with him. Frank presses a kiss into your hair. Then another.

"You know what else?"

"No."

"You were scary." You let out an offended noise.

"I was not."

"Baby."

"I wasn't."

"I found a dead Billy Russo." Your mouth falls open. Frank raises an eyebrow. "I think that qualifies." Despite yourself— Despite everything— A laugh escapes you. Small. Broken. But real. Frank immediately closes his eyes. Like hearing it physically relieves something inside him.

"There it is." You smack his shoulder weakly. He catches your hand. Kisses your palm. Then laces his fingers through yours. Holding on. Like he's been doing ever since he found you. Like he can't quite stop. For a while, neither of you speaks. You just sit there. Curled against him. The sirens outside quieter now. The nightmare finally beginning to feel distant. Not gone. Never gone. But farther away.

Frank rests his forehead against yours. His eyes half-lidded. Tired. Relieved. Still a little scared. You can see it now. The fear he keeps trying to hide. The one he felt when he thought he might have lost you.

"You okay?" he asks quietly. The question is ridiculous. You both know it. But you understand what he means.

Are you here? Are you safe? Are you still with me?

You look at him. Really look at him. At the man who drove like hell to get back to you. The man who's been holding you together for the last hour. The man who still looks like he might break if you let go of him. And your heart softens.

"Getting there." Frank nods. Accepting that answer. Then he presses one last kiss to your forehead.

"Good." His arm wraps tighter around your waist. Keeping you tucked against him. Exactly where he wants you.

"And sweetheart…" His voice drops lower. Softer. " It's okay, if you're not. Because i'm not." You sniffle agaonst his chest.

"Wow, who are you and what have you done with my husband ?" You mutter. He laughs, shaking his head.

"You wanna know why it's okay ?" He asks, pushing your hair away from your face. You nod, your eyes wide and brimming with tears. "Because as long as I'm holdin' you, I can deal with the rest."

taglist !

You lifted the pan carefully, opened the oven, and slid the croissants onto the rack. Warm air rushed out, carrying the faint scent of butter and sugar. You smiled to yourself, already imagining the way the kitchen would smell in twenty minutes.

The front door slammed shut.

You straightened immediately, heart skipping. “Frankie?” you called, wiping your hands again as you rounded the corner.

Frank Castle stood in the entryway.

He was covered in blood. Dark red smeared across his jaw, splattered over his shoulders, soaked into his clothes. Purple bruises bloomed along his face. You knew without needing to ask that not all of it was his. That never made it easier.

“Jesus, Frankie,” you said, instinctively taking a step toward him before stopping yourself short. You didn’t want to touch the blood. Didn’t want to smear it, didn’t want to acknowledge how much of it there was.

He grunted in response, already moving past you toward the bathroom like his body was on autopilot. You stared at the bloody footprints he left behind on your clean floor, jaw tightening.

“You’re making a mess,” you said, frustrated, following him anyway.

Frank didn’t answer. He reached the bathroom, turned on the light, and started peeling off his black tactical shirt. It stuck to his skin where the blood had clotted. When he finally yanked it free, it hit the floor with a heavy thud.

Normally, the sight of Frank Castle shirtless would do dangerous things to you. His body was all solid muscle and scars, broad shoulders and strength earned the hard way. But when he rolled his shoulder and fresh blood pulsed from two angry bullet wounds, your stomach dropped.

You rushed forward without thinking, your hand landing on his bicep as you pushed him so he faced you.

“Are you okay?” you asked, even as you knew how stupid the question sounded.

“I’m fine, sweetheart,” he said.

Frank was never cruel to you. Never sharp or dismissive. With you, his voice softened, rough edges worn smooth. You adored his puppy dog eyes, the way his gaze lingered on you like you were something precious. Even his voice, more growl than sound, felt safe when it was aimed at you.

He was good to you. He loved you. A fact that still stunned him some days.

He was flawed. Emotionally guarded. Terrible at talking about anything that hurt too much. His patience ran thin with the world, and his protectiveness over you bordered on obsessive. You didn’t mind the possessiveness. You found it comforting, even attractive. Frank’s instincts were sharp. When he told you to be careful, there was always a reason.

What you did mind was the silence. The shutting down. The way he retreated into himself when things got too heavy.

You hadn’t pushed at first. Early on, you’d told yourself it would change. It hadn’t. When things grew serious, when you became his weakness, when his enemies noticed you, that was when you started pushing. You couldn’t keep pretending you didn’t see the darkness creeping closer.

“C’mon, Frankie, talk to me,” you said, grabbing a towel and running it under warm water. You started wiping the blood from his neck and chest. “You’re hurt.”

He groaned when you brushed the skin near his bicep. You looked up, worried, only to find him smiling at you.

“Love ya, baby,” he said. “But I don’t really wanna talk about it.”

He never struggled to say he loved you.

You sighed softly. “Okay.”

You turned and rose onto your tiptoes, reaching for the first aid kit on the shelf. Your fingers brushed air just short of it when you felt Frank’s body heat behind you. His uninjured arm reached past you and grabbed the kit with ease. You couldn’t help watching the way his muscles flexed, at the power contained there.

He handed it to you and sat on the edge of the tub. “Tell me about your day, sweets. Wanna hear all about it.”

There it was. The deflection. The shift back to you. He was an expert at that.

Your usual bright energy dimmed as you disinfected his wounds, but you tried anyway. “Well, I woke up and cleaned the house. And then I stopped by the bakery to see if Peter finally figured out the mixer. And then, oh!” Your face lit up despite yourself. “I found this new raspberry compote recipe. I got so excited I went for a run, then to the store after.”

You worked carefully, removing one bullet and letting it clink into the metal bowl. Frank watched you like he always did, fond and quiet.

His hand came up suddenly, gripping your wrist and stopping you mid-motion.

“You left the apartment?” he asked, voice low.

“Yeah!” you said brightly, completely missing the shift in his tone. “Went for a run. It was great. I saw Karen too. She’s doing really well.”

That was your flaw. You didn’t always notice when he was upset. When you were unknowingly digging yourself deeper.

You noticed when he took the tweezers from your hand.

“Thought I told you to stay here,” he said.

“You did, but—” you started.

“Nah, baby,” he cut in softly, the dangerous edge creeping into his voice. “I told you I was goin’ out to deal with someone who threatened you.” He let out a humorless scoff. “You went for a run.”

Your stomach twisted.

“How am I supposed to protect you when you don’t listen to me?”

He stood and moved back to the sink. You flinched as he shoved the tweezers into his wound and pulled the bullet free in one brutal motion.

“I’m sorry,” you said quietly. “I knew you’d take care of it.”

“You don’t assume he’s already dead before I get back,” Frank said, grabbing the kit and walking out, leaving you standing alone in the bathroom, heart pounding.

The oven timer beeped faintly in the kitchen, completely out of place against the silence he left behind. You zoned out.

The timer goes off again.

Not the gentle chime it used the first time, but the sharper, more insistent beep that feels like it’s cutting straight through your chest. You flinch, dragging in a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, and turn back toward the kitchen.

The apartment smells warm. Butter and sugar and fruit. Comfort. Normalcy. Everything you were trying to preserve.

You wipe your hands on your apron again even though they’re already clean, then open the oven. Heat rushes out, fogging the air for a moment as you slide the tray of croissants free. They’re perfect. Golden brown, flaky layers crisped just right, raspberry filling bubbling slightly at the seams like it’s trying to escape.

You set them on the stovetop and move them to the cooling rack with careful precision, forcing yourself to focus on the small details. The way the pastry crackles softly when it shifts. The way the kitchen light reflects off the glaze. The way your hands know exactly what to do even when your heart feels like it’s unraveling.

You glance toward the kitchen table.

Frank is sitting at the table, shirtless, hunched forward, shoulders tense as he stitches himself up like this is just another chore. The first aid kit is spread out in front of him, gauze and alcohol wipes scattered carelessly. Blood dots the table where his arm rested.

The needle flashes under the overhead light as he pulls it through skin with practiced efficiency.

You hate that he’s so good at this.

You stay where you are for a moment, leaning against the counter, arms folded tight across your chest like that might hold you together. The only sounds are the faint hum of the refrigerator, the soft clink of metal, and Frank’s controlled breathing.

“I made the raspberry croissants,” you say finally.

Your voice sounds small in the open space.

He doesn’t look up. “Smells good.”

You swallow.

“I tweaked the compote,” you add, because talking is what you do when you’re nervous, when you’re sad, when you’re trying to keep something from slipping away. “Less sugar. A little lemon zest. It balances the acidity better. The raspberries can get too sharp if you don’t—”

“Mhm.”

That’s it.

Something in your chest cracks.

You push off the counter and step closer, stopping a few feet from the table. You can see the blood on his hands now, dark and tacky, smeared across his knuckles. You can see where the stitches pull his skin together in angry lines.

“You could’ve waited,” you say quietly. “I could’ve helped you.”

He tightens a stitch with a sharp tug. “I don’t need help.”

“I know you don’t need it,” you snap, the words coming out before you can stop them. “That’s not the same thing, Frank.”

That finally gets his attention.

He pauses, needle suspended between his fingers, then looks up at you. His eyes are tired. Not angry. Not cruel. Just worn down to the bone.

“You done,” he asks.

“No,” you say immediately, stepping closer. “I’m not.”

He exhales slowly, like he’s trying to keep himself in check. “Baby, I just got back. Can we not do this right now.”

“When then,” you ask, voice trembling despite your effort to steady it. “Before you leave. After you come back bleeding. Or never.”

His jaw tightens. He looks back down at his hands and keeps stitching. “I told you to stay here.”

“And I told you I’m not a child,” you shoot back. “I went for a run in broad daylight, Frank. I didn’t disappear. I didn’t do anything reckless.”

“You left,” he says flatly. “That’s the problem.”

You let out a short, bitter laugh. “No. The problem is you think you get to lock me inside my own apartment because you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared,” he says immediately.

“You are,” you insist, tears burning behind your eyes. “And I get it. I do. But you don’t get to control my life because of it.”

He drops the needle onto the table with a sharp clatter. “You think I want this.”

“I think you don’t talk,” you say, voice breaking now. “I think you shut me out and then get mad when I don’t magically understand what you’re thinking.”

He pushes back from the table and stands abruptly. Blood seeps from the unfinished stitches, running down his side.

“You think I don’t know that,” he growls. “You think I don’t hear myself every time I tell you to stay put.”

“I think you’d rather bleed alone than let me help,” you say, wiping at your cheeks angrily. “I think you’d rather push me away than admit you’re scared to lose me.”

He takes a step toward you. “You think this is easy. Bein’ the reason you could get hurt.”

“And you think pushing me away keeps me safe,” you whisper.

“It keeps you alive,” he snaps.

The words hit like a slap.

You stare at him, chest heaving. “At the cost of what, Frank.”

Silence. Heavy. Crushing.

He looks away first.

You turn back toward the counter, hands shaking as you grab a croissant without thinking. You break it open, steam curling into the air, the smell so warm it almost makes you sick.

“I made these for you,” you say quietly. “Because you like raspberry. Because I thought you’d come home and we’d sit at this table and you’d tell me nothing and I’d pretend that was enough.”

Frank slowly sits back down at the table, shoulders slumping like this drained him. He reaches out and takes the croissant from your hands, breaking it again with surprising gentleness.

“You burn yourself,” he mutters checking over your hand.

You huff out a shaky laugh. “Always thinking about everyone else.”

He hands you the larger half and keeps the smaller one. He eats slowly, eyes never leaving you.

“They’re good,” he says quietly.

You nod. “I know.”

The silence settles again, thicker now, loaded with things neither of you knows how to say.

You stand a few feet away from him, arms wrapped around yourself, chest heaving as you try and fail to breathe through the pressure building behind your ribs.

“This can’t keep going like this,” you say again, but this time your voice cracks completely.

Frank’s jaw tightens. “We already did this.”

“No,” you sob, shaking your head. “We didn’t. We circled it. Like we always do.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t care,” you cry suddenly, the words spilling out of you before you can stop them. “I don’t care if you’re keeping me safe if it means you come home like this. If it means I’m scrubbing blood out of the grout and watching you stitch yourself up like you’re dead.”

He stands, towering over you, voice rising. “This is who I am.”

“And I’m exhausted,” you scream back, tears streaming down your face. “I am so fucking tired, Frank. I can’t take it anymore.”

He steps closer. “You think I like hurting you.”

“I think you don’t stop,” you sob. “I think you don’t even try.”

“That’s bullshit,” he snaps. “Everything I do is for you.”

You laugh hysterically through your tears. “You don’t get to say that. Not when I’m the one left holding the pieces every time.”

You step into him, fists coming up and hitting his chest again and again, weak and frantic, fueled by heartbreak rather than strength.

“I can’t do this,” you cry. “I can’t do this again. I can’t watch you bleed and bleed and bleed and pretend loving you makes it okay.”

He doesn’t stop you. He doesn’t grab your wrists. He just lets you hit him, eyes dark and pained as your hands thud uselessly against his chest.

“That’s it, baby,” he says roughly, voice low but steady even as you fall apart. “That’s it. Let it out.”

You hit him harder, sobbing openly now, body shaking. “We’ve been here a thousand times,” you cry. “A thousand fucking times. Every fight feels the same. Every apology feels the same. I’m so tired of this.”

His hands hover at your sides, unsure, like touching you might shatter you completely. “I don’t know how to be anything else.”

“That’s the problem,” you choke. “I’m drowning trying to survive you.”

Silence crashes down between you, broken only by your sobs and his uneven breathing.

“You saying you’re done,” he asks hoarsely.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

You step back, shaking your head, wiping your face with trembling hands. “I can’t have this conversation right now.”

You turn and walk out of the kitchen, past the croissants, past the bloody table, past him calling your name once, quietly.

You grab your phone with shaking fingers and step into the bedroom, closing the door behind you like it might hold the pieces together.

You slide down against it, knees to your chest, sobbing as you hit call.

“Karen,” you choke the second she answers. “I think… I think Frank and I might be breaking up.”

The words hang there, terrifying and real, as the other side of the line fills with her soft, concerned voice.

Frank doesn’t come into the bedroom right away. Hours pass first.

Long enough for your tears to dry into that tight ache behind your eyes. Long enough for your phone to buzz with a worried text from Karen you don’t answer. A missed call from Foggy and a voicemail from Matt. Long enough for the apartment to go quiet except for the dull thud of weight plates and the sharp exhale of Frank’s breathing from the other room.

You know that sound.

You’re flat on your back, staring at the ceiling, blanket pulled up to your chest like armor. You don’t have to see him to know what he’s doing. He does it every time things get this bad. When the words get too heavy and the truth starts circling too close, he works his body until his mind shuts up.

It’s his way of not leaving.

The bedroom door finally opens, slow and careful, like he’s afraid the sound might spook you. You don’t turn your head, but you feel him there. The heat of him. The weight of him filling the doorway.

He smells like sweat and metal and soap. Cleaned up. Stitches finished. Shirtless again.

You feel the mattress dip as he sits on the edge of the bed.

Silence stretches.

“You okay,” he asks quietly.

You laugh once, broken and humorless. “No.”

He nods like he expected that. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t touch you right away. That’s how you know he’s trying. When Frank’s trying, he hesitates.

“I shouldn’t have yelled,” he says. “Shouldn’t have made you cry.”

You turn your head then, finally looking at him. His jaw is clenched, eyes tired and earnest in that way that always undoes you.

“You shouldn’t be working out with stitches.” you say softly.

He shrugs. “Didn’t know what else to do.”

“That’s the problem,” you whisper. “You never know what else to do.”

He looks at you for a long moment, then shakes his head. “I don’t want us to end.”

Your throat tightens. “I don’t either.”

He reaches out, fingers brushing your arm, tentative like he’s asking permission. You don’t pull away.

“I feel like we’re drifting apart.” he says, voice rough.

You close your eyes, tears spilling again despite your best effort. “Yeah I fucking know.” You say sarcastically “Big deal, we’ve been here before and we’ll be here tomorrow.”

The words land between you, ugly and familiar.

He exhales hard, hand sliding up to your shoulder. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” you say immediately, like it’s reflex. Like it’s instinct.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he admits.

“You don’t try to fix it,” you whisper. “You just… distract yourself from it.”

His thumb brushes your collarbone, slow and grounding. “I know.”

You open your eyes and look at him. “You’re so sweet to me.” You sit up slowly, forehead pressing into his chest. He wraps his arms around you immediately, like he’s been waiting for permission the entire time. “No other guy could compete.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into your hair. “I hate hurting you.”

“I hate that this is what our relationship has become.” you whisper back.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, hands coming up to cradle your face. His thumbs brush under your eyes, gentle, reverent.

“I don’t want to talk anymore,” he admits quietly. “I just want you.”

And there it is.

The familiar turn. The place you always end up when words fail and feelings get too sharp. You should stop it. You know you should. But your body leans into his touch anyway, betraying every boundary you swear you’ll set next time.

You kiss him first, soft and desperate.

He deepens it immediately, hands firm at your waist, grounding you, pulling you closer like this is how he keeps you from slipping away. It’s not rushed. It’s not gentle either. It’s loaded. Heavy with all the things neither of you can say without breaking something.

This is what happens every time.

You fight. You cry. You almost leave. But then his mouth is on yours again, swallowing the sob that builds in your throat, and you let it happen. You let him pull you into his lap, your smaller frame folding against his broad chest like you were made to fit there. His hands are everywhere, steady on your back, tracing the curve of your spine, then cupping your ass to hold you close. He's so much bigger than you, his muscles corded and unyielding under your touch, a wall of heat and strength that makes you feel safe even as everything inside you aches.

"I'm sorry," he whispers against your lips, voice gravelly and low. "God, baby, I'm so sorry." His forehead presses to yours, breath mingling, hot and ragged. "I love you. I love you so much it fuckin' scares me sometimes."

You cling to him, fingers digging into his shoulders, nails biting just enough to leave faint marks. "I love you too, Frankie," you murmur, the nickname slipping out like a secret, soft and intimate. "But this... it hurts. Every time."

He nods, eyes dark and shadowed, thumb stroking your cheek. "I know. I hate seein' you like this." A tear escapes, trailing down your face, and he catches it immediately, leaning in to kiss it away. His lips are gentle, pressing soft and lingering against your skin. "Don't cry, sweetheart. Please. You're too beautiful for tears."

His words wrap around you, warm and praising, easing the knot in your chest just a little. You know he means it, every time he looks at you like this, like you're the only thing keeping him grounded, it chips away at the sadness. "You take such good care of me," he continues, voice dropping to that rough murmur that sends shivers through you. "Cookin' for me after long nights, patchin' me up when I come home bleedin'. No one else does that. No one else could. You're so good to me, baby. So perfect."

The praise lights something in you, a submissive pull that makes you arch into him, seeking more. Your hands slide down his chest, feeling the hard planes of his pecs, the ridges of his abs, still faintly damp from his workout. His skin is warm and marked with fresh stitches you eye worriedly, but he doesn't flinch when you trace them lightly.

"Frankie," you breathe, shifting in his lap. The heat between your legs presses against his thigh, thick and solid under his sweats. You rock once, experimentally, and a soft whimper escapes you. It's not enough, but it's something, friction that builds the ache into need.

He groans low, hands tightening on your hips. "Yeah, that's it. Use me, sweetheart. Grind on my thigh like that." His voice is encouraging, dominant but so soft, guiding you without force. He shifts his leg, pressing it firmer against your core, and you gasp, starting to move in earnest. Your panties are soaked already, the fabric dragging wetly over him as you hump his thigh, chasing the pressure.

"Look at you," he praises, eyes locked on your face, drinking in every flush and bite of your lip. "So beautiful when you move like this. My good girl, takin' what you need. I love watchin' you. Love how you feel against me." His hands help you, lifting and lowering you slightly, controlling the rhythm just enough to make it intense. You're smaller than him, easy to maneuver, and he uses that to his advantage, making sure every roll of your hips hits right.

Tears prick your eyes again, not from pain now, but from the overwhelming mix of it all. The sadness lingers, heavy in your chest, but his words, his touch, they soften it. "I'm sorry," you whisper between gasps, grinding harder, the seam of his sweats rubbing your clit just right. "For yelling back. For makin' it worse."

"Shh, no," he soothes, one hand sliding up to cup your face. "We're both sorry. I love you, baby. That's all that matters right now." He kisses you then, deep and slow, tongue sliding against yours as you ride his thigh faster. The build is quick, heat coiling tight in your belly, and he feels it, senses the way your body tenses.

"Cum for me," he murmurs against your mouth. "Let me feel you soak my leg. You're doin' so good." The praise tips you over, and you shatter with a cry, thighs clamping around his, pussy clenching as waves of pleasure crash through you. He holds you through it, kissing your neck, your jaw, whispering, "That's my girl. So beautiful when you cum. I love you."

You slump against him, panting, but he doesn't let you rest long. His hands are gentle as he lays you back on the bed, peeling off your shirt with reverent care. "Let me take care of you now," he says, voice thick with emotion. He kisses down your body, collarbone, breasts, tummy-muttering praises the whole way. "God, you're gorgeous. Every inch of you. You're everything, sweetheart."

He tugs your panties down, settling between your legs. Your legs splayed wide to accommodate his broad shoulders, and he looks up at you with that intense gaze. "I'm gonna make you feel good," he promises, then leans in, mouth hot on your pussy.

His tongue is flat and broad at first, licking slow from entrance to clit, tasting the mess you made on his thigh. You moan, fingers threading into his short hair, pulling lightly. He hums approval, the vibration making you twitch. "Taste so sweet," he growls, then sucks your clit gently, tongue circling it with precise flicks. One hand grips your thigh, holding you open, while the other teases your entrance, finger circling before sliding in knuckle-deep.

"Frankie," you whine, hips bucking. Tears well up again, the intensity mixing with the emotional weight, and one slips free. He notices immediately, pulling back just enough to kiss it away from your cheek before returning to your pussy, licking harder now, finger curling inside you to hit that spot.

"Don't cry, baby," he says between laps. "I hate it. You're too pretty for that. My beautiful girl, always takin' such good care of me. I love you so much." He adds a second finger, stretching you, pumping slow and deep while his mouth works your clit. The praise keeps coming, soft and constant: "So good for me. Openin' up like this. Cum on my tongue, sweetheart. Let me taste it."

It builds fast again, his big frame pinning you down just enough to make you feel owned in the best way. You scratch at his shoulders, nails dragging red lines down his back as the orgasm hits, pussy fluttering around his fingers, flooding his mouth. He groans, lapping it all up, not stopping until you're trembling.

"That's it," he praises, kissing your inner thigh. "Knew you could. So perfect." He crawls up your body, shedding his sweats to free his cock, thick and hard, veins prominent, tip leaking. He's huge, especially compared to you, and the sight makes your core clench in anticipation.

He notches himself at your entrance, rubbing the head through your slick folds. "You ready for me?" he asks, voice rough but eyes searching yours for any hesitation.

"Yes, Frankie," you breathe, wrapping your legs around his waist. "Please. I love you."

"I love you too." He pushes in slow, inch by inch, stretching you wide. It's intense, the burn mixing with pleasure, and you gasp, nails raking his back harder, leaving welts. He hisses but doesn't stop, bottoming out with a deep groan. "Fuck, you're tight. So good around me. Takin' me like you were made for it."

He starts moving, thrusts deep and measured, not rushing. One hand slides up to your throat, fingers wrapping lightly, just enough pressure to make your pulse jump under his thumb, a soft choke that heightens everything. "Breathe for me," he murmurs, dominant edge peeking through. "My good girl. So beautiful like this, all flushed and mine."

Tears come again, the emotional dam breaking as he fucks you tender but intense, each roll of his hips grinding his pelvis against your clit. "I'm sorry," he whispers with every thrust, kissing your tears away, lips soft on your cheeks, your eyelids. "Sorry for hurtin' you. For not bein' better. I love you. God, I love you."

"I love you too," you sob, scratching deeper into his back, the pain grounding him as much as it does you. His praises don't stop "You're amazin', baby. Lovin' me through all this shit. No one compares. You're my everything." pushing you higher, the coil tightening.

He shifts, angling to hit deeper, hand still light on your throat. "Cum on my cock," he demands softly. "Wanna feel you squeeze me. Be good for me, sweetheart."

The orgasm rips through you, pussy clamping down hard, milking him as you cry out his name. He follows soon after, burying deep with a guttural moan, cum filling you hot and thick. "Fuck, yes," he gasps, collapsing over you but careful not to crush, kissing your tears one last time.

You hold each other in the quiet aftermath, his big body enveloping yours, breaths syncing. The sadness lingers, a quiet undercurrent, but for now, it's enough. "I love you," he whispers again, like a promise. "Always."

You both stay like that for what feels like forever, tangled in the sheets, his massive frame curled protectively around your smaller one. Frank's chest rises and falls against your back, his arm draped heavy over your waist, holding you close as if letting go might unravel everything you've just pieced together. His skin is slick with sweat, the scratches you left on his back stinging faintly where your nails dug in, but he doesn't complain, never does. Instead, he presses his lips to the nape of your neck, soft and lingering, breathing you in like you're the only thing that calms the storm inside him.

"Love you," he murmurs again, voice muffled against your hair, rough but tender. His hand strokes lazy circles on your hip, thumb tracing the curve there with a gentleness that belies his size. "More than anything, baby. I'm sorry it always gets like this. I hate makin' you doubt us."

You nestle deeper into him, your body still humming from the aftershocks, pussy tender and full from where he spilled inside you. The sadness hasn't fully lifted, it's there, a quiet shadow in the room, but his warmth chases it back, making it bearable. "I love you too, Frankie," you whisper, turning your head to catch his eye. He's watching you with that intense, earnest gaze, the one that always makes your heart ache in the best way. "We just... we gotta figure it out. For real this time."

He nods, forehead resting against your shoulder now, his breath warm on your skin. "Yeah. We will. You're too good to me for me not to try harder." His free hand comes up, fingers brushing your cheek, wiping away the last trace of dampness from your tears. "God, you're beautiful. Even after all this. Especially after. The way you give yourself to me... takin' care of my sorry ass when I don't deserve it. No one else could handle me like you do. You're my everything, sweetheart."

The praise washes over you, soothing the raw edges of your emotions, and you feel yourself relax fully into his hold. His body is a fortress around yours, thick thighs pressed against your legs, his cock softening but still nestled close, a reminder of how deeply connected you are. You reach back, threading your fingers through his, squeezing. "Stop being so sweet," you tease softly, though your voice wavers with leftover emotion. "You'll make me cry again."

"Don't you dare," he says, half-growling, half-laughing as he nuzzles your ear. "I can't stand seein' those pretty eyes wet. Not 'cause of me." He shifts slightly, pulling you tighter, his chest fully against your back now, heartbeat steady and strong thumping through you. The room is quiet except for your shared breaths, the distant hum of the city outside forgotten. His hand drifts lower, cupping your breast gently, thumb grazing your nipple in absentminded affection, not pushing for more, just holding, grounding.

You let out a contented sigh, the tension from earlier melting away in the cocoon of his arms. But then your phone buzzes on the nightstand, the screen lighting up with another text from Karen. You glance at it, the words "Everything okay?" staring back, and reality creeps in. The fight, the tears, the almost-breaking point, it all feels too fresh to ignore her worry.

"I gotta text Karen," you say reluctantly, not wanting to move from this perfect spot. "Tell her it's a false alarm. She texted earlier, probably thinks the worst."

Frank grunts in acknowledgment, loosening his hold just enough for you to reach for the phone. "Yeah, go ahead. She's a good friend. Worries 'cause she cares." He doesn't let you go far, though, his arm stays around you, chin resting on your shoulder as you type out a quick message: Hey, sorry for worrying you. It's fine now. Just a rough night, but we're good. Talk tomorrow? You hit send, then set the phone down, sinking back into him with a small smile.

"There," you murmur, lacing your fingers with his again. "False alarm."

He kisses your shoulder, soft and reassuring. "Good. Now come back here." His voice is low, dominant in that gentle way, pulling you fully against him once more. "I ain't done holdin' you yet."

And in that moment, wrapped up in his strength, you almost believe tomorrow won't bring the fight back.

It’s dark when you wake up, so dark that you question whether you have truly opened your eyes. You are not awake yet, surely not. You are merely in a dream. A pleasant dream, a quiet dream. A dream where only you can go, in a place where no one else can follow.

Not even him.

You entertain the delusion for a while, but ultimately you know it’s hopeless. The arms wrapped around your torso—tightening and loosening over and over again, as if he wants to make sure you are real, too—tether you to the present moment.

The darkness of the room no longer serves as a warm blanket. It is as if you are trapped underwater, stuck in a sinkhole, floating aimlessly throughout the cosmos. Or trapped in a basement.

You are fully conscious, alright.

If only you were alone.

In the moments after you wake, you try to take deep breaths. But as the weight on your chest builds—as you are increasingly aware of just how completely your captor is surrounding you, with your back flush up against his chest—your breathing becomes shallow, rapid. So rapid that he notices.

He notices everything.

He also seems to notice that you are crying. His grip on you tightens as he shushes you, lightly rocking you back and forth.

You feel pathetic.

“Hey. Breathe. Breathe with me, alright?”

Time passes. You’re not sure how long. But eventually, the pain in your chest dissipates. He leans over you so that he is propped up on his elbow, still spooning you but he’s… hovering.

He’s always hovering.

“Nightmare?”

You can just barely see the outline of his features. Since he left yesterday afternoon, it looks like he has acquired some new scrapes, cuts, and bruises. He always does. It disturbs you, so much so that you neglect to ask how he got them. Even with his seemingly constant stream of injuries, maybe you would have thought Frank was handsome, in some other life. You tell yourself that he’s a boxer, or a professional fighter or trainer or something.

Somehow, something in you knows better.

You can tell he wants you to say something. Terrified to disappoint—as you have before, and it certainly did not end well for you—you nod, peering up at him.

“Something like that,“ you mumble.

He reaches down and runs his fingers through your hair, pulling it away from your face. His fingertips run along your temple, your cheek, your jawline. He nods, leaning his head to the side, as if admiring you. Maybe he is.

“I get them, too, you know.”

You’re unsure of what to say. You clear your throat, letting out an awkward and rather delayed “I’m sorry.”

He is silent for a few seconds. Maybe you shouldn’t have said anything at all. You start to develop a pit in your stomach, but then he lies back down again, pulling you close against his chest. You can feel his chin pressed against the top of your head.

“I’m sorry, too,” he says, sighing. “For everything.”

You almost believe him.

Somehow, something in you knows better.

-

He says he would never hurt you.

Somewhere deep down, though, you can sense that Frank understands. He is not stupid, nor does he live in a state of delusion. He is a confrontational person, you can tell, and he readily confronts reality. He knows how much you hate him. It hurts him, but you can tell he was fully prepared for it. He is kind and patient with you because he knows you don’t deserve this. He knows you deserve to be happy, to be free. He knows he is hurting you, in spite of what he says. He also knows he doesn’t have to cause you physical harm in order to leave a mark.

You used to think you were good at reading people. It was a gift of yours, your own little superpower. You were skilled at assessing for intention, at predicting what someone’s next move might be. 

Frank, however, is an exceptionally difficult person to read. 

Concentration can get confusing when you’re afraid. It’s anxiety inducing, it’s debilitating, it’s tiring. But mostly, being around Frank feels unbearable. Whenever he is around, it’s like your mind has forged a new path, nestled securely in a state of purgatory. Both hypervigilant and distracted, frantic yet focused. 

You don’t understand this. You don’t understand him. You don’t understand why you’re here, or what he wants from you. You become so frustrated you could cry, and sometimes you do.

You don’t understand.

Your nerves send your mind spiraling in one hundred different directions, playing out scenarios of what he’s going to do, what he’s going to say, how this is going to end. It’s too hard to focus on any single one. It’s too hard to narrow down what the most likely scenario is. It’s too hard to predict the unpredictable.

The silence between the two of you—even the little silences, the moments where you’re waiting for him to respond to something you’ve said or done—is like pulling teeth. It’s frustrating and complicated, but it’s also relatively simple. 

Whenever he is around, you feel like you’re going to collapse. 

And so you have. You’ve fainted twice now in his presence. Once when you first arrived, when you first found yourself in the dark of the basement. Once more when he came home— “home,” the word makes you feel ill—covered in blood and cuts and bruises. You knew full well why he allowed you to see him like that. It was a warning. An “I’m not hurting you, but I could.” A big, shining example of “look at what I’m capable of.” As if you didn’t already know.

He explained things differently.

“I want to know every part of you, even the parts you’re not proud of,” he had said. “It’s only fair that you know me, too.”

You’re perched up on a pedestal in his mind, and you can’t help but wonder when all will come crashing down. But then again, he’s seen you at your worst, at your most human. He’s seen you scream and cry and beg and barter. He’s seen you get violent—or attempt to, anyway. It wasn’t difficult for him to protect himself from your hits and blows, but he has never hurt you. Not once. 

Not anywhere anyone could see. 

Not like anyone else had seen much of you lately. In fact, no one had seen you for quite some time now, no one but him. You weren’t sure if it was out of sympathy or malice; knowing Frank, he probably thought it was the former. He saw it as doing you a kindness. He let you keep track of time. 

Six months. 

Six whole months, you had been here.

He says that he never does to people that which isn’t deserved. You are still not sure what he means by that, but the injuries he comes home with give you some ideas. 

You know he’s been through something terrible. He has to have been. People don’t become this twisted without having endured some sort of traumatic event. You just don’t know what. You know he’s deathly afraid of losing those he loves. You know you are included in that category, for whatever reason. 

It’s weird in retrospect. To you, Frank was just another guy at the bar. He was one of your regulars, stopping by for a drink or two every few nights for the past two years. You had just barely gotten to know him by the time he made the decision to alter the course of your life entirely. 

He had kept to himself. He gave off the impression that he didn’t want to be bothered, and yet, he made it clear that he liked you. He was a good tipper. He made you feel safe and protected when patrons would get rowdy, when they would get rude with you. He even fixed up your car once when it broke down in the parking lot. 

“I take care of you,” he said. “You see that, don’t you?“

He wears his guilt like a blanket. It’s not hard to see. Shame dictates everything he does, from the careful way he speaks to you to the gentle way he holds you at night. He is soft with you, affectionate. When you’re in the quiet of your home— “home” —all of his hard edges are stripped away. It makes you feel a little special. You wonder who else has seen this side of him.

He says he would never hurt you, and he’s remained true to his word. 

Concentration can get confusing when you’re afraid. It becomes difficult to sustain. You can start to go into shock, a state in which you forget why you are where you are and why. When you’re being told one thing and experiencing another, you naturally begin to question your reality. Your days are filled with “I love you’s” alongside escape attempts, your nights filled with moments of comfort in the arms of someone you despise. 

You dread Frank’s presence, and yet, you jump at every little noise when he’s not around. And sometimes, when you’re in that warm, heady space between sleep and consciousness, you are simply there—just you and the man that loves you.

You are alive. You are awake. You are afraid. You are loved. You are confined, trapped, terrified. You are a lot of things.

“I want to know every part of you,” he had said.

You’re not even sure you know every part of you.

Not now. 

Far enough. Deep enough.

You shiver and grip the metal beneath you. Just one push and it all goes away. You sniff, head so full it hurts, and breathe out through your lips. You can taste the river water.

One push.

One.

You can do it.

For once in your life, do something. A simple fall, a short end. That's all that's ahead of you. There's nothing else left for you. There never was anything for you. You never did anything.

So do this and be done with it. You close your eyes. You feel the rivets in the metal. You roll your shoulders.

"Well then." You say and push off.

Before you can plunge through nothingness and into the depths, a snag jars you. You dangle from some unseen obstacle, whimpering at the wrench that has your spine and neck ringing. You flail like a cat and look up at the unexpected safe fall.

The man is hunched and shadowed like a gargoyle on a stone building. You kick your legs and grab his hand, prying at in bendable fingers with a sob. "What are you doing?"

He says nothing. With no effort at all, he hauls you back onto the metal. You kick and smack at his grip. He ignores you.

"Let me go!" You plead. "I just want to go."

Not a word. Not a look. You couldn't see it in the shadow of the bridge if there was.

"Let me go." You beg weakly as you grasp wrists.

He flicks away your struggles and grabs your throat. You gasp. He squeezes until you can't breathe. Maybe he can still give you that escape.

You let your hands fall away. He tightens his hold until your throat burns and your head pounds. He lets you go and you fall back limp on your back, one leg dangling over the edge. He clucks.

Your vision pulses and your ears ring. He moves around you. He brings your hands together then your feet. You shiver and try to pull them apart. You can't.

"Why?" You croak.

The silence stirs with the noise of the water and the groan of the metal under his weight. He moves over you, feeling your pockets and clothing. He stops, his hand on your shoulder. His voice grates through the night as something dry and coarse fills your mouth.

“You can’t even take care of yourself, so why not let me.”

💓

You sink into a haze. Shock, dread, resignation. You wonder if maybe you did make it to the water and this is some twisted after life…

What else could it be? No one knew. No one cared. You didn’t tell anyone what you meant to do. Didn’t even write it in your diary. You just made up your mind. You just wanted it over.

Your lashes flutter as your eyes zero in. It’s all too real to be the last flashes of your synapses clinging to consciousness. The room is dim but vivid. Shadows gather in the mortar between thick cinder bricks; the air is still and frigid, and the chair beneath you is hard and unforgiving.

Your finger twitches and the tendon in your wrist strains. Your arms are trapped, your ankles too. Metal binds you to the wooden frame of the chair, another around your neck and forehead.

You shift futilely. What sick fate is this? Is it irony? You were so ready to give it all up that someone else stole your life away?

A sudden crackle makes you flinch. A light radiates in your vision and static fills a square screen. You blink, unable to move your head against the metal binding. You gulp as the black and grey speckles ache in your vision.

The monochrome dots blip away and white lines run up a black screen, a low click each time they reach the top of the screen. They ripple, the waves growing more intense until a vision fills the frame.

The silhouette of a bride in her veil kissing her groom appears beneath the classical wedding overture. A sterile voice says a single word as the image lingers. “Longing.” The couple begin to dance, feed each other cake, and the husband carries his wife over the threshold.

“Tidy.” The voice says.

The scene changes. A jacket being hung. Bristles dragging on tile. A tub full of bubbles surrounded by candles. The camera pans in on the spinning laundry through the window of a machine, making your dizzy.

“One.”

A man’s face flashes; blue eyes, sharp jawline, dark hair.

“Dawn.”

The morning beams warmly through windows, illuminating another pair of silhouettes before the scene switches to a garden and a trickling birdbath. The stir of water tickles in your ears and sends a cool flow down your spine.

“Apron.”

Thick hands tie the strings of an apron against a checkered dress, slowly looping and winding the bow, laying out the tails perfectly.

“His.”

The man’s eyes blink and disappear.

“Obey.”

A belt is pulled from the loops of a pair of trousers and bent in the same large hand, slapping the palm with an echoing noise.

“Bed.”

Pillows drop onto a bed, blankets are dragged down to the end, petals flutter onto the floor at the base of the frame.

“Only.”

The man again, arms outstretched.

“Home.”

The vision of a house, unmoving, standing on the screen, bold, so still it must be a picture. It stays there as the audio cuts out. The silence scrapes in your ear until you squirm then all at once it evaporates.

A whisper slowly rises from the speakers; “home, home, home, home.” The voice gets louder and louder and louder; until your eyes water and your ear drums thrum. Then, silence again. And darkness.

You sit in the void, shaking. You close your eyes and shudder. Then hear the television flick on again.

“Longing.”

💓

She’s soft, pliant as he leads her into the light. She shies away and he coaxes her further. She leans on him. She doesn’t notice that his arm doesn’t belong to him.

He takes her into the large bathroom and sits her on the small bench with the drawers in the bottom. Her clothes are dingy with the stale remnants of the river’s mist. That day on the bridge only remains in the soiled fabric.

As he tries to pull away, she grabs onto him. Her lashes flick wide. Bucky knows that look. He used to see it in the mirror. That glassy distance. On her, it’s not so bad.

“Doll, I’m just gonna get you washed up.”

She stares at him and nods, her hands slipping down his forearm. The sensation is like cool rain on a hot day, or sunshine after a grey winter. He smiles. Her lips tremble then she does the same.

“Yes, honey.” She lowers her hands to her lap and stares ahead.

He begins. He cuts off her clothes. She does react. Not even as he pauses to admire those parts of her that make him salivate.

When he is done with that, he fills the large basin of the tub. He goes to her but thinks twice of getting her up just yet. He undresses then goes to her.

He brings her in the tub with him. He can take his time. He doesn’t have to hurry. He leans her against him and sighs. She’s stiff and squirmy. He runs his hands up her sides.

“Doll, relax. I got you.”

He feels her obey. She slackens against his chest and lets her head rest on his shoulder. He strokes her stomach.

“Good.” He praises as he draws little swirls on her skin.

This is all he wanted. To feel someone close. To have someone who can never go away. To not have to be afraid.

“There was a man, I don’t know where he is,” She turned to look over her shoulder like she was terrified of what could be lurking in the snowy forest behind her. She wouldn’t survive out there in only her thin shirt and pants that didn’t even cover her ankles.

So, with a quivering breath, you unlocked and opened the door, everything in you screaming your village’s warning in your head.

Never let someone into your house after midnight, it is only pretending.

She was stepping over the threshold of your door, cold skin brushing past yours as she moved past you.

“Thank you,” She said and you felt your heartbeat jump in your throat as you locked the door back. God only knows where the man she mentioned was and you didn’t want to risk him coming across your lonely cabin unlocked.

The lock seemed to click loudly in your ears like you were the one trapped now.

“I– it’s no problem,” You forced a smile onto your face and looked now at the woman before you.

She shouldn’t be alive. Her clothes were too light for the snowstorm outside and her feet were bare. Yet she showed no signs of frostbite, she wasn’t even shivering anymore.

Dread pooled heavily in your belly but it was too late for regrets now, you’d made your bed and now you had to lie in it.

“We girls have to look out for each other right,” She nodded along, her eyes wide and unnerving as those big, blue hues seared into you.

“Yeah we do,” Her voice was quiet, like if she spoke any louder something else would come out.

“I’m Gojo Satoru, but you can call me Satoru if you want,” And had your nerves not been such a mess, you might’ve felt something other than sick at her sweet smile.

You never gave your name, you didn’t want her to remember you once she left.

You sat in front of the fireplace with Gojo at your side, pressing her side against yours no matter how much you scooted down the couch until you were boxed between her and the armrest. You tried to tell yourself it was only to warm up, she had to be freezing from being out there, afterall, her skin was freezing where it was pressed against what was bare of your skin.

She talked on and on and it seemed you couldn’t cling to anything she said, your head felt uncharacteristically slow, like trying to grasp onto every individual thought through honey.

Even so, you were on edge, especially from how hard Gojo was trying to weedle your name from you.

“It’s only right I know the name of my savior,” She spoke close to you and you could practically feel her breath on your neck. She was too close, far too close, but your body refused to move away from her.

“Once I get back to my home, I’ll ensure you want for nothing for the rest of your life.”

Finally, through the sludge of your thoughts, you gave her a fake name. She didn’t look as happy to finally know your ‘name’ as you thought she would. Her eyes burned through you, like she could see the way your heart sped up with your lie. You clenched your hands into fists and tried to reorient yourself. You needed to lie down.

“I’m gonna head to bed, Ms. Gojo,” You said, your voice coming out breathy and you cringed at how it sounded. She grabbed your hand and on reflex on contact with her frozen fingers, you jerked away.

“You can sleep here or the spare bedroom in the back.” You muttered, your head feeling too light to think about how rude you sounded.

Despite this, she followed you to your room, your heart beating painfully in your chest and you could practically feel it in your throat.

Her eyes never looked away from you.

Nausea tried to choke its way up your throat but you swallowed it down with burning eyes.

What have you done? You should’ve just listened to your village’s warnings, you should’ve listened when your mother said your soft heart would be the death of you.

You still haven’t heard footsteps leading away from your door.

You can practically see it, that woman standing there, her silky white hair flowing down her back as she stood outside your wooden door frame. You could nearly feel her piercing gaze still burning through you.

You slid down the door and laid your head in your hands, a migraine already forming above your eyebrows. You took steady breaths, in– out. In, – out.

Your hand slid to the cold floorboards beneath you and you could’ve screamed as you felt something silky slide beneath your hand. Your stomach lurched and you scrambled from the door just in time to see right below your door where it didn’t meet the floor– was a single blue eye staring right at you.

You really did scream then, a shriek tearing itself from your throat as you watched the blue eye pull away, taking with it the white hair that crept beneath your door. Your heartbeat hammered so hard it made you sick and even now you still couldn’t hear any damn footsteps. She was still there, it was still there.

She called your name, sweet and practically mocking. Your real name.

A sob tried to choke up from your stomach as you pressed yourself against your bed, the cold floorboards biting into your skin.

Then, there was scratching. Deep and grating as she scratched at the wood that separated the two of you.

“Go away!” You screamed, ears deafening with the rush of your blood through them.

“Go away,” Your voice trailed off, weak and terrified and a horrible cooing noise came from the other side, in no way muffled by the barrier. It was spoken like she was right beside you.

“Don’t be so scared, I won’t hurt you.” Then the nails came to drag down your door once again, this time they nearly seemed frantic– desperate to reach you.

“Open the door, baby,” She called again, voice dripping with honey and anger. She didn’t want to ask again. But you wouldn’t open that door if it was the last thing you did. Everything would be over if you gave into the demon’s persuasion.

A loud thud made you nearly jump out of your skin.

Bang!

Bang!

Each hit harder everytime until you could see tiny chunks of your door flying off the hinges. You wanted to cry and with every thud, you came closer and closer as the fear made you nauseous.

Your head felt murky and you could barely sift through what you should do before there was one last, final bang.

She stood in the darkness of your hallway, the fireplace evidently having gone out to leave the house in darkness.

“I’m sorry,” You cried, your eyes screwing shut as tears burned down your face and your bottom lip shook. You were going to die and it was your own damn fault. You and your soft heart.

Hands, cold and gentle, cradled your face like you were something fragile that would fall apart at the slightest pressure. Soft lips pressed against yours, gentle at first. But the longer you stayed still and didn’t reciprocate, the harder she pressed. It was only when a cry of pain escaped you did she pull away, face flushed and a horribly warm smile on her face as she looked at you.

You’re screwed if she catches you. You know how enraged she gets when you disobey.

The last time you broke one of her rules by talking back to her it earned you her name carved into your thigh and a broken ankle.

God save you if or when she does, you’re terrified to what she just might do to you if she gets her hands on you.

But for right now you just have to keep on moving

Time skip:

It had been around a month or two and the wind traders had gladly taken you in. Allowing you to live along side them.

You had become very close with peylak and his wife as you began seeing them as family. They gave you new cloths, shears story’s with you, and food. You finally felt at ease for the first time in a long time. You no longer feared the sound of voices around you, no longer felt fear for spilling something or making a mistake.

You no longer feared the sound of laughter

As times pasted you began to get close with another Navi woman Sniu. She didn’t make you cower in front of her, she treated you gently with a soft hand. Her voice never yelled or threatened you instead was kind and praised you.

She was the opposite of varang in every way. A soft face, kind eyes, just slightly shorter. But slightly more muscular but The biggest difference being that she looked at you with love. One night with the traders she invited you sit along side her and with out a word pulled you against her side and pressed her cheek to the top of your head.

You couldn’t help but smile. It had been so long since you were touched with a loving hand and as the night went on you couldn’t help fall for her. It didn’t help when you had a few drinks, you couldn’t stop your self in time before you knew it you placed a kiss on her lips.

Things went a bit Wilde from there. The next morning you were laying in her bed as you both hold each other, your head resting on her bear chest. Both of you littered with hickeys and light scratches. Solid proof of what conspired the night before. She gently sits you up against her as she praises you to no end. Even with your hair a mess she still says eywa blessed you with the beauty of pandora.

She gave you one of her tops to wear along with a shall to drape over your shoulders. She leaves for breakfast but not before placing a gentle kiss on your lips.

You were so focused on her and what happened last night you almost didn’t notice the sound of flapping and a yell that was all to familiar. You didn’t want to believe it, she had found you and there’s nothing you can do about it.

Suddenly you were surrounded. They were attacking from all sides, the sound of screams and war cries frilled your ears bring back memories you wished you could forget.

You hear the sickening screams that turned to silence as their kuru is severed. And others falling as arrows pierce though them like it’s nothing.

It’s like you’re paralyzed you can’t move, you’re body isn’t letting you no matter how hard you try to will it to.

You know it’s too late. She found you and this time you have no where to run to. All you can do now is hope and pray she would have some mercy on you but you knew it would never happen not with her.

As she flew by her eyes locked on to you like a predator that hasn’t eaten in days. As she yells out orders you can’t fully make out. It wasn’t long before unfamiliar hands grab you. Pulling you to your knees.

That’s when she finally unmounted the ikran and made her way towards you. When she stopped in front of you she had the men unhand you before taking a look at you herself.

You could see the way her face twisted with anger but it just got worse when she saw the bite mark on you neck. She went from simply angered to fully Ballistic. She snatched you up to your feet.

“Who!?”

Her voice loud and cutting. She looked as though she might just kill you where you stand.

Suddenly you felt a sharp pain across your face. She had just hit you but I was far from the first time.

“You’re playing a dangerous game my pet.”

“You know have no problem forcing it out of you…one way or another”

And she did with out another word she large hand wrapped around your neck like a serpent and constricted like one too making breathing almost impossible.

“Tell me little one, then I may have mercy”

Her tone mocking you and you knew that but it was getting harder to stay silent. Your lungs felt like there was a fire in them and your head felt light and dizzying.

Your body had to give in and that’s what you did.

“Sniu,”

How you hated yourself for doing that, for saying her name. As you saw varang drag her towards her sniu looked at you. Her eyes full of betrayal.

You looked back at her with tears in your eyes and with the little breath you had left.

“Please, forgive me”

Before everything went black.

Time skip

When you awoke your head was pounding and your throat felt as if you haven’t drank anything in days.

You sat up in the bed you had wake up in and looked around trying to figure out where you were. It felt both familiar and foreign at the same time.

It was clear you were back at Mangkwan Clan or very close to it.

That when you noticed the footsteps coming from the entrance and there she stood again. Her eyes still hold the same anger they did before but now she was completely silent.

She just walked to the side of the bed and crouched so she could be eye level with you.

“Listen to me brat, you are lucky I don’t just cut your head off for what you did”

She placed something in your lap as you look at it horror washes over as you realize what it is.

Sniu’s kuru

Tears well in your eyes

“She didn’t have to die, she would be alive if it wasn’t for you”

“Cry all you want but your punishment is still far from over”

She cups your cheek the softest she’s been in a long time.

you feel something being tied around your ankle. You realize she has tied you to the bed with rope only long enough to barely walk tree feet away from the bed.

“I hope this helps you learn not to go against me”

She roughly grabs your face

“If not, that’s fine too we both know how much I love punishing you”

She leaves the tent but not before turning and laughing at your pathetic state as if it’s the funniest thing in the world.

When you’re finally alone again you can’t pry your eyes off of the sever kuru in your hands. As tear pour down your face.

Your brain kept telling you that If you hadn’t have ran away, hadn’t disobeyed, hadn’t have kissed her. She would have still been alive. The guilt eats away at your insides And your mind.

You didn’t realize you had fallen asleep the night before the kuru lays on the ground a horrible reminder of the death you caused.

You were quickly interrupted from that thought by the rumbling and ache coming from your stomach. You hadn’t eat since the night before the attack nor had you drank anything.

You waited for varang to come hopefully with something to eat or drink. And you waited…and waited but she didn’t show up. the ache and hunger kept growing with each passing minute becoming harder by the minute. Your throat parched and sore begging for water. But she never came that day even well into the night

The next day you had barely slept, kept getting awoken by the pain in your stomach. You felt weak and nauseous but had nothing to throw up. The pain in your throat made it almost impossible to speak and even more painful to breathe as you laid in bed clutching your stomach. You finally heard footsteps outside of the tent

That’s when she finally entered looking down at you with a small fruit and a small amount of water.

“See how much you need me? You so pathetic by yourself”

She tugged you up and sat beside you as she held the fruit to your lips.

“Eat I want to teach you a lesson not kill you”

You ate the fruit as quick as you could like it would disappear in a second Along with the water.

She chuckled at the reaction watching you closely before leaving again.

This went on for what felt like weeks she wouldn’t come or bring food for two days then bring a small amount on the third. Starving you but not going long enough to kill.

No one else came and the days of being completely alone were starting to brake you down slowly. You felt like you couldn’t breathe without her near you. That you couldn’t take care of yourself without her. You needed her for everything.

After that time every time she came back you’d beg her to stay to not leave you. But she always did

Than one day she came back and silently untied the rope holding you here.

“I feel you have learned your lesson pet, you can leave here but if you ever run away again. I will follow through on my promise. Do you understand”

You nodded as fast a you could

“Words pet”

“Yes ma’am!”

She smiles at that and takes you in her arms as she carries you back to village the whole time you’re in her arms you can’t pry your eyes away from her face but you couldn’t shake the feeling. The warm feeling in your stomach that she was holding you again that you were with here again. A smile on your face as you rest your head on her shoulder.

And she was happy, the punishment worked made you crave her, made you need her. The exact what she wanted you to believe.

Just as she entered the clan with you almost falling asleep in her arms. You noticed something strange a man you had never scene before standing there. You knew almost everyone’s face in this clan but he looked new and looked almost human in a way. But just who was he and why he was here. You asked yourself before giving into the tiredness and falling asleep in varang arms.

I how yall enjoyed this I’m sorry it took so long I had major writer’s block! Any ways love yall be safe and drink water