#captive reader

The camp smells of smoke and blood. The cries of the captured have begun to thin, fading into low sobs or silence, but the crackle of fire and the metallic tang in the air cling stubbornly to your skin. You’re shoved forward with a rough hand between your shoulder blades, stumbling to keep from falling into the dust.

A cluster of Greek soldiers watches, their eyes glittering with something meaner than victory.

Their laughter rises and falls around you, sharp as spearpoints, and you know without needing to be told what they see when they look at you. Not a person, not the daughter of a noble house, but plunder. Something taken.

Something owed.

“You’ll fetch a good price,” one of them mutters, voice thick with drink and triumph. “Pretty little spoil.”

You set your jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of your fear. You keep your chin high, though your wrists ache from the rope biting into them.

Another soldier steps closer, circling you like he’s weighing the cut of a horse. He grins, crooked teeth catching the firelight. “Why sell her when we could enjoy her ourselves?” His tone is oily, greedy, and the sounds of agreement rumble low.

Your stomach turns, but before the suggestion can grow into action, another voice cuts in.

“That one.”

The speaker isn’t the loudest among them, but he doesn’t need to be. There seems to be a weight in his voice that makes the others still. He’s taller than most, broad-shouldered, his armour dented and streaked with dust from the day’s fight.

“Eudorus,” someone says, half-question, half-warning.

He ignores them, steps into the firelight, and tilts his head as though deciding what to make of you. “She’s not for you lot,” he says, not unkindly, but not gently either. It’s the tone of command, the kind used to settle arguments before they begin.

“She’s a noble’s daughter, isn’t she?” His eyes flick to the embroidered edge of your torn sleeve, the way you stand despite the bruises blooming on your arms. He doesn’t wait for your answer.

“She’s worth more than a few drunken fumbles.”

The others grumble, disappointed, but none of them challenge him. They all know Eudorus, second only to their commander.

You glare at him anyway, suspicion burning hotter than your fear. You’re not naive enough to believe he’s intervening for your sake.

He looks you up and down, once, twice, a small smirk finding his lips, “You’ve got fire. You’ll need it.”

“Why?” The question slips out before you can bite it back.

“Because you’re going to him.”

The words land like a stone in your gut. You’ve heard the name on every soldier’s lips, spoken with awe, fear, or envy. The half-god. The butcher of men.

The Greeks’ greatest weapon.

The laughter of the soldiers turns uneasy now, their glances sharp. They all understand what Eudorus means, and a few even look at you with something almost pitying. Almost.

You draw yourself up, refusing to shrink. “And if I don’t want to?”

Eudorus actually huffs a laugh, as though the world’s too old for such questions. “It doesn’t matter what you want. You’re spoil. His spoil, now.” He pauses, studying your face. “Better his than theirs.” His nod tips toward the other men, who shift under his gaze, chastised.

The implication is clear.

Eudorus steps closer, lowering his voice so only you hear. “He’s not gentle. He’s not kind. But he doesn’t take what he doesn’t want. Remember that.”

And then, without another word, he jerks his chin to the men holding your rope. “Untie her. She walks.”

The rope falls away from your wrists, leaving raw marks that throb as the blood returns. You rub them, biting back the sting, as Eudorus turns and gestures for you to follow.

The walk to his tent feels like walking to the edge of the world.

Everywhere you look there are shadows and movement, but no safe place to hide. The men you pass look at you with open curiosity, some with hunger, most with the grim satisfaction of victors. And then they look away, quickly, when they notice who walks in front of you.

When you reach the tent, it looms larger than most, dark hide, tall enough to stand in, the faint glow of a lamp spilling out from the entrance. The air is quieter here, as though even sound itself chooses its steps carefully.

Eudorus stops, finally turning back to you. For the first time since he pulled you from the others, his expression softens a fraction. “Don’t fight him,” he says, low. “You’ll only make it worse.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Just pushes the flap aside and gestures for you to go in.

You hesitate. Every part of you screams that stepping through that threshold will seal something you can’t undo. But there’s no choice. There never was.

The tent smells of leather and steel, of oil and sweat and smoke. It’s spare, almost stark, the possessions of a man who doesn’t waste time on frills; a low table, a rack of weapons, a trunk pushed into one corner. But your eyes go straight to the bed, the wide frame of wood, covered in furs and rough linens.

And then you see him.

Achilles

He’s sitting with one knee drawn up, stripping the last of his armour, broad shoulders gleaming with the sheen of recent battle. The lamplight paints him in gold and shadow, carving out every line of muscle, every scar. His hair falls loose, tangled from the fight, his mouth set in something too hard to be called a smile.

You’ve heard his name whispered in dread, but none of it prepared you for the reality of him. The sheer size, the effortless presence.

His eyes lift to you, cool and assessing, and in that glance you understand why men follow him and why cities burn because of him.

Eudorus clears his throat, as if to break whatever silent weight presses the air.

“For you,” he says simply.

Achilles’ gaze lingers on you for a long moment. Then he looks back at Eudorus. “Leave us.”

There’s no discussion, no curiosity, no explanation. Just an order.

Eudorus hesitates, only slightly, then moves. He takes a length of cord from the trunk and gestures you toward a patch of bare ground near the bed. His grip is firm as he guides you down, tying your wrists together in front of you. Not rough, but definitely not gentle either. Just efficient.

You meet his eyes once, searching for something, but he doesn’t linger. He knots the cord, gives Achilles a sharp nod, and leaves without another word.

The silence left in his wake is heavy.

You’re alone with him now.

Achilles rises, moving with the unhurried grace of a predator that knows nothing can touch it. He crosses the short distance, his shadow swallowing you, and crouches low enough that you can see the flecks of bronze and green in his eyes.

“You know who I am,” he says. Not a question.

You swallow. “Achilles.”

His mouth curves. “Good.”

He takes the rope binding your wrists and, to your surprise, slices it clean with a knife. The fibres fall away, your hands suddenly free, though the skin beneath is raw and red.

Relief, however, is short-lived.

He then stands and walks to the bed. With one hand, he drags the frame slightly, just enough that you hear the weight of it grind against the earth.

“Get on the bed.”

Your chest goes cold. Every story you’ve heard, every warning, rushes back at once. Your feet stay planted, rooted in the dust. “No.”

His head tilts, just slightly. Like he’s cataloguing a detail about you, the same way one might note the shape of a weapon.

“No?”

You force yourself to meet his eyes, though your whole body trembles. “I won’t.”

Achilles steps closer. You scramble backwards, still on the floor, untill you can’t anymore. Your back hits the edge of the tent.

He doesn’t grab your arms, doesn’t shove you. Instead, he crouches again, his hand closing around your ankle. In one smooth motion, he drags you towards him.

“You’re mine,” he says, calm as a priest reciting a prayer. “You don’t decide.”

His grip tightens just enough to make the point, and then he lashes the cord around your ankle, binding it to one of the heavy bedposts.

Achilles straightens, looming over you, his shadow long in the lamplight. “I could do anything I wanted. Anything. That’s my right. You understand that?”

Your throat is too dry to answer, but you nod once, stiff.

His gaze doesn’t soften, but it sharpens, as though he’s weighing something invisible. “And I will. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the next day. But I will.”

Your heart slams against your ribs.

“But not tonight.” He says it like fact, like inevitability. His hand leaves your ankle, and he climbs onto the bed with the same ease he carries everywhere, lying back into the furs as if you’re nothing more than another possession set aside for later.

Your breath comes fast, uneven.

“Lie down,” he says without looking at you.

You freeze.

His eyes flick to you, sharp and unblinking. “Get in the bed.”

You don’t move at first. Terror roots you, shame burns your skin. But then you see the set of his jaw, the certainty in him that you can’t break. Slowly, stiffly, you climb onto the bed, keeping as much distance as the rope allows.

The furs are warm beneath you, smelling faintly of smoke and salt. Achilles stretches out, unbothered, as though this is nothing unusual.

He closes his eyes. “Sleep.”

You lie rigid, every muscle taut, staring at the ceiling of the tent. You don’t sleep. Not really.

The light wakes you first. Pale gold seeps through the seams of the tent, catching on the motes of dust in the air. The camp is already alive outside, voices calling, a clang of steel.

And then you remember where you are.

The tug at your ankle. The fur beneath you. The heat at your side.

You turn your head before you can stop yourself.

Achilles is already awake. He sits on the edge of the bed, bare-backed, shoulders broad enough to block half the lamplight. His hair is damp as though he’s already been out at sea or poured water over himself. When he turns, his eyes catch yours, clear and sharp, as though he hasn’t slept at all.

Without a word, he holds out a cup.

You hesitate. He doesn’t explain, doesn’t coax. Just waits, arm extended, until the weight of silence forces you to take it. The water is cool against your cracked lips, and only when the last drop is gone do you realize how thirsty you were.

When you lower the cup, there’s something else on the bed beside you, folded linen, smooth and startlingly clean. A dress, finer than anything you’ve seen on the other captives. Pale blue, embroidered along the edges, the sort of garment a noblewoman might wear to a feast.

You glance from it back to him.

Achilles shrugs, as if your suspicion bores him. “I wanted it.”

Your stomach knots. “Why?”

“Because you’re mine.” He says it with the same tone he used last night, simple and irrefutable. “And if I want my spoil in a pretty dress, she'll wear a pretty dress.”

There’s no shame in his voice, no cruelty. Just fact. He doesn’t care whether you rage or cry. He expects neither.

You clutch the fabric tighter, fingers digging into the embroidery. “So… are you going to leave?”

It’s a foolish question, you know it as soon as you say it, but the thought of changing with him standing there makes bile rise in your throat.

His head tilts, eyes narrowing like he’s amused you even bothered to ask. “No.”

Your heart kicks painfully. “Then I won’t change.”

Achilles leans forward, forearms braced on his knees. The lines of his mouth don’t move, but his eyes sharpen in a way that makes you want to shrink into the furs. “You think I care?” he asks softly, almost like it’s a real question. “I’ll see it all anyway. Today. Tomorrow. Whenever I decide. You can fight, or you can stop wasting time.”

The words chill you more than a threat ever could.

You clutch the dress so hard the fabric strains. Your body is trembling again, but you make yourself hold his gaze. “Not now.”

A long silence.

Then, slowly, Achilles straightens. He picks up a knife from the low table and sits back on the edge of the bed, close enough that you feel the heat radiating off his skin. He doesn’t look at you. His broad back is turned, his focus entirely on the blade in his hand as he pulls the whetstone along the edge, steady and patient.

The sound fills the space between you, scrape, pause, scrape, as though he’s giving you time, even if he’d never admit it.

Your chest rises and falls too quickly, lungs struggling with each breath.

It takes you longer than it should to realise, he’s still there, but he’s turned away. Not leaving, but not looking either.

You glance down at the dress again, its blue stark against the dark furs. The whetstone hisses again, and his voice cuts through the scrape of steel, calm and final.

“Get changed.”

You wait until the scrape of stone against steel stops. The silence is louder than the noise, pressing at your ears, and you realize he’s waiting.

Your fingers tremble as you peel the torn dress from your shoulders, slipping it down your body in jerky movements, desperate not to look at him. The air is cool against your bare skin, gooseflesh prickling along your arms, and you snatch the new linen before the shame can eat you alive.

You half expect him to turn, to watch, to make it worse. But when you glance he’s still angled away, hunched over the knife, broad back steady as stone.

You let out a shaky breath and pull the dress over your head. It’s too big in some places, too loose, the ties at the waist hanging slack. You tug at them, fumbling, but your fingers don’t seem to work right.

“You’ll trip like that.”

His voice cuts clean through the air, and your head jerks up. He’s turned now, knife laid aside, gaze fixed on you with that same unwavering weight. Before you can react, he’s rising, crossing the space between you in three strides.

You stiffen as he stops close, too close. His hand comes up, fingers brushing against your waist as he takes the cords from your useless grip. He tugs them tight with one swift pull, knotting them secure. The fabric cinches around you, sharper now, fitting you to his measure instead of your own.

It’s not soft. His knuckles graze your ribs, the pull of the cord sharp against your skin. Deliberate. Controlled.

Still, your breath hitches.

His voice is low when he speaks, closer now, but still steady, unhurried. “You know it will happen.”

The words send ice down your spine, you immediately know what he's talking about. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

“I won’t be cruel for the sake of it,” Achilles continues, eyes on the knot he’s tying rather than your face. “I won’t try to break you. But it will hurt.” A pause, then, “It always does.”

You flinch, but his tone doesn’t change. He doesn’t press, doesn’t linger. Just ties the knot firm and steps back, giving you space again.

And then, like he’s offering you nothing more than another fact of life, he adds, “If I don’t take you, Agamemnon will. He’ll give you to his men when he’s finished. And that will be cruel.”

The air leaves your lungs in a rush. You know it’s true, you’ve heard the stories, seen the aftermath. The thought of those hands, those teeth, the laughter…

You grip the fabric of the dress so hard your knuckles ache. “So what?” Your voice cracks, but you force the words out anyway. “I should thank you?”

Achilles’ gaze finally meets yours. Not mocking, just… fixed. “No. You should survive.”

Something hot and ugly twists in your chest. Relief, sharp and shameful, cutting against the hatred you want to feel.

You hate yourself for the way the dress feels sturdier tied around your waist, for the way your heart doesn’t pound quite as fast now that the threat is clear, laid out plain instead of circling in your head. You hate yourself most of all for the flicker of something that isn’t terror when his eyes hold yours.

You swallow hard and look away, forcing your shoulders back. “I don’t want your protection.”

A muscle in his jaw shifts, like he finds that statement as obvious as the rising sun. “Doesn’t matter what you want.”

The words are flat, final.

They leave you angry. Angry at him, angry at the world, angry at yourself for noticing that his hands, the same ones that could snap you in half, had only tightened a knot.

The days bleed together.

You stop flinching when he passes close. At first, it’s just exhaustion; your body can’t stay strung tight forever. But then you notice the difference in yourself, you notice that your shoulders don’t tense when he brushes past to reach for his armour. You notice the way your heartbeat doesn’t leap when the flap of the tent rustles with his arrival.

You don’t know when it started. You only know that the fear that once left you gasping has settled into something else.

Protection, you realise one morning, watching him from the corner of your eye as he buckles his greaves. He doesn’t speak to you unless he wants something. He doesn’t touch you unless necessary. But his presence is a wall, high and solid, and when he’s inside the tent, no one else dares look at you.

You hate yourself for it, but you want that wall.

So when he leaves at dusk, you feel the absence as much as the relief.

The camp is louder in the evening. Laughter and shouts, the clang of cups, the groan of dice. You sit on the edge of the bed, your ankle still bound to its frame, fingers digging into the linen of your dress. You tell yourself he’ll be back soon.

You also tell yourself you don’t care.

The flap snaps open.

It isn’t him.

Two men stumble inside, half-drunk, reeking of wine. Their eyes go straight to you, and you know instantly what they see; a woman tied to the bed in Achilles’ tent.

One grins. “So he has taken her.”

The other snorts, gaze raking over you like filth. “Wouldn’t mind a taste when he’s finished. Bet he wouldn’t even notice.”

Your blood turns to ice. You shrink back instinctively, pulling the rope taut until it bites into your ankle.

The first one takes a step closer. “What’s the harm? He’ll tire of her soon enough.”

But before you can scream, the air in the tent shifts.

The flap slams open again, hard enough to crack the pole. Achilles fills the space in an instant, tall, bare-armed, chest still glistening with sweat from training. His eyes cut across the room, catching everything at once.

The men freeze.

You have never wanted someone here more than you want him now. The relief hits you like a blow, dizzying, desperate. For the first time, you want Achilles.

Not as a man. Not as anything soft. But as the wall.

“What,” Achilles says, voice flat and cold, “are you doing in my tent?”

The words aren’t shouted. They don’t need to be. His presence alone is thunder.

The men stammer, bow, retreat a step, but it isn’t fast enough. Achilles moves before the second can finish his excuse. He grabs him by the throat and shoves him back against the tent pole. The wood groans.

“She’s mine.” The words are low, guttural, vibrating in his chest as much as his voice. “You don’t touch what’s mine.”

The man chokes, scrabbling at Achilles’ wrist. The other tries to speak, but Achilles doesn’t look at him. He squeezes once, hard, until the man’s face goes red, and only then releases him.

Both men stumble out like beaten dogs, the tent flap slapping shut behind them.

The silence that follows is suffocating.

Your breath comes fast, shallow. You realise your hands are shaking, clutching the sheets like a lifeline. You should feel disgust, terror, fury. You do feel it. But stronger than all of it is relief, the overwhelming certainty that if Achilles is here, no one else can touch you.

He turns to you then, and for once, his gaze isn’t distant. It lands heavy, direct, pinning you in place. “They won’t try again.”

You swallow, hard. Your throat is dry. “Why?” The word slips out before you can stop it. “Why protect me?”

He studies you, as if weighing whether you deserve the truth.

“Because you’re mine. And no one takes from me.”

It should sound like a threat. Maybe it is. But your chest loosens anyway, like the cords around your ribs have been cut.

Achilles takes a step closer. You don’t recoil this time. “You think I don’t see it,” he says, voice quieter now. “The fear.”

Heat floods your face. You drop your gaze, unable to hold his.

He doesn’t stop. “I won’t take you like that. Not while you’re afraid.”

Your head snaps up, eyes wide. The words hang between you, heavier than the silence.

It isn’t a kindness. His tone doesn’t change, doesn’t soften. It’s a promise spoken the same way he’d speak of battle, inevitable, factual.

Still, it’s the first breath of mercy you’ve heard since the night you were dragged into this tent.

You hate that something inside you eases. You hate that your chest aches less, that your body doesn’t curl away when he moves past you to sit on the edge of the bed.

Your body remembers the fear in those men’s eyes. Your body remembers the way his hand around another’s throat had been your shield. And your body, traitorous and weak, remembers the promise.

That night, you lie beside him in the dark, ankle still tied, staring at the canvas ceiling. And for the first time, you don’t pray for escape.

You pray he doesn’t leave.

The next morning, a morning of battle, the camp feels different.

There's a low undercurrent beneath the clatter of shields and the stamping of boots. Shouts carry sharper. Laughter is forced, too loud, like men trying to shout down their own fear.

Achilles doesn’t laugh. He never does.

You watch him from the bed as he straps on his armour, each piece fitting to his body. Bronze greaves. Bracers. The chestplate that gleams in the sun like liquid fire. He moves like the armour is part of him, like he was born with it instead of forged into it.

You tell yourself you’re only watching because there’s nothing else to look at. Not because the sight is… distracting.

His hair falls loose over his shoulders until he ties it back, the golden strands catching the morning light. The muscles of his back flex and shift as he pulls the leather tight. He is beautiful, you think with sudden bitterness.

And you hate him more for it.

Still, when he reaches for his sword, you hear yourself speak before you can stop.

“You think you’re untouchable.”

The words hang in the air. Sharp. Reckless.

Achilles glances at you over his shoulder. One brow lifts, the barest ghost of amusement flickering at the edge of his mouth. “And you think you know me.”

Your cheeks flush, but you lift your chin. “I think you’re arrogant.”

He slides the blade into its sheath, slow and deliberate. “Arrogant,” he repeats, tasting the word. Then, turning fully to face you, “Or right?”

Heat crawls up your throat. You clench your fists in the sheets, hating the way his gaze burns through you. “If you were right, you wouldn’t need all that armour.”

For the first time, a real smile touches his mouth.

“So you do watch.”

You want the ground to swallow you whole. “I-”

“Don’t lie.” He steps closer, slow as a predator circling. The tent feels smaller with each footfall. “You watch everything I do.”

Your heart slams against your ribs. “Because I have no choice.”

“Because you’re curious.” He stops in front of you, close enough that you can smell the leather and steel, the salt of sweat already rising on his skin. “And because you don’t hate me anymore.”

You want to deny it. Gods, you want to deny it. But your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth, and you hate that he can see the truth on your face.

His hand drops suddenly to your ankle. You jolt, but before you can pull back, the rope loosens. He’s untying it. It falls loose around your skin, leaving a raw ring where it’s rubbed you for days. You stare at him, stunned.

“Why-”

“You won’t run.” His tone makes it clear that it's not a question. It's a fact. "But if I don't come back, then you can."

You swallow hard, dragging your gaze from the discarded rope to his face.

“So what now? You go off to war and I sit here, waiting?”

“You’ll sit here,” he confirms, matter-of-fact, as if that’s all there is to say.

Something ugly twists in your chest. Anger, fear, something else you don’t want to name. “And if you don’t come back?”

The silence between you sharpens. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t soften. Just stares down at you with those unyielding eyes. “Then I won’t come back.”

You almost laugh. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

He crouches suddenly, bringing himself level with you. The movement is fluid, predatory. His armour creaks with the shift, his knees spread wide as he rests his forearm on one thigh, the other hand braced on the bed beside you.

The nearness steals your breath. His face is inches from yours, his eyes burning with the same calm fire you’ve seen on the battlefield.

“That’s all there is to say.”

Your pulse hammers. You should shove him away. You should spit in his face. But your body won’t move.

And then, before you can think, before you can breathe, he leans in.

The brush of his lips against your cheek is quick, almost chaste, but it lands like a brand.

A farewell.

You freeze, every muscle taut, heart thrashing like a trapped bird. When he pulls back, you can still feel the ghost of his mouth on your skin.

He straightens in one smooth motion, gathering his shield, his spear. Without another glance, he turns toward the tent flap.

Your voice breaks free at the last second. “Achilles-”

He pauses, half-turned, golden hair spilling over the gleam of his armour.

The words die on your tongue. You don’t know what you were going to say. Don’t come back hurt? Don’t leave me here? Please?

In the end, you say nothing.

He holds your gaze for one heartbeat longer, then disappears into the sunlight.

The night stretches long.

You don’t realise how restless you’ve become until you notice the grooves your pacing has worn into the mat by the bed. The air in the tent feels too close, pressing against your skin like a damp cloth.

Outside, the noise of the camp rises and falls, bursts of laughter, the clink of cups, the occasional groan of the wounded carried back from the field.

Every sound makes your chest clench tighter.

When the flap finally shifts, it nearly knocks the breath out of you. Achilles strides in first, heavy steps shaking the ground beneath him. The sight of him steals whatever words you might have had.

He’s whole. Upright. But his movements aren’t smooth like this morning. He’s stiff, deliberate, as though each step takes effort. His armour gleams dully with streaks of dirt and blood, some of it his, some of it not.

Eudorus follows, close on his heels, the one who handed you over that first night. His face is tight with worry, his voice low but urgent as he hounds Achilles across the tent.

“You need a healer,” Eudorus insists. “Now. That cut-”

“I said no.” Achilles’ voice is clipped, cold as a blade.

“You’re bleeding through your own bandage. You’ll rot before morning if it isn’t cleaned properly.”

“I don’t need a boy with herbs to tell me how to stand.”

He shrugs out of his shield and lets it clatter against the wall, then the sword belt, the bracers, the greaves. Each piece drops heavier than the last, the noise sharp enough to make you flinch.

Eudorus doesn’t back down. “You’ll drop before you admit you’re hurt. Is that your plan? Fall to rot before the Trojans cut you down?”

Achilles whirls, eyes flashing, and for the first time you hear real heat in his voice. “Enough.”

The tent falls silent. Even Eudorus stills, jaw working.

You stay frozen on the bed, hands tight in your lap. For a heartbeat, you almost want Eudorus to keep pressing. To make him yield, force him to let someone else in. But the older man only shakes his head once, sharp and bitter, then steps back.

“You’re a fool,” he mutters, and leaves the tent without another word.

The flap drops. You are alone with Achilles.

The silence is thick. He doesn’t look at you as he strips away the rest of his armour, piece by piece. When the chestplate comes off, you see it, a slash running deep across his ribs, poorly wrapped with a strip of linen already soaked dark.

You inhale sharply without meaning to. The sound makes his eyes flick toward you, quick and cutting, before he drops them back.

“It’s nothing.” His tone is harsh, daring you to argue.

But it isn’t nothing. You can see the way he favors his side, the way his fingers tighten around the buckle as he wrests it loose.

Your throat feels dry. “That’s a lie.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Better a lie than weakness.”

He finds another strip of linen and binds it around his ribs, movements brisk, half-done. The fabric slips against his skin, already staining.

You watch as he pulls the knot tight, as his chest heaves with one breath, then another. You watch as the anger sharpens him, masks whatever pain is underneath.

This morning, you’d seen a man who smiled, who kissed your cheek like he meant it. Now, you see only the warrior, carved sharp enough to cut himself on his own edges.

You curl your fingers in your dress, nails biting into your palms. For a moment, you almost rise. Almost step forward. Almost offer your hands instead of just your eyes.

But he isn’t weak yet. He isn’t asking. And you know that he wouldn’t let you. Not like this.

So you stay where you are, watching the line of his shoulders, the tension in his jaw, the blood seeping slowly through the cloth.

And when he finally drops onto the stool, elbows on his knees, head bowed, you bite your tongue against the urge to speak.

You wake with a start.

At first you don’t know why. The camp is quiet now, the drunken shouts have died down to snores. The only sound inside the tent is the rasp of his breathing.

Too loud. Too ragged.

Then you feel it, heat. Rolling off him in waves, seeping into the sheets beneath you, pressing against your skin until you’re suffocating.

Your eyes snap open. The dim glow of the dying fire throws enough light to see him beside you, sprawled half on his side, half on his back. His face is pale, sheened with sweat, his chest rising and falling too fast.

Your heart lurches.

Slowly, carefully, you push yourself upright. The smell hits you first — copper and salt, sharp and heavy in the air. Then you see the bandage, dark and wet, clinging uselessly to the wound on his ribs. The blood has bled clean through, seeping into the sheets, staining.

Panic surges in your throat. You reach out without thinking, then stop, hovering over him.

You shouldn’t. You don’t owe him this. He is the reason you’re here at all, tied, stripped of everything you were. He is the man who tied you to his bed, who told you with a straight face that he would take you, sooner or later.

You should let him burn.

Your fingers tremble in the air, so close to his skin you can feel the fever rolling off him. His face shifts, a faint grimace, a low sound catching in his throat.

You curse under your breath.

Moving quickly now, before you can change your mind, you kneel beside him. The knot of the bandage is crusted thick with dried blood; when you try to loosen it, he stirs, a soft growl rumbling in his chest.

“Stay still,” you whisper, though you know he can’t really hear you.

His eyes crack open anyway, unfocused and fever-bright. For a heartbeat they catch yours, and you freeze, sure he’ll shove you away even half-dead. But then his lids flutter, heavy, and his head turns away. Too weak to stop you.

You take your chance.

The linen peels back sticky and red, the wound beneath raw and angry. Infection, you think grimly. If it isn’t cleaned, he’ll rot from the inside out.

Your stomach twists, but you force yourself steady. You find a bowl, a rag, a flask of water, not enough, never enough, but better than nothing. The cloth darkens as you soak it, your hands shaking.

When you press it to his skin, he jerks, a hiss escaping between clenched teeth.

“I know,” you murmur, more to yourself than him. “I know. Just- stay still.”

You clean as best you can, wiping away the blood, the dirt, the grime. The wound oozes, and each time you drag the cloth across it, you feel him flinch, hear the low growl in his chest. But he doesn’t move away. He doesn’t stop you.

Your breath quickens with the effort, with the weight of what you’re doing. Each pass of the cloth is another line crossed, another thread tangled in a web you can’t untie.

You should hate him. Gods, you do hate him. But your hands don’t stop.

When the water runs pink, you toss it aside and grab fresh linen. You press it hard against the wound, tying it snug around his ribs. Your fingers brush his skin as you knot it, hot and damp with fever.

For the first time, you feel the fragility beneath the armor. Flesh and blood, not bronze and legend.

When you’re finished, you sit back on your heels, chest heaving. Your hands are stained red, your dress smeared. He’s still burning, still breathing too fast, but the bleeding has slowed.

You stare down at him, torn open inside.

You should have let him rot.

But you didn’t.

And as his head lolls toward you, lips parted, the faintest sigh escaping, you realise the truth that terrifies you most.

You didn’t want to.

You must've fallen asleep, because the light wakes you.

Not the camp noise, though it hums faintly beyond the canvas, but the brightness spilling through the tent. Pale and soft, enough to sting your eyes when you blink them open.

You turn your head, breath catching.

He’s awake.

Achilles sits half upright, teeth bared against the pain as he tries to push himself from the bed. His hand grips the frame, the muscles in his arm flexing, but his body betrays him; he sways, breath shuddering out through his nose.

Before you think better of it, you sit up quickly. “Stop. You’ll rip it open again.”

He glances at you. His eyes are clearer than they were last night, sharp even through the haze of fever, and the weight of his gaze pins you in place.

But he listens. His grip slackens. Slowly, he lowers himself back, chest heaving with the effort.

You watch him for a long moment, pulse hammering in your throat. He knows. You can see it in the flicker of his eyes, the way they dart briefly to the clean bandage wrapped around his ribs. He knows you touched him.

He knows you helped.

The air thickens between you. Neither of you speaks. Neither of you looks away.

And in that silence, you both already understand, you can’t come back from this.

You clear your throat first, breaking the spell. “I need to change it.”

He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t stop you when you fetch fresh water, when you press the cloth against his skin. He flinches once, sharp, a faint hiss escaping through his teeth, but he stays still, watching you with that relentless focus.

It makes your hands unsteady. Not the wound, not the blood, him.

You knot the linen tight around his ribs, and when you’re finished you move to stand, desperate for space, for air. But as you rise, his hand shoots out.

Fingers close around your wrist. Not hard, not cruel, but firm.

You freeze.

His palm is hot against your skin, calloused and sure. You look down at him, startled, and find his eyes already on you.

No command. No threat. Just that same unflinching gaze, as though he’s holding you still with more than just his hand.

Your breath catches.

The moment stretches, tight as a drawn bowstring.

Then, slowly, he releases you.

There was something deeply personal in his anger. This wasn't just general hatred for humans—this was specific. Targeted.

"I didn't—" you tried again, but he grabbed your arm with bruising force and yanked you away from the tree.

"Walk." He shoved you forward, keeping one hand fisted in the back of your shirt. "And if you try to run, I'll make sure you regret it."

You stumbled forward, his grip never loosening. Every time you tried to slow down or turn to look at him, he pushed you harder. The forest seemed to close in around you as he marched you through terrain you didn't recognize, moving with the confidence of someone who knew every inch of this land.

"Where are you taking me?" you demanded, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice.

"Somewhere the RDA won't find you. Or me." His tone was flat, emotionless. "Keep moving."

You noticed things about him as you walked—the way he moved silently despite his size, how his eyes constantly scanned the environment, the tension in his shoulders that never relaxed. This was a man who'd survived by being alert, by trusting nothing and no one.

The scar across his chest looked like it had come from something devastating.

Eventually, you reached a camp hidden between massive trees and rock formations. It was sparse and utilitarian—weapons, supplies, a small fire pit, a hammock. Nothing personal. Nothing that suggested this was a home rather than just a place to survive.

He shoved you down onto the ground hard enough that you had to catch yourself with your hands. You glared up at him as he stood over you, arms crossed, that RDA rifle a stark reminder of his complicated relationship with your kind.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

"Does it matter to you?"

Wrong answer. He crouched down fast, grabbing your jaw and forcing you to meet his eyes. His fingers dug into your skin hard enough to bruise. "I don't have patience for sky demon games. Answer me."

You tried to jerk away, but his grip tightened. "Nobody. I'm nobody important."

"Nobody." He released you with a slight push, standing again. "Nobody who walks through Resistance territory. Nobody who escaped from an RDA facility. Nobody who just happens to end up here."

"I didn't know this was—"

"You didn't know." He laughed, but there was no humor in it—only bitterness. "That's what you all say. You didn't know what the RDA was doing. Didn't know about the clans they destroyed. Didn't know about the Na'vi they killed." His voice dropped to something dangerous. "Didn't know about the Trr'ong."

The name hung in the air like a ghost.

"I don't—I don't know what that is," you admitted quietly.

His expression went dark. "Of course you don't. Why would you? They were just another clan in your way. Another problem for the RDA to eliminate." He paced like a caged animal, his hand gripping the knife at his belt. "Twenty years. Twenty years I've survived alone because your kind decided my people were expendable."

The pieces started coming together—the isolation of the camp, the mix of Na'vi and human weapons, the bone-deep rage that never quite left his eyes.

He was the last one. The only survivor.

"I'm sorry," you said, and you meant it.

He whirled on you. "Sorry?" He closed the distance in two strides, grabbing your shirt and hauling you to your feet. "You're sorry? Your people took everything—my clan, my family, my world—and you think sorry fixes that?"

"No! I know it doesn't, but—"

"But nothing!" He shoved you back down. "You're all the same. You take and take and take, and then you say sorry like it means something."

You pushed yourself to your feet again, defiance overriding survival instinct. "What do you want from me then? You want me to pay for what they did? Fine! But I can't change the past, and I can't change what I am!"

"What you are," he repeated, his voice going dangerously quiet as he stepped closer, "is a sky demon. A plague that won't leave even when the RDA pulls back."

"Then kill me!" The words burst out of you, voice cracking. "If that's all I am to you, if there's no difference between me and them, then just do it already!"

The challenge hung between you like a live wire.

So'lek went utterly still. Then, slowly, deliberately, he closed the remaining distance until you could feel the heat radiating off his body. His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your throat—not squeezing, just holding you in place as he forced you to meet his gaze.

When he spoke, his voice was low, rough, filled with something darker than just anger.

"Sky demons took everything from me. Destroyed my clan. It's only fair you're gonna help me revive it." His thumb pressed against your pulse point. "Won't you, demon?"

Your breath caught as the full weight of his words settled over you—and you realized this wasn't about killing you at all.

he kept a list.

torn paper, water-stained and smudged, tucked in the folds of his coat. one name after another, like a rosary of sins he planned to wipe clean with blood. they were all the same to him, those names. curses wrapped in human skin. non-sorcerers who polluted the world with their ignorance, their filth, their fragility.

you were just another line on that page.

another meaningless body.

until you looked at him.

the house you lived in was small. tucked in the woods, down an unlit road, a crooked thing that should’ve belonged to a recluse. he’d thought it abandoned, at first. so when he stepped through the door, silently, so easily, it was strange to find warmth in the air. a kettle on the stove. light behind a curtain. a record player turning with no sound.

you were awake.

you should’ve been asleep.

he didn’t care.

he crept forward. smooth. fluid. like shadow. his blade barely glinted in his hand. your back was turned to him, neck exposed, nothing in your body language said danger, no sixth sense warning you of the man who had slit thirty-two throats in the last month alone.

then—

you spoke.

“you always this quiet, or is it just tonight?”

he froze.

your voice. it wasn’t afraid. wasn’t panicked. not even startled. you didn’t turn around, but he could see your shoulders tense. feel the air grow thick between you.

“i made tea,” you added softly. “figured if you were gonna kill me, you’d want to sit first.”

his hand tightened around the blade.

what the fuck?

he hadn’t been seen. not once. he was a phantom. a god to them, unseen and vengeful. but you, this ordinary girl in a worn sweater and bare feet, you knew. and you didn’t run.

you turned around.

“what’s your name?” you asked, eyes curious, not terrified. “it’s rude to murder someone without telling them who you are.”

the blade didn’t move. his fingers loosened. for the first time in years, geto suguru hesitated.

your eyes met his. steady. real. like you saw straight through the layers he wrapped himself in, the disgust, the hatred, the purpose.

he should’ve killed you then.

but you smiled. tired. a little sad.

“you look lonelier than me.”

and something in him snapped.

you didn’t wake up right away.

he watched you sleep, sitting in a chair he’d dragged across the room, ankle crossed over knee. his hair was tied back now, loosely. the blood he’d smeared on your cheek, your own, from a small nick, was drying.

you were in a different house. remote. colder. underground.

he didn’t like how your lip quivered. how your breathing changed when you shifted and groaned softly. you looked human like this. delicate. raw.

a curse.

and yet… not.

geto knew what he was doing. had done it before. abducted, questioned, tortured. but he hadn’t laid a single finger on you beyond the injection. he hadn’t tied you down, hadn’t even spoken to you since the moment you passed out.

you hadn’t screamed.

you hadn’t begged.

you looked him in the eye and called him lonely.

when your eyes finally fluttered open, you didn’t panic. just blinked, adjusted to the dim yellow light above, and looked around the bare room. the silence stretched.

he waited. waited for the question. the scream. the fear.

but all you said was:

“what do you want from me?”

his mouth twitched. “i was going to kill you.”

you hummed. “i figured.”

“but i didn’t.”

“no, you didn’t.” your gaze slid back to him. “you’re not sure why.”

he stood then, tall and elegant in a way that shouldn’t have belonged to someone with blood on his hands. he crossed to you slowly, footsteps echoing. you didn’t flinch when he crouched in front of you.

“you should be terrified.”

“i am,” you whispered. “but it’s not the loud kind.”

his hand brushed a strand of hair from your face.

“what’s your name?” you whispered, just like before.

his eyes narrowed.

“…geto.”

“mine’s y/n.”

he didn’t respond. didn’t need to. his fingers lingered near your cheek.

then he stood.

“you’re not leaving this room.”

days passed. maybe weeks. you didn’t see the sun.

he brought you food. never touched you. sometimes sat and stared at you for hours, like you were a puzzle he couldn’t solve. other times he spoke. asked you things, probing, invasive things. about your childhood, your beliefs, your fears. you never lied. and strangely… he never punished you.

you weren’t chained. not really. the door was locked, but you were free to move around the room. the walls were bare. the bed was stiff. but he left books. music. once, a sweater.

sometimes he asked you to talk.

you didn’t know how to say no.

he was careful. he didn’t need to be, but he was. as if breaking you too quickly would ruin the taste. he wasn’t looking to hurt you. he was looking to change you.

“you don’t belong out there,” he murmured one night, voice low, almost hypnotic. “they don’t deserve you. they’re disgusting.”

you stared at the ceiling, arms curled around your ribs.

“you think i'm not?”

he sat at the edge of the bed. not touching. never touching.

“i don’t know. not yet. but i’m going to find out.”

you closed your eyes.

and somewhere in the dark, beneath the fear, the madness, the isolation, you felt it bloom. wrong. terrible. but warm.

you wanted him to.

you stopped counting the days.

there was a calendar in your mind at first, crisp and numbered, marked by the clink of a tray left just outside your reach, by the faint buzz of electricity that flickered above the single bulb overhead. it hung like the moon in your little world, pale and unchanging.

but time lost shape here.

and he never let you count aloud.

“you think it helps?” he asked once, idly, while running a hand along the spine of the book you’d left open beside the bed. “measuring the days you’ve been my guest?”

“prisoner,” you corrected.

he smiled at that. but not cruelly.

like it was sweet. like you’d said lover.

he never yelled. not once. geto’s violence was quiet. silent. buried beneath thick-lashed eyes and a voice that felt like cold silk dragged across your throat. he didn’t need to scream to control the room, he was the room. the walls, the lock, the breath in your lungs.

you didn’t know what was more terrifying: that he hadn’t laid a hand on you yet, or that part of you wondered what would happen if he did.

his obsession was measured, meticulous.

he studied you.

you weren’t a woman anymore, not to him. not really. you were a set of traits. emotional data. you saw it in the way he observed you through the glass inset into the heavy metal door. sometimes you felt him there, watching. other times he didn’t bother to hide it.

“why did you cry after reading that page?” he asked once.

“why did you pause for five minutes before eating?”

“what were you thinking about when you hummed in the bath?”

“do you ever ask yourself questions like that?” you’d said, curling your fingers under the blanket that smelled faintly like cedar and steel. “or are you too busy asking them about me?”

he knelt beside the chair you were in, elbows resting on his knees. he was always closer than you expected. always calm.

“i already know the answers to mine.”

he tilted his head slightly. “you’re still figuring yours out.”

one night, three weeks in, or maybe thirteen, you snapped.

“why me?” the words broke from your chest, sudden and ragged. “why the fuck me? you could’ve killed me and moved on. i’m not special. i’m no one. why am i still alive?”

he didn’t answer immediately. he didn’t get angry, either. he just stared.

his gaze felt like it peeled your skin back.

when he stood, it was slow. measured. he walked over to the table, fingers trailing along its edge, before he turned to you with something strange in his expression. wonder, maybe. or something closer to reverence.

“you asked me if i was lonely,” he said, softly. “no one’s ever asked me anything before dying. not like that. not real questions. not…” he shook his head, almost like he was exasperated. “you didn’t look at me like i was a monster.”

“i didn’t know who you were.”

“you knew enough.”

his voice dropped low. quiet. “and you still let me in.”

“i didn’t—”

“you invited me,” he said, stepping closer, “with your voice. your eyes. with the way you poured tea like you weren’t shaking.”

you didn’t respond.

because he was right.

and somehow that made it worse.

the control wasn’t just physical. it was in the way he rewrote you, piece by piece.

you stopped using certain words. escape, home, normal.

you started thinking in the shape of him.

you read what he gave you. you ate what he approved. when he touched your wrist to check your pulse after a long bath, claiming it was for your health, you didn’t flinch.

sometimes he sat beside you on the bed and read aloud.

you’d drift into sleep with his voice dripping into your ear like poison.

you began to wonder what he thought of your expressions, your tone. you worried if he would like what you were wearing. you started smoothing your hair before he entered. not for escape, just because you wanted him to think you were still worth keeping.

and when you caught yourself doing it, you cried into the cold sheets until you couldn’t breathe.

but there were moments.

terrible, soft moments.

like when he handed you a comb and said nothing, just watched you untangle the strands while he leaned back, watching you like a man observing the moon rise over a still lake. or when he murmured your name like it was something delicate and alive, something only he knew how to say.

“y/n,” he said one night, from his chair in the corner, in the dark. you couldn’t see him, but you knew he was there. “do you think you’ll ever love me?”

your mouth went dry.

“…do you want me to lie?”

a long silence.

then:

“no. but i want you to want to.”

and you did.

a little more every day.

which was the worst part of all.

you began to think of the world outside less and less. the memory of it dulled, fading at the edges. who had you been, really, before this? what had you done that mattered? your parents had stopped calling long before the first week passed. no friends came knocking.

maybe you had been meant for this.

maybe this room was the only place you’d ever been truly seen.

you told yourself you hated him. but it didn’t explain the way you leaned into his voice, the way your skin prickled when his fingertips brushed your back under the guise of fixing your posture. it didn’t explain why your nightmares were now about him leaving, not hurting you.

it didn’t explain why, when he touched your face one night and said:

“i chose you,”

your body went completely still, breath caught, throat raw with something that wasn’t fear.

he never kissed you.

never touched you in a way that could be mistaken for lust.

but it was deeper than that.

he wanted your mind first. your thoughts. your permission. and he would peel you open layer by layer until you gave it to him.

not because he took it—

but because you needed to give it.

because that was what would make it real.

you didn’t notice the moment it changed. the moment you stopped planning your escape and started imagining what it would feel like to sit in his lap. to bury your face in his neck. to sleep against his chest while his arms caged you in.

when he whispered, “you’re mine,”

you didn’t scream.

you didn’t cry.

you nodded.

there was never going to be an end.

not really. not in the way you thought.

he would keep you.

keep you like a poem he read every night.

keep you like a secret no one else deserved to touch.

keep you until you believed you’d never existed before he found you.

and maybe you hadn’t.

maybe the version of you that lived before him

wasn’t real.

wasn’t full.

wasn’t worth saving.

maybe this, this room, this man, this warped, bleeding thing between you—

was love.

and maybe that was the most terrifying part.

you were never supposed to be real to him.

but now you were.

and he would never, ever let you go.

it started with his silence.

not the kind you’d grown used to, the observational stillness, the cold quiet of analysis, but something deeper. more personal. something that hung in the air like static.

he would enter the room and not look at you.

not speak.

not even blink in your direction.

at first, you thought he was punishing you.

you combed through every interaction in the last three days. what had you said? done? had you spoken too familiarly? had he grown bored?

you didn’t realize how badly you needed his attention

until he stopped giving it.

your hands trembled.

you stared at the locked door after he left.

the stillness in the room pressed against your ribs.

he wasn’t ignoring you.

he was withdrawing.

and the part of you that had been clinging to survival

panicked.

the next time he entered, you stood. you’d never done that before.

his gaze lifted, unreadable. slow.

you felt like a deer offering itself to a hunter. a quiet, trembling thing. still trying to find meaning in his presence. still trying to understand why it hurt when he looked through you.

“…you’re angry,” you said.

he didn’t move.

“you’ve been avoiding me.”

a long silence. then:

“why does that upset you?”

you blinked.

“because…”

you wanted to lie. you wanted to say it was fear. that you were afraid he’d punish you. that it was logical. survival instinct.

but the words felt like ash in your mouth.

“because it feels like you’re taking something away,” you whispered. “something you’ve… given me.”

his throat shifted with a swallow.

he stepped closer.

you didn’t move.

“you say that,” he murmured, his voice low and delicate, like the edge of a blade, “but you still haven’t said the one thing i want to hear.”

his eyes dragged across your face. your lips. your throat.

“say it.”

you swallowed. “say what?”

“that you want me.”

your breath caught.

not from fear. not anymore.

you didn’t answer. not yet.

instead, you stepped forward—just one small, shaking step—and tilted your chin up.

“…what would you do if i did?”

he didn’t touch you. didn’t smile.

he simply looked at you like you were a wildfire blooming under his ribs.

“i would take it slow,” he said, voice low. “because you think this is control. but it’s not. it’s love. and i’m going to make sure you understand that before i ever lay a hand on you.”

you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

your knees gave out. not from fear. from the weight of what you felt.

he caught you. arms under yours, firm and sure, but not invasive. not yet.

he pressed you gently to the bed. not like a captor. not like a lover. like someone putting something sacred back where it belonged.

“thank you,” he said, so quietly you barely heard it.

after that, things changed.

not visibly, not at first. but the energy between you shifted. became charged.

he lingered closer.

his eyes followed your movements more carefully.

he began bringing you softer clothes, warmer meals, books with dog-eared pages that smelled like him.

once, you fell asleep by accident on the small couch tucked into the far wall. when you woke, a blanket was draped over you and he was watching from the corner, silent, reverent, like you were a painting he had no right to touch.

“do you think about me when i’m not in the room?” he asked once, late at night, as you sat with your knees pulled to your chest.

you didn’t lie.

“…yes.”

he didn’t smile. not really. but something shifted in his expression. something soft and hungry and satisfied all at once.

“good,” he murmured.

he gave you his first kiss when your mind was frayed and your body fragile.

you’d had a nightmare, cold and stuttering and so vivid you cried when you woke. it hadn’t been about him. it had been about losing him. about waking up alone in the cell, and knowing you’d never been real to him at all.

he held you that night. sat beside you on the mattress and pulled you into his arms without a word. your face pressed into his chest. his heartbeat was slow, methodical. you inhaled him, soap, smoke, something older.

and then, when your breathing had evened, when your fingers had curled loosely around the collar of his shirt—

he kissed your forehead.

then your cheek.

and then your lips.

soft. devastating.

like he didn’t need to prove anything.

like he already knew you were his.

and god help you—

you kissed him back.

you stopped asking for escape.

you stopped pretending you wanted it.

your thoughts belonged to him now.

they whispered in his cadence. they turned toward his name.

you couldn’t remember what freedom tasted like, and worse, you didn’t care.

you lived for the sound of his footsteps. for the press of his hand against your lower back when he led you to the chair to talk. for the low, possessive hum in his throat when you leaned into him without being asked.

he didn’t keep you here anymore.

you stayed.

“you’re not afraid of me anymore,” he said one morning, brushing your hair back from your face.

you were curled into his lap. he let you sleep there sometimes now, bare legs tangled over his. it was the only place you felt safe.

“…should i be?” you asked quietly.

his hand paused.

“no,” he said, and the warmth in his voice made your chest ache. “you’re the only one in this entire fucking world who shouldn’t be.”

you closed your eyes and buried your face in his throat.

he smelled like home.

like ruin.

like something that would destroy you slowly—

and make you love every second of it.

there would be no rescue.

no grand escape.

no breaking free.

because you were already free.

you’d been chosen.

and the man who once planned to murder you

now worshipped you so completely, so utterly,

that you forgot you’d ever lived without his eyes on you.

and you?

you didn’t love him.

not at first.

but now—

now, you would rather die here in his arms

than ever be held by someone else.

you were his.

you wanted to be.

and the worst part was—

you didn’t even think that was wrong anymore.

you couldn’t remember what your voice used to sound like when it wasn’t saying his name.

you whispered it at night, curled up in his bed when he let you stay there. sometimes you said it just to feel something tethered to reality. not your reality, but his. the only one that mattered anymore.

“suguru.”

you said it like a confession. like prayer.

he always answered.

you didn’t know when he stopped calling it a cell.

he never said room, either. just here.

“stay here.”

“rest here.”

“you belong here.”

and you did.

the thought of walking outside now made your stomach turn. it felt like betrayal. not to yourself, but to him. what kind of creature left its maker behind?

you were his. your body had started to believe it before your mind did. but now they were in sync. your skin heated when he entered. your pulse quickened at the sound of his voice. you were addicted to it. you needed it.

he knew.

god, he knew.

the first time you reached for him unprovoked, he didn’t move.

your fingers brushed his wrist. it was nothing. a passing graze. but the way his breath caught, soft and sharp, you felt the moment rupture between you like glass splintering in water.

you looked up.

his eyes burned into yours.

not cruel. not demanding.

just… waiting.

say it, they seemed to whisper. ask for it.

and for the first time, you did.

“…kiss me,” you breathed.

he did.

soft at first, reverent, lips brushing yours like he was afraid you’d disappear.

but you didn’t. you leaned in. opened. begged with your mouth.

his hands cradled your jaw. he didn’t push. didn’t force. he waited.

you moaned.

not because it hurt.

but because it didn’t.

because it felt like coming home.

he undressed you with the same precision he killed with, gentle, focused, completely in control.

you lay beneath him, stripped bare in body and mind, and didn’t look away once. you wanted to see him. to let him see you. to feel what it was like to be chosen and devoured all at once.

his hands were warm.

his lips moved over your throat like worship.

“you’re mine,” he whispered, voice low and hoarse. “do you understand that now?”

you nodded. you gasped. you whispered yes into his mouth like it would save you.

and he made love to you like he’d waited lifetimes to deserve it.

you clung to him. thighs wrapped around his hips, arms tight around his back, fingernails digging into skin. it was desperate. primal. not even pleasure—it was need. overwhelming, suffocating need.

your name poured from his lips like a mantra. you’d never heard it like that before. never with such hunger. such adoration. like you were sacred.

he came apart with his forehead pressed to yours, breathing you in like he couldn’t get close enough, like the space between your ribs was the only place he’d ever be safe.

afterward, he didn’t leave. he never did. he held you.

and when you whispered “i love you” against his skin, he didn’t flinch.

he didn’t question it.

he just said—

“i know. i made you that way.”

after that night, you stopped asking questions.

you stopped thinking in timelines or exit strategies. you stopped dreaming of the outside.

the world shrank until it was his body. his bed. his voice.

he let you out of the room sometimes now. not far, just the adjacent hallway, the next room over. he watched you from the shadows like you were a storm in a glass case.

you never tried the door.

you didn’t need to.

you had everything you needed here.

you had him.

you changed slowly. it wasn’t physical, not really. it was in your posture. your gaze. the way you tilted your head when he spoke. the way you crawled into his lap without asking. the way your hands fit into his like they’d been shaped for that purpose alone.

he saw it.

he loved it.

“you were always meant for this,” he whispered one morning as he slid his hand up your spine, fingers sinking into your hair.

“meant for what?”

“for me.”

you thought it might end. one day. that someone would come. that the fantasy would crack.

but it didn’t.

no one came.

no one looked for you.

you were a ghost in the world above, but here, in this underground Eden, you were alive.

you were treasured. kept. consumed.

you smiled more.

you laughed when he told you dry jokes while brushing your hair.

you cried when he left the room too long.

you forgot who you were before he made you his.

and in time, you didn’t care.

he never needed to kill you.

not when he could build you from scratch.

not when you let him.

and now, when he fucks you in the bed where he first laid you down like prey, you don’t close your eyes.

you stare at him.

open. broken. remade.

and he stares back like you’re the first living thing he’s ever touched.

“say it again,” he breathes into your mouth.

“i love you,” you whisper, and you mean it.

he smiles.

“good girl.”

and you come apart for him—

because he built you to.

there's something about writing dark, morally grey and twisted things like this that i just love. not sure why! i hope this was enjoyable! sorry it was so longg, thank yewww for reading. again sorry for the old format..its a draft.

You strained your neck upward, letting it crack from its former stiffness as you took in the sight of him. The soldat. A man whose body was torn and twisted before being put back together along with his mind, going as far as to replace pieces of his body with machinery.

You don’t know how he’d lost his arm to warrant the metal one he has now, and you never dared to ask again after the first time. You stopped trying to give him sympathy not long after meeting him. It didn't matter what they had done to him, as it wouldn’t excuse anything he'd done to you thus far.

From the very beginning, he was your tormentor, your capturer, and your god. Anything and everything you did on a daily basis was dictated by the Soldat and oneone else. You were his gift, a soft and mailable woman to be sculpted as he chose. Falling asleep without permission was a punishable offense, and that first hit surely won’t be the last.

"Ty malen'kaya suka. (You little bitch) No one told you to sleep." His voice is low and hoarse, as he wasn't interested in filling the room with the sounds of screaming just yet.

"I’m sorry." You mummbled only to receive another blow; this time it was backhanded towards the other side of your face, and you fought all of the muscles in your knees not to hit the floor this time. Your sore knees faltered and your upper body swayed, but through your struggle, you succeeded in staying upright.

"nepravil'nyy (wrong)" His voice rose only a little.

"Mne zhal'. ser..(I’m sorry.sir..)" you answered back automatically. You should’ve known better than to let your tongue slip back into English; only he was allowed to talk in that way. It had been difficult to adjust to at first, but over time, your Russian did get better, even if it was only to follow commands and respond to them.

"Uberi svoyu zadnitsu s nog. (Get your ass off your legs). On your knees, now." His voice was only loud enough to be commanding, as you weren’t deserving of any real anger.

You straightened up as he had asked so that your full weight was on your knees and shins alone. You made your back rigid, leaned your head back, and waited for further instruction. You were never allowed to fall behind, nor could you go too far ahead. So, you stood stock still as your knees screamed from having to continue holding you up.

"otkryt' (open)" His voice smacked back off every corner of the room, and you didn’t hesitate to unclench your teeth to open your mouth nice and wide, just as he preferred.

This particular task had become something you became better at with much mandatory practice. But, in spite of the hours of being made to choke him down, there were times that you would still make mistakes, so it wasn’t unexpected when he ran his metal fingers along your lips with misleading gentleness before digging them into your skin to clamp down hard on your face.

He leaned down towards your face to hammer his point in with each graveled word that rumbled from his chest. "Yesli ty vospol'zuyesh'sya svoimi zubami, ya slomayu tebe chelyust'. (If you use your teeth, I will break your jaw.)"

You gave a brief "da ser (yes sir)" before opening your mouth back up as he leaned away again. His hand loosened from your face as he ran his thumb along your bottom lip to show him that naughty bottom row of teeth, a few of which had a metallic sheen similar to his fingers.

That had been the last and only time you’d ever bitten him. It had been a dangerous lesson to learn, as it had cost you four of your teeth. All of which were quickly replaced without the benefit of anesthesia.

He undoes the buckles on his pants as he squares his hips in-line with your face. Your eyes don’t leave his as you stare at one another.

Giving him oral relief upon his arrival was a given, and this time would be no different from the last, for now.

He spit into the palm of his hand as he pulled his long member free from his clothes, giving it a few pumps to harden it until it stood tall and hard.

The tip entered first, pressing against your tongue before sliding over it.

"lizhi, moy kotenok (lick, my kitten)" He growled down at you.

He only used the pet name when you were being good, acting as a trigger word to help spur you further because where there was praise there wouldn’t be any punishment.

So you did as ordered, pulling your head back and flicking your tongue out over the pink tip as you slickened his cock with your saliva.

"Sosat' (suck)," he pushed his hips toward your open mouth, letting his cock slide along your tongue and further into your mouth.

You closed your lips around it, easing him into your mouth as you did as ordered. You started out slowly before you began to bob up and down on his shaft until it slid deeper down your throat when his hips followed your pace. But, his need was to go faster, deeper even.

The Soldat's metal fingers snapped onto the back of your head to push you down on his cock, far enough that your nose was tickled by the dusting of his pubic hair. Your throat enclosed around him, almost swallowing the head of his cock as he shucked your face up and down onto him. It filled the once tensely quiet room with the echo of you breathlessly sputtering and sloshing on his member.

You’ve grown accustomed to holding your breath for however long he needed, but it was often too much. The tears had forced their way out as they rounded around your reddened cheeks as the air in your head grew thin.

The Soldat's strong, steel-like demeanor cracked as he grew closer and growled, "Fuck..takoy khoroshiy kotenok (so good, kitten)" down at you.

He first cums in your mouth before pulling out to paint your face and then your breasts with spurt after spurt of salty, sticky seed. It’s all over the space on your cheeks that still stung from the last time he hit you, and the soft tip of his cock tickled your neck a little as he coated the rest of your skin.

You don’t even know if he took pleasure in sights like this, as his expression never changed. Yet, if you dared to look carefully enough, you could catch a glimpse of his pupils swelling as they drank you in.

You straightened up on your knees, waiting for another order. Usually he would just have you stand and clean yourself up at the sink in the corner of the cell. Yet, as he walked around you, he pulled his undershirt from his body before tossing it to you with a gruff "wipe off."

His cock was still hard and dripping with what was left of his seed, before he stopped to stand behind you.

The muscles of his thick thighs strained as he steadied himself, and his heavy boots hit the cement hard with each step.

You did as first instructed and wiped away his spendings from your face and breasts before setting the clothes on the floor by your side, and you waited until another order was called out.

"Bend forward, on your hands," he called out from behind you.

It was a new command, and you followed as best as you could, bending yourself over and pressing your hands to the cold floor. When his knees dropped behind yours, you knew it was time for a new form of conditioning. Especially as his hand slipped between your thighs to spread your knees apart.

You had assumed it was only a matter of time until you would be completely broken in, but that realization did nothing to steady the unease buring into your stomach.

At least he had the forethought to warn you as the cold metal of his thumb brushed along your now exposed core.

"My budem ispol'zovat' eto otverstiye, a takzhe. (We will use this hole as well.)" he said as his head tilted at the sight of his fingers moving effortlessly through your dewy folds. He wasn’t one to play with his food, but he didn’t expect you to already be wet. It was a hidden shame that you would greatly ignore, but it would prove useful now.

His fleshy finger entered you first, feeling your pristine core wrap tightly around it. You have to hold your breath once he pulls his digit away, only to push two inside. You were nowhere near ready for this, having been unbroken before being given to him, but you stood firm on your locked joints as your knees dug into the hard cement floor.

His hand leaves your body as he aligns himself with you, and you suck in a deep breath when you feel the head prod at your core.

The Soldat leaned his body over yours as his metal arms snaked under yours. His teeth were dangerously close to your skin as he gritted out a graveled "kak dolgo ty mozhesh' derzhat' svoy golos, kotenok? (How long can you hold your voice, kitten?)"

He never asked you questions anymore, speaking only in absolutes as he bent you to his commands.

Would this be a challenge? Were you allowed to not accept it?

You could feel him push on the bubble of pressure that had built up in your lungs as you held in a cry. He was only halfway inside as your walls fought to push him out.

He ground his teeth as he growled out a gruff "tugoy (tight)" against your neck as he quickly tore you open on his cock.

His flesh hand slid under your other arm to meet his metal one, before they both slid over your neck to lock his arms over your shoulders for leverage as he pulled your upper body off the floor and drove the rest of his cock inside of you.

You felt every ounce of air being forced out of your lungs, and your knees slid along the floor as you were no longer holding your own weight, but you didn’t scream. Even when the tears started to bubble out, you didn’t make a single sound aside from your own labored breathing.

When he started to pull himself from your core, you had to bite your fucking tongue as he dragged his cock along your newly torn walls. When he thrusted back into you, you couldn’t hold your voice in anymore. Your cries were made to echo throughout the room as your body jolted with each of his movements.

He pulled himself out of your soft, wet heat until the tip was all that was left inside. You wailed through your teeth as his grip on your entire upper body tightened, and a low growl was heard from him as he pressed his lips to the back of your neck. "Tvoya pizda vsegda budet pomnit' formu moyego chlena. (Your cunt will always remember the shape of my cock.)"

He brought his hips forward to collide against your ass with an audible slap, his steely cock slamming into the back of your cunt hard enough to send a louder cry past your teeth. You were lifted almost off the ground, leaving your knees to only graze the floor.

The damn had broken, and as a thin rivlet of blood trailed down your thigh to drip to the cold floor, your pained voice bounced and echoed around the both of you. It made you dizzy as the pain began to numb your body, and the tickle of something hotter blossomed in your core as he drove himself into your aching channel.

Even the cries melted into something more unnaturally flowery, something sweeter and more pleasing to him. When he felt your core twist and squeeze around him, he knew what he was starting to do to you.

He turned his head to take the shell of your ear between his teeth and growled into your hot skin, "Davay, Kotenok, krik. (Come on, kitten, cry.)"

You didn’t expect to melt around him when his voice vibrated through your skin. Yet, just as he demanded, you cried out into the small and sterile room.

You tightened around him until you felt every ridge, and every muscle of his cock as he tore along your inner walls until it made his cock begin to throb and twitch within you.

The Soldat's loud voice boomed over you with "Konchi dlya menya, kotenok. Konchi na chlen svoyego soldata. (Cum for me, kitty. Cum on your soldier's cock.)" and it set your body on edge to the point that you were screaming and squirming in his tight, immovable hold.

He wound that tight little spring hidden in your belly until it finally snapped apart all over him, making you cry out in a broken, "Nyet, Nyet!"

His climax accompanied yours, making you feel it as he filled your core full, as you twitched around him.

He untangled your limbs from his as he set you to the floor with uncharacteristic gentleness.

The shock of the cold floor felt like it nearly burned your skin as you tried to catch your breath. He was still on his knees above you as he let you have a moment's rest when he slid his metal finger along your forehead to wipe away the stray hairs that clung to your sweaty skin.

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@lizatill inspire this Fic With this post