#fckwritersblock

Y’all have been at it for hours and Stack was relentless and merciless with the way he had treating your pussy.

This was your fault though.

You have been acting like a brat all fucking week, mad he was away on business. Greeting him when he got home this morning with a fucked up attitude at all.

You slammed one too many draws, cabinets, and doors today. The last straw was you slamming yall bedroom door as he was talking to you from the living room. Just as soon as that ma’fucka closed it damn near flew open. Stack didn’t even say anything at first just stood in the doorway andstared at you, to which you raise an eye as you crossed your arms as if you were daring him to do something. All he did was her huff out a laugh at that.

“Bet.

“Elías!” His name left your lips with a cry as you came all over his dick for the umteenth time.

Because God had lost count.

You had barely come down before he flipped out over, you hands still bound.

Ass naked. Hands cuffed behind your back. On your knees. Face smashed into the pillow, one of Stacks strong hands on the back of your throat giving you those long, deep strokes, that made you see stars. You were in this position by no one’s fault but your own.

But fuck did you love it here.

“Too much baby?” His tone was slightly teasing.

“Uh uh”, you nodded feverishly as your body rocked in rhythm with his slow strokes.

Stack pulled out of you painfully slow before leaning over, tongue out, licking up a strip up your spine before thrusting back into your cunt harder than before eliciting a loud moan from you.

“Cry about it.”

“I’m sorryyyyyy” you moaned.

“Nah baby you been runnin’ yo mouth all fuckin week.” He grunted. “Whinnin’ and shit bout this that and the third.”

You were more than overstimulated.

“What that you said giggling on the phone wit yo bald head ass friend this mornin’? ‘I’m not myself when I ain’t have no dick.’” He mocked

“Elíassssss,” you dragged out, coming all over him again.

“Shut the fuck up and take this dick you been

Fuck,” he cursed pumping faster chasing his own release sparked by the way your wall pulses around him.

He came hard, coating your insides pulling out a bit letting it drip out of you while the rest of it painted the top of your pussy, his tip dragging over the top of your clit causing you to twitch.

“You did so well for me mama..”

With care he held you up one hand at your waist, the other around your throat, not tight, gentle with just the right amount of pressure. Your back against his chest, head lolling backward as your caught your breath feeling more than spent.

Stack kisses the side of of your neck and face as you relaxed into him a bit.

“I did?” You shivered from his lips on you.

“Mmhmm, just 3 more for me and we done, ok pretty?” Your eyes shot open at his words and the sound of a low hum that followed.

That damned vibrator.

This was the most pleasurable torture and manageable. He would fuck you and moment he came there was a vibrator pressed to your clit damn near immediately eliciting one orgasm after another. Stack got off on watching you come and as soon he was hard as a fucking drilling into your pussy some more.

It was a delightfully vicious cycle.

“3 more- Elias. I can’t!” Your hips wiggled though there wasn’t much you could do with your hands still cuffed together. “Elías.”

Even if you denied that you could feel your walls clenching around nothing, as if you’re a pussy knew what was in store.

“Uh uh, you’re gonna take your punishment like the good girl you are right.”

“I can’t cum anymore baby-oh!” You eyes rolled the feeling of his mouth on your neck, toy already going to work.

“You can baby,” he encouraged.

“Shit” you stuttered out the feeling out the rabbit vibrating against your puff clit already had the familiar coil in your stomach building.

Your body jerked and you would’ve fallen had the hand wrapped around your throat not been what kept you in place. That and your ass was back up against his front his semi hard dick pressed against you from behind. you had no choice but to cum again at this rate.

As spent as you were, you couldn’t help yourself. The way he touched you, loved you, worked you—every motion was deliberate, patient, devastating. You’d lost count of how many times he’d pulled release from you; it had to be seven by now, maybe more. Nanami didn’t relent. He never did.

“Ken—”

“Hmm?” His voice was deep, teasing, his thumb tracing slow circles against the sensitive flesh he’d already worked raw. He moved with the same precise rhythm as always, hips snapping forward with surgical control.

When he drew his hand away, you whimpered at the loss—only for him to bring his fingers to his mouth and taste you, humming low in approval.

He loved how you tasted. Especially when you were already full of him.

“Feels good, doesn’t it, sweetheart?” he murmured.

“I don’t think I can come anymore, baby,” you panted.

He clicked his tongue, amused, and pressed your knees higher, angling himself deeper until you felt him everywhere. “I think you can, darling. You stayed hydrated like I told you?” His tone was maddeningly casual, even as his hips ground slow and deep, every thrust brushing that spot that made you gasp.

“Yes!” you cried, head tipping back.

He leaned forward, lips capturing a nipple, tongue circling, sucking until you were arching into him.

“Oh—oh, fuck!”

“Mmm,” he hummed, releasing you with a soft pop. “Good girl.”

At the sound of praise, you clenched tight around him. He groaned, pace faltering for half a second before recovering, driving in harder. The only sounds in the room were the sharp slap of skin, your breathless moans, and the wet rhythm of his body claiming yours.

You wanted to let go—God, you needed to—but you knew better. Not until he said.

“Kento,” you gasped, voice trembling.

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmured, eyes fixed on the way your body moved beneath him.

“Kento!” you cried louder, desperation edging your tone.

“Hmm?” he grunted, pace quickening, giving you what you needed but not what you wanted.

“Please!”

That was what he’d been waiting for. He smiled, small and satisfied.

“Cum.”

Bonus:

When it was over, he didn’t move right away. He simply stayed there, breathing against your skin, his body still covering yours like a weighted blanket. The tension that had driven every thrust bled out of him until only quiet remained. Then, gently—always gently—Nanami eased out of you and caught your chin between two fingers, tilting your face toward his.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” he murmured. His voice, the same one that commanded you moments ago, was soft now, threaded with concern. He brushed stray hair from your face. You’d be mad later that your hair was sweat out, but he never cared. He paid to fix it anyway. Nanami pressed a kiss to your temple, his thumb drawing slow circles at the hollow of your throat.

You could still feel the ghost of his control in the way he moved, deliberate even in tenderness. He cleaned you up, murmuring quiet praise, wrapping you in his shirt before pulling you against his chest.

You opened your mouth to speak but the words died there—less defiance than heat pooling low in your belly.

This is ridiculous. You’re ridiculous, you thought, but your hands were already inching over his shoulders, feeling the taut slab of muscle beneath his shirt, the warmth that radiated from him like; a promising threat.

He watched those hands with a predator’s attention, amusement stirring in the corner of his mouth. Sukuna was no fool. He knew you were trying to butter him up as a way to soften your punishment.

“Your attempt to argue was adorable, just as your efforts to placate me are now. I fear I must remind you.” he murmured, the words thick with intent. “I’d never be above making you accept.”

You bark-laughed, which turned into a shaky breath. “You sound like a goddamn monarch.”

“Yes.” He dipped his head until his lips ghosted the shell of your ear. “And you sound like mine.”

The touch of his mouth on your skin ignited something feral. You tried to keep your face blank for dignity’s sake, but when his fingers tightened in your braids and pulled hard, exposing the warm curve of your neck, you gasped. The sound—half surprise, half surrender—was all the permission he needed.

One of his lower hands slid under your top, cool fingers skimming the soft plane of your stomach before cupping the swell of your breast. His palm was big, exacting; the pads of his fingers kneaded and drew a quiet cry from you. He rolled your nipple with a thumb, slow and deliberate, and the ache between your legs clenched.

He always knows exactly where to touch me, you thought, cheeks hot. Is it cruelty or kindness?

Sukuna watched your face as if reading scripture. “Both, pet.” he answering, you realizing you spoke your thoughts aloud. “And you love it.”

“Do I though?” you breathed.

He grinned—only the barest slice, dangerous and satisfied—then caught your lower lip between his teeth and tugged, eliciting a moan that threaded straight through him. He took your mouth with a rough, claiming kiss that left you dizzy. Tongue, teeth, heat; he moved like he’d been shown the map to your body and memorized every contour.

Hands everywhere—yours and his—unbuttoned, slid, tugged. He unzipped the back of your tubetop exposing the softness of your skin to the cool air in the throne room. His thumbs traced the ridges of your ribs, mapping your reactions. You scrubbed your palms along his chest, feeling the steady thunder of his heartbeat, the leather of his belt, the way the fabric of his clothes resisted then gave.

“Strip,” he growled into your mouth.

You slid from his lap with a graceless laugh and obeyed. Fingers fumbled with buttons, jeans, the slide of fabric—every movement was seen and catalogued by him. Defiantly you kept on your panties. You could feel his eyes—hungry, admiring, hungry again—on the curve of your hip, the line of your spine. When you straightened, he took you in like a man tasting a favorite sin.

“Comeback to me” He pushed you gently but firmly against the throne’s armrest, one hand steady at the small of your back leaning in to exhale warm breath across the exposed dip of your collarbone.

Your pulse took off. The room seemed to narrow to the rhythm of him—his breath, his hands, the low sound he made when he leaned his forehead to yours. “You hate being bought,” he whispered, as if it were a confession. “But you will allow me to show you how it feels to be wanted.”

“Spread,” he instructed, voice soft and absolute, you immediately obeyed, Sukuna wasting no time sliding a hand into the your panties, slowly.

“So demanding,” you teased though your heart continued to race, feeling him cup your cove.

“Can’t help it woman. You taste like sun,” he said, absurd and loving, and the small laugh that escaped you dissolved into a needy sound when his fingers brushed wet and found the slickness that told him exactly how ready you were.

He pushed two fingers in—slow, testing—and you welcomed the stretch like you welcomed flame. His movements were expert: rhythm, depth, curl that hit the place that made your back arch against the armrest. You pressed your palms to his chest, trying to anchor yourself to something—anything—that wasn’t the avalanche of feeling. His touch seemed to bypass your brain, aiming straight for the place that made sense of surrender.

“Fuck,” he breathed, not in frustration but reverence.

You thought, He could bury me and I’d thank him for the hole. The thought scared you with how easily it came. How much of this is me loving him and how much is me loving how he makes me feel?

Sukuna’s fingers moved faster, then slower, building and releasing you in a maddening tide. He kissed the corner of your mouth, the spot where your lips met your cheek, then dipped to the hollow of your throat, sucking there a little, leaving a bruise of heat. You pulled at his shirt, an impatient, needy gesture; he laughed low and pushed you back against the armrest.

“You like being managed,” he said, amused and certain. “You like being told what to do.”

“You love being the king,” you shot back, breathless.

“No.” He met your eyes. “I love you.”

The thrum of the word ricocheted through you. It should have undone you, but it steadied you too, like a hand on your shoulder. He loves me? He said it like he owns me, but maybe—maybe it’s true in his own brutal way. Your body answered before your heart or mind could argue.

His hands left your center and roamed up your torso to the back of your neck, gathering your hair in a firm fist. He tugged, bringing your face close, and then he lowered himself to his knees.

The sudden change of angle—him beneath you, worshiping—threw your world sideways. He clasped your thigh and guided your hip until your center hovered over his mouth.

“You’re mine,” he hummed, a vow turned to prayer. He tasted you with deliberate worship—short licks, long draws, the slow learning of every edge—and you forgot all pretense of dignity. You dug your fingers into his hair, feeling the coarse silk that was contrasted by his cool, cursed skin.

His mouth moved with intent, not merely to please but to declare ownership in the language he understood best. You were loud—moans and sharp breaths—spilling into the throne room like contraband. Each sound made the muscles along his neck flex; each tremor under his tongue earned a deeper, surer exploration.

When he finally rose to meet you again—face flushed, hair mussed, eyes raw with need—you were trembling. He didn’t rush you. He didn’t need to. That waiting—an eternity in a single breath—was another kind of domination, and it pushed you right to the edge.

One hand still in your hair pulling back, exposing your neck to him. He licked a trail from your collar to your ear, swirling his tongue around your ear when you felt it.

Another tongue licking between your folds, lapping at the juices that had already flowed from your wet cunt. It was that goddamn stomach mouth of his proving of how much of a greedy fuck Sukuna was.

“Fuckkkkkk Kuna,” you dragged out, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you attempted to close your legs as that familiar intense feeling grew. There was a hand in the hair, keeping your legs apart, and the fourths thumb rubbing circles into your clit why his stomach mouth continued his assault on your pussy.

The cool air kissed the flushed skin of your thighs then your ass as he braced himself. You braced too—not just for the physical intrusion but for whatever it meant that you were here, like this, in his lap, open to him.

“Say it,” he ordered, voice gravelly.

“Say what?” you managed.

“That you know your place.”

God, he’s being ridiculous. You could have told him to fuck off. Instead, heat pooled in your belly and something tender in you folded toward him. “My place is here with you,” you whispered.

He sank into you in a single, seamless motion—deep, claiming, impossibly full.

“Kuna-” You whined trying to pull back as he bottomed out. Firm grip on your hips he help you in place.

“Shut the fuck up.” He kissed you again, harder, sealing the vow in the only language he knew.

You broke for air, eyes hazy, lips swollen. Sukuna smirked but his chest tightened. The first rapture of his thrust made you gasp and then laugh, a sound of disbelief and relief. He filled you utterly, and you felt every inch of him press a map into your skin.

“Bae I can’t -“

“You can and you will take what I give you. Sukuna moved with a relentless, intimate rhythm—slow at first, to allow you to acclimate, then building, increasing the speed and depth until your world reduced to the friction of bodies, his rough hands spanked and cupped, the scrape of cloth, the scent of him—metal and musk and something old and homey—and the taste of yourself caught between his teeth.

You clutched at him, at his shoulders, at the throne behind you. Your thoughts fractured into single bright shards: his name, the heat, his second dick rubbing against the top of your pussy coated in you wet slick, the way he hummed low in his throat when he hit exactly the right angle, the feel of his breath against your ear.

He spoke then, words low and private. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you choked out, the admission raw and true.

He replied with a sound that was half laugh, half animal. “Good girl,” he breathed, and the words rolled you further into oblivion.

Sukuna had your legs up and pushed to your chest as he continued to fuck you. With genuine and excitement he marveled at the way your juices gushed out and covered his veiny dick, his second one covered with just as much of your slick brushing the top of your clit and gliding across your tummy with ease.

“Fuck,” he groaned laughing maniacally as he picked up his pace.

The world slipped—edges blurred, time warped. Your body twisted into a brilliant, desperate pleasure, and you clung to him and let go. He drove, and you rode, and when you came for the umteenth time it was like being unmade and remade: bright, scattering, a physical unraveling stitched back together by his hands and the pressure of his hips. When he finally came you could feel him pour inside of you, the feeling leaving you full, his second dick squirting cum all over your stomach.

You were thoroughly fucked out looking at Sukuna with eyes blown wide and he scooped up some of his cum with two fingers and held it in front of you, watching with satisfaction as you took his fingers in your mouth swirling your tongue around his digits moaning at the taste of him.

You sagged against him afterward, breath wobbling, face wet with tears you didn’t intend to shed. Sukuna held you close, cradling your head against his chest, his thumbs gentle against your cheek. The fierceness in him had tempered into something protectively soft.

“You weren’t meant to be bought,” he said after a long moment, voice quiet, not a command this time. “You were meant to be kept.”

You let out a tired laugh, before teasing. “And what if I don’t want to be kept the way you keep things? What if I want to keep myself?”

“You already do,” he replied, as if that settled the argument—for now. “I give you what I want to give. You accept, or I will continue to make you accept.” He kissed the top of your head. “But I will always be here. That is my promise.”

Something in you unfurled at the promise. It was not romantic in the breathy way the novels described, but it was real—solid as stone and just as immovable.

You tilted your head back to look at him, eyes heavy, lips swollen. “You’re insufferable,” you whispered, half amused, half in love.

“And you’re stubborn,” he said, tracing lazy circles along your jaw. “Perfect.”

That day he walked past your bakery, he told himself he was just checking the perimeter. One look at you behind the counter, flour on your cheek, hair tied up in that pink scarf you always wore, and his mission went straight to hell.

He pushed the door open, bell chiming like a warning he ignored.

“Kev?” you said, eyes widening as you saw him. “Ain’t you supposed to be—”

He was already walking toward you, smile ghosting his lips. “I know. I just… needed to see you.”

You arched a brow. “You risked your job to come buy a cupcake?”

“Nah,” he said, stepping closer until your hands brushed on the counter. “I came to see the woman who makes the best cupcakes on the South Side.”

You laughed, rolling your eyes. “Boy, go head.”

“Can’t. I miss you too damn much.”

You sighed but the corners of your mouth turned up. He leaned in, slow, testing the moment, and you didn’t stop him. The kiss was quick, soft—just a promise pressed to your lips.

And that was the fatal flaw.

Because while Kevin’s heart had been slipping back into something warm and familiar, someone else had been watching. Someone who saw that tiny, dangerous moment and decided to use it.

By the time Intelligence got the call, things had already gone sideways. The crew knew about Kevin’s cover. They were moving fast, burning everything behind them.

And you—innocent, sweet, you—were their leverage.

When the team told him they’d taken you, Kevin damn near broke the table in the bullpen. His hands were shaking, breath coming out ragged. Ruzek tried to calm him, but it was like trying to hold back a storm.

“Kev—listen to me—”

“Nah, man, I told y’all i don’t know they, this is fucked yo man!!” Kevin’s voice cracked, anger giving way to fear. “They touch her, Adam, I swear—”

“We’re gonna find her,” Voight said, voice low and steady. “But you gotta keep your head.”

Kevin nodded, but the truth was—he’d already lost it the moment he heard your name.

The lead came in hours later: an old parking garage, abandoned since the ‘90s. Perfect place to disappear.

When they rolled up, Kevin didn’t wait for backup instructions. He was out of the car before it stopped, gun drawn, heart pounding.

Voight’s voice crackled through the comm, “Atwater, hold your position!”

But Kevin wasn’t hearing it. All he saw was you—the thought of you tied up somewhere, scared, calling his name.

The air was thick with tension, boots echoing off the concrete.

Then—movement.

“Yo, Atwater!” Ruzek hissed. “Left side, garage stairwell.”

David had nothing else to lose anymore, getting busted like this had taken everything away from him . So he wanted to take something from Kevin.

With your hands bound in your mouth gagged. David baited kevin, our positioning himself behind you.

“David, come on out bruh it don’t gotta end this way.”

You may not have been able to see that he could hear David loud and clear.

“Nice of you to join us, Officer,” David sneered, pressing the gun to your shoulder, unbeknownst to Atwater. “You think you can take me down and walk out of here with your little girlfriend?”

Kevin’s grip tightened on his Glock. “You don’t wanna do this.”

“Funny, ‘i definitely feel like I do.”

Gunfire cracked through the air—three quick shots, flashes lighting up the dark.

Kevin dove, rolled, fired back. The echo was deafening. Then silence.

His heart was beating so hard it hurt. The metallic scent of gunpowder filled his lungs as he lifted his flashlight, sweeping the beam across the ground.

And then he saw you.

When Kevin saw you his heart stopped. There you lied on the ground of the cold, hard parking garage floor, gagged and bound. You were lying there, bound, gagged, the faint shimmer of blood blooming across your shirt.

“Fuck!” Kevin dropped the gun and ran, knees scraping concrete as he reached you. “Hey, hey—baby—no, no, no.”

He tore off the gag, hands trembling as he tried to undo the bindings.

“Kevin…” Your voice was soft, barely there.

“I got you, I got you.” He pressed his hand over the wound, the warmth spilling through his fingers. “Stay with me, okay? Stay with me.”

Tears filled your eyes. “Don’t… wanna die.” He shook his head ignoring all the blood seeping through hand, pressing hard carefully not to hurt you.

“You not. You hear me? You not dyin’ on me, baby.”

He gathered you into his lap, cradling you like something fragile. His voice cracked as he called over the comms, “Ruzek! We need a bus—now!”

“On it!” Ruzek’s voice came through, faint and panicked.

You coughed, blood flecking your lips. “Kev…”

“Kev we got him, we-…” Ruzek was the first on the scene eyes widened when they saw Kevin on the ground with you in his arm.

“Ruzek, where’s the bus man.”

“They’re on their way, I-“

“You hear that bae? They’ll be here in a min, aight?” He brushed your cheek, thumb shaking. “Breathe, sweetheart. Just breathe.”

“‘M scared.”

“I know, I know.” He kissed your forehead, tears hitting your skin. “I’m right here.”

“You gotta stay wit me ma, come on! You gotta breathe baby!”

“Love…you-“ was barely audible as blood feel from your lips a slight move in your hand as you tried to reach for his face.

Come on, y/n- stay yo-“ he voice crackled. “You gotta stay wit me baby.”

But you’d stopped moving.

There was nothing.

Just silence.

Baby?” His voice broke. “Y/N?”

He shook you gently, patting your cheek. “C’mon, don’t—don’t do that. Not like this, baby. Please.”

But your eyes stared in to nothing, half lip, lips parted, covered in blood..

Ruzek appeared at his side, eyes wide, blood draining from his face. “Kev…”

“Don’t!” Kevin barked, voice cracking into a sob. “Fuckin’ don!”

Ruzek’s jaw clenched, but his silence said enough.

Kevin bowed his head, hands gripping your body like he could anchor your soul back to him. He didn’t care about the blood soaking into his clothes or the sirens growing louder outside. The world had narrowed down to this—just you, cold against him, and the sound of his heart breaking in his chest.

The call came through late — a quiet summons to the bullpen after hours. The blinds were drawn, the air heavy with the kind of silence that only happens when bad news is about to drop.

Ruzek, Burgess, and Upton stood near the board, eyes flicking to Voight when he walked in. No one said a word.

Voight set the manila file on the table, the corner of a ballistics report peeking out. He rubbed a hand over his face, voice low. “I just got the official confirmation.”

“About the bullet?” Burgess asked, hesitant.

Voight nodded once, tight. “It was Kevin’s.”

The room went still.

Ruzek swore under his breath, pacing away from the table. “Jesus Christ…”

Upton blinked, jaw clenching. “Does he—?”

“No.” Voight’s tone was sharp, final. “And he’s not going to.”

Burgess looked stricken. “Hank, he deserves to know.”

Voight snapped his gaze to her, voice dropping into a growl. “He deserves peace. You want to watch him break worse than he already is? You want to destroy the only good thing that man had left?”

“Voight—”

“Enough.” He slammed a hand on the desk, the sound echoing through the bullpen. “I said not a word. You hear me? Not to him. Not to anyone. It’s done.”

The room fell silent again.

Ruzek finally muttered, “That’s gonna eat him alive.”

Voight’s eyes softened, just a fraction. “He’s already eating himself alive. The truth would just finish the job.”

He closed the file and turned away, voice gravel-low. “We protect our own. End of story.”

Voight filed the report himself. Marked it as “unclear exchange of fire.” Nobody asked questions. Nobody would. That was Voight’s way — protect your own.

Kevin wasn’t stupid.

Nobody said anything around him, but that was the problem — they said nothing. The way Ruzek avoided his eyes, the way Burgess flinched when he mentioned the shooting, even the way Voight’s voice turned softer when he checked in — it all told him what the paperwork didn’t have to.

He didn’t need to read the report. He already knew.

He knew.

He’d known from the second he dropped to his knees beside you.

And every time he closed his eyes, he saw the flash of light, the angle of his shot, your body behind it. The math had been adding up since the second you hit the ground.

So he carried it alone, pretending he didn’t see the guilt in their eyes. Pretending he believed the story. Pretending he could forgive himself for something he wasn’t even supposed to know.

And Voight let him. Because that’s what loyalty looked like in Intelligence — love turned into silence.

But some nights, when Kevin walked the quiet streets, he swore he could still hear your voice in his head.

Be safe, Kev.

Come home to me.

He hadn’t. Not really.

He still drives past your bakery sometimes. Can’t help it. The “For Lease” sign in the window mocks him, but he parks across the street anyway. He’ll sit there, radio off, just listening to the quiet.

And if he closes his eyes long enough, he can almost see you behind the counter again, flour on your cheek, smiling at him like you used to.

He whispers to the empty street, “Serious as hell, baby.”

His eyes shifted in her direction, blinking slowly, yet he said nothing. He just sat there and observed, as he was meant to.

Knowing what he now knew, knowing what needs to be done in order for life in Paradis to be sustainable and have a real future, Eren had a role to play: helpless soldier, mentally traumatized with PTSD, body damaged beyond repair—another useless Marleyan. It was all part of his plan. Hell, he was already a rogue, abandoning his family friends and fellow comrades in Paradis. He could just picture Levi stewing at his insubordination, Mikasa worrying, Armin endlessly babbling trying to come up with a logical reason for all this… he could picture all of them and how they would react to him leaving, clear as day. He knew them all well, after all.

They were his family.

Eren could no longer focus on that now, though. He had a job to do. One that would shake the world as they knew it. One that no one could possibly understand. A hard job, but someone had to do it.

Me. I’m that someone, he reminded himself.

“Sir?” The same nurse, the one with red hair, attempted to gain his attention again. “Sir, can you hear me?”

“Forget it, Patsy, he’s a mute,” the other nurse commented, clearly not as patient as her partner.

“Doesn’t mean he can’t hear you, Ingrid,” Patsy hissed. “Probably trauma, poor guy.”

“Yeah, yeah, just give him over to her so we can move on to the next.”

Her?

Patsy sighed, still feeling bad for the disfigured soldier before her.

“Mr. Kruger, we have a healer who will tend to your wounds. Hopefully, that’ll speed up the process, and you won’t be in so much pain after a while.”

Kind. Foolish. he thought, remaining silent.

With a sigh, she turned slightly. “Come. He’s ready.”

Eren’s eyes shifted slightly, just enough for him to follow where the nurse gazed, to whom she spoke. He hadn’t even seen the young woman sitting in the dark corner.

“I’ll leave you to it.”

For a while, there was no sound other than the nurses departing, their heels clapping against the stone floor and the door opening and shutting behind them.

“You’re different. You’re not like the others, I can tell.”

Though he still said nothing, she continued as if she knew he wondered how she could tell.

“I can feel it. You’re from one of the other nations, aren’t you?”

Neither are you, he thought as she finally stood directly in front of the bed he was seated upon. It was then Eren got a really good look at her.

She was striking. She looked to be about his age—healthy, well, healthy for the most part, which was a shock seeing how they treated the Eldians. Her eyes looked tired, as if all her energy had been spent, yet she tried to conceal it—from the other staff or from the patients, he wasn’t sure. Yet there was an aura about her that was both inviting and mysterious; he could almost feel it drawing him in.

Then there was her skin.

He’d only seen skin that color once, and that was on Onyakapon.

As she stood under the beaming lights used to examine him, he immediately took notice of how her brown skin radiated and glowed under the warm light, exuding a sense of richness and beauty that left him momentarily breathless. Her features were elegant, yet there was a distinct strength in her presence.

His eyes traveled to her hair, which was styled in a neat bun atop her head. It reminded him of the way Christa wore her hair, except higher. The curls and coils poking out, thick and textured, framed her face beautifully, showcasing her natural beauty.

He’d never seen anyone like her before.

“You’re perceptive,” Eren finally responded, earning a faint smirk from the young woman before him.

“When you’ve been here as long as I have…” she trailed off with a shrug as she began to undo some of the dressings on his wounds, presumably given to him once they found him on the battlefield. Some were sticking to his skin, holding on due to the dry blood that had caked around each wound.

“Surprised they trust me here with you alone,” he spoke after he beat his voice, still low, barely above a whisper.

“They know I won’t run.” It was then he noticed the chain around her ankle. “Surprised you can talk.”

Here against her will then, noted.

Eren hummed in response as he continued to watch her reach for the small square-like device on the table beside him. As she began to turn the knob, he could hear a faint clicking with each twist. It reminded him of the way the gears sounded when they would open the gate in Paradis.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a timer,” came the simple answer.

“Its purpose?” She frowned a bit at this question, wondering how he didn’t know what the small device in her hand was, but made no comment. Instead, she answered.

“It keeps track of the time for me while I work. I can only heal each afflicted area for one minute before I have to move on to the next. It’s their way of keeping me from exerting all my energy on one patient.”

“Heal?”

This time she didn’t answer, only slowly began sticking out her hand, hovering it above the cut next to his right eyebrow. She felt a sudden grip on her wrist—it wasn’t too tight but enough to hold her in place and keep her from advancing. Eren hadn’t even realized he did it. It was more or less a reflex.

She didn’t seem to mind, however, giving him a gentle smile—one he noticed didn’t quite reach her eyes, as if she were saying, ‘It’s okay,’ and he slowly let her go.

Eren watched with a curious gaze; her hand felt warm, emitting a slight glow. It reminded him of the flash of light you’d see when the Titans shifted. After a few moments of silence, she removed her hand.

“There. Feel better?”

“Much,” he answered, unable to hide all the surprise in his voice. While the cut didn’t actually hurt at all, he knew what it felt like for his body to heal.

The difference was, it felt as if something had gone in and forced his body to repair broken blood vessels and grow new tissue, all while soothing the injured area. The sensation was cool, reminding him of a salve or balm.

Interesting.

She worked in comfortable silence, and Eren let her do so, uninterrupted—healing and then cleaning up the remaining spots of dried blood. After ten minutes or so, he heard her exhale, giving him a once-over before checking the sheet one of the nurses had left behind.

“Three more spots to go,” she announced.

“You been here long?” Eren asked, though he was pretty sure he already knew the answer.

“I’ve been here for as long as I can remember.”

“So forever, then?”

“No, not forever. I had a family once,” she shared while she worked, her movements calculated and smooth. “One that loved me. The island I lived on wasn’t perfect, but it was a happy place. I was…”

“You were what?” He encouraged her to continue.

“Free.”

Free.

Something Eren never felt he’d truly experience, not in this lifetime. A truth he’d never spoken aloud, as he didn’t think anyone else was aware of the invisible shackles that tied them to this world, the curse that had been placed on all Eldians. It was a bit bewildering to speak to another human who was self-aware of the hand dealt to them.

She was quiet after that, and Eren didn’t bother to strike up a conversation. This was his first day here, after all, and he still had loads of ground to cover as well as information to gather.

He was certain he found who he was looking for; now he had to be sure he could trust her. For now, though, he wouldn’t push her. He was sure this wouldn’t be the last time they saw each other.

“I’m afraid I can’t do much for your leg today. Those kinds of energies take a little bit more out of me when it comes to healing larger wounds. They’ve already put you on the list for that, though, so take a few more days.”

Confirmed.

“Hopefully, I was able to give you a bit of peace. The fatigue you feel is normal, so try not to feel too alarmed. Try to get some rest; it’ll help with the healing process.”

Eren gave a short nod as she discarded the bloodied towels and rags from tending to him.

“I’ll be seeing you, Mr. Kruger.”

“Thank you.” He uttered as she opened the door. Turning her head slightly he could see yet another faint smile on her face.

By the time your set ended, the entire room felt different—thick, charged. He couldn’t tell if it was your perfume or the candlelight flickering low, but it was as if the air itself leaned toward you.

He waited until you stepped offstage, pretending not to stare.

“Yo, that was you singin’ up there?” he asked, voice a little hoarse from nerves.

You smiled—slow, deliberate. “Maybe.”

He chuckled. “Nah, don’t do that. You know it was you.”

“Then why you askin’?”

You tilted your head, curls falling into your eyes. There was a kind of knowing in your smile, like you already understood him. Like you already knew how this would end.

————

That night, you let him take you home.

Your house smelled like honey, roses, and smoke—soft but heady. A record player spun quietly in the corner, playing the song you covered just a few hours ago. Halle’s voice echoing in a low hum:

“And it’s all… it’s because I love you…”

Lamont’s eyes roamed over your space. It was cozy, but something about it felt too still. No clock ticked. No traffic hummed outside. The air was heavy, muffled—like the city had stopped just for you.

“Love you bae, I ma’fuckin’ love you babe…”

He thought about leaving.

He didn’t.

When you touched his hand, the warmth lingered a little too long. When you laughed, he swore he heard a whisper under your breath—something not in English.

He should’ve asked what it was.

————

Days turned into nights that blurred together.

Lamont fell fast—too fast. You had a way of making him forget things: missed calls, skipped studio sessions, messages he never sent. He’d catch himself staring into your eyes and lose entire minutes.

You never talked about where you came from, or what you did for work, or why there were no mirrors in your house.

He never pressed.

You made him feel wanted—consumed.

Once, when he reached for you in the dark, his fingers brushed the faint burn mark on your wrist.

“Damn, what happened here?”

“Just something I touched that I shouldn’t have,” you murmured. “Doesn’t hurt anymore.”

You rolled throwing a leg over his waist, straddling him, as you leaned in for a kiss The warmth between you was suffocating. Sweet. Addictive.

————

But something started changing.

Every night, he woke up at the same hour—3:07. The record player always spinning, the same song repeating. Sometimes he’d swear your lips were moving in your sleep, whispering to someone who wasn’t there.

He tried leaving once.

His car wouldn’t start. His phone froze on your contact photo.

When he came back inside, you were waiting by the window, smiling.

“You were gone a long time,” you said softly.

“I just went to grab—”

“Don’t lie to me, baby.”

Your voice didn’t sound angry. Just… disappointed.

He never tried leaving again.

————

The next morning, Lamont noticed something strange.

Your hands were clean, but there was red under your fingernails.

When he asked, you only smiled. “I love you,” you said.

And you kissed him before he could say another word.

In the distance, a siren wailed—someone’s house burning down across the bridge. The smoke curled up toward the sky, black and endless.

Lamont didn’t notice that the air around your apartment smelled faintly like ash.

The sunlight hit different that morning.

For the first time in weeks, Lamont woke up alone.

The sheets were still warm, soft and heavy with your scent—vanilla, honey, and a trace of smoke he couldn’t name. He rubbed his face, groggy, blinking toward the soft glow filtering through the curtains.

No record spinning.

No whispers.

No you.

He almost laughed at the relief in his chest. The kind that only comes when something you didn’t even know was wrong suddenly feels right again.

A note sat on the nightstand. Your handwriting—loopy, soft, tilted like your smile.

Enjoy your day baby. Don’t make me miss you too much.

—Yours.

He didn’t realize how much those last words weighed until he read them again. Yours.

Still, he showered, dressed, breathed air that didn’t feel so thick. For the first time in a while, he could hear birds outside.

⸻

Afternoon.

Miami heat rolled off the streets in waves. Lamont’s shirt clung to his chest as he sat outside a café, tapping his fingers to the beat of a song stuck in his head—your song.

He almost forgot what it felt like to exist outside you.

Almost.

Because even with the sunlight and noise, sometimes he swore he felt eyes on him.

Like the warmth crawling up his neck wasn’t just the sun.

Like if he turned around fast enough, he’d see you in the reflection of the window behind him—head tilted, lips parted, smiling that knowing smile.

He didn’t turn around.

⸻

That’s when she showed up—Tami, one of the bartenders from The Velvet Room.

“Damn, Lamont,” she laughed, catching him mid-sip. “Ain’t seen you in forever. You ghosted or something?”

He smiled, scratching his jaw. “Nah, just been… busy.”

“With that fine thing you be bringing around?” she teased, sipping her iced coffee.

Lamont chuckled, glancing at her reflection in the window. “Yeah, somethin’ like that.”

But his laugh didn’t reach his eyes.

You’d never let him bring you there. Not since the two of you met.

Tami leaned forward. “Y’all still good? Heard some wild stuff the other night—some girl from down on 14th went missing. Said the house caught fire or something.”

Lamont froze.

“Damn. That’s crazy.”

“Yeah,” she said softly. “Miami stay weird lately.”

She looked at him then, eyebrows furrowed lightly. “You alright though? You look like you ain’t slept in min..”

He forced a smile. “I’m good. Promise.”

⸻

But across the street, hidden in plain sight beneath the shade of a banyan tree, you stood.

The long linen skirt you wore brushed against your ankles, your locs pinned loosely, dark sunglasses veiling your gaze. You could feel his heartbeat from here—steady, but laced with guilt. You could taste it, even.

He was smiling at her.

You felt that familiar ache in your chest twist, coil.

Love. Possession. Magic. It was all the same thing, really.

You’d let him go because love had to look soft sometimes. It had to look like freedom. But he was never free—not really. The bond between you pulsed with every breath he took. Every word he spoke. Every glance he gave another woman.

You could feel his hand brush Tami’s when she reached for his phone to show him something funny. The energy spiked.

Your nails dug into your palm. The air around you shimmered, faintly—heat distortion or something else. A child nearby turned and stared at you, wide-eyed, before his mother tugged him away.

⸻

That night, Lamont came home late. You were sitting on the couch, candles flickering in a circle around you.

He blinked, uneasy. “You—uh—been here long?”

You smiled. “Long enough.”

He leaned down, kissed you soft. The air between you was warm, charged.

“Missed you,” he murmured.

“I know.”

You ran your hands up his chest, feeling the beat of his heart beneath your palm. She touched him, a voice whispered somewhere inside you. You silenced it with another kiss.

As his lips deepened against yours, pulling your shirt over your head before sitting bs I on the couch pulling you on top of him your fingers traced invisible shapes on his skin—old sigils, ancient and quiet. The faintest glow flickered beneath your touch, unseen to him.

When you whispered, “I love you,” it sounded like a prayer.

When he whispered it back, it sounded like a curse.

⸻

Hours later, while he slept, you stood at the window again.

The candles flared one by one, reacting to your heartbeat.

Far away, across the bridge, a woman screamed.

By the time sirens cut through the night, the fire had already eaten her house whole.