But the moment she announced her departure, your heart sank. She didn't know when she would come back, or even if she'd survived.

The fight was hours long. It ended up with you throwing her pillow off the window and telling her to not bother to come back.

And there she was. Pieck fucking Finger in all her glory, already half angry.

"Because this isn't your apartment anymore!" you answered her, trying to close the door so she pushes it open, making her way to the living room.

“Get the fuck out,” you hiss.

Pieck doesn’t even flinch. She turns, ponytail swinging like a whip. Her eyes rake over you: robe barely knotted, silk slipping off one shoulder, thighs still flushed from the shower you took an hour ago trying to wash her memory off your skin. She licks the corner of her mouth like she can already taste you.

“You kept that ugly couch,” she says instead of leaving. Her gaze drops to the same gray thing you used to fuck on for hours. “Sentimental bitch.”

“Or maybe I just didn’t want to explain to the trash guys why there’s a decade of your cum stains on it.” You step closer, deliberately letting the robe gap open another inch. “Still smells like you when I’m drunk enough to care. It's fucking disgusting.”

Her laugh is short. “You’re still touching yourself on it thinking about me. Don’t lie.”

You close the last step until your chests almost brush. She smells like sweat and new blood under old scars. You hate how it makes your cunt clench.

“I’ve fucked other people on it since you left,” you say, voice syrupy with cruelty. “They came harder than you ever did. Didn’t need to beg me to choke them first.”

Pieck’s hand snaps up, fingers curling around your throat—not hard enough to bruise (yet), just enough to remind you she still knows exactly where your pulse jumps. Her thumb strokes the front of your windpipe like she’s deciding whether to crush it or pet it.

“Liar,” she whispers, breath hot against your lips. “I know you cried to sleep the first month I left.”

You slap her hand away, shove her chest until her back hits the wall with a dull thud. The framed photo of the two of you (the one you never took down) rattles beside her head.

“You left,” you snarl, face inches from hers. “You packed your shit, kissed me like it meant something, then disappeared for five fucking months. Don’t act like you have any claim here anymore.”

Her eyes glitter, dark and glassy with something that looks dangerously close to tears and even more dangerously close to lust.

“I came back, didn’t I?” she bites out. Her hands fist in the front of your robe, yanking you flush against her. “Walked through gunfire, shifted until my spine felt like it was splitting, just so I could stand here and watch you pretend you don’t want to ride my face until you can’t remember your own name.”

You grab her ponytail, twist hard enough that her head jerks back and she gasps a raw, needy sound that goes straight to your clit.

“You think I waited?” you whisper against the bruised skin under her jaw. “You think I didn’t let someone else bite me here...” you drag your teeth over the exact spot she used to mark obsessively “while I pretended it was you?”

Pieck’s hips jerk forward involuntarily, grinding once against your thigh like she can’t help it.

“You’re such a fucking whore for me,” she pants, voice wrecked. “Even when you hate me.”

You shove your knee between her legs, press up until she moans through clenched teeth.

“And you’re still the only person I let mark me like property,” you spit back, hating how true it is. “So congratulations, Pieck. You win. You’re still the only one who gets to ruin me.”

She surges forward and kisses you like she’s trying to climb inside your mouth and live there. Teeth clash, tongues fight for dominance, lips split almost immediately. Copper blooms between you and neither of you cares.

Her hands are everywhere, yanking the robe open completely, laughing against your mouth.

"You really waited naked for me, pretty thing." She licks your bottom lip after biting it. "What if the person at the other side of the door wasn't me? What if it was Zeke, you would've fucked him too?"

"Fuck off, Pieck." You grab her again to keep her mouth full with one of your breasts. "You know I don't fuck with dudes."

She laughs while lapping at your nipple, with her free hands kneading your ass. A soft whine escapes your lips, enough to pull her mouth out of your nipple.

Then you shove her toward the couch. She stumbles, catches herself on the armrest, turns and looks at you with eyes so black they look like voids.

You stay up and bare in front of her.

“Strip,” you order.

She doesn’t argue. Jacket hits the floor. Shirt follows. The new scars on her ribs and collarbone make something ugly and possessive twist in your gut. You want to lick every single one until she screams.

When she's completely naked, you finally straddle her waist. She can feel the wetness of your pussy pressing against her thigh.

“I bet you only came back to fuck me,” you murmur before biting her neck

Pieck laughs, fucked-out already and you haven’t even touched her properly yet.

Her hand lowers between your bodies, pressing her finger against your clit without making any pressure.

“Yeah,” she rasps. “I did.”

You gasp at the touch, wanting to rock your hips but with Pieck's strong grip keeping you in place.

"Fucking asshole," you tell her. "Let me move."

She pulls her head back a little, giving you the more wicked smile on her, tilting her head a bit to the left before saying:

"Why don't you beg a little?"

You snarl, fingers digging into the meat of her shoulders hard enough to leave crescent moons. “Beg? For you?”

Pieck’s smile only sharpens, that lazy, cruel curve you used to trace with your tongue when she was half-asleep and still smelled like sex and coffee. Her thigh flexes under you, grinding the hard muscle right against your dripping slit without giving you the friction you’re already shaking for.

“You used to do it so prettily,” she murmurs. “With tears in your eyes because I wouldn’t let you come until you said my name like a prayer. Remember?”

You hate how your cunt clenches at the memory. Hate more how she feels it, how her pupils flare like she’s scenting blood.

“I remember you crying when I finally let someone else touch what you thought was yours,” you spit back, rocking forward anyway, chasing that maddening pressure even though her hands are iron manacles on your hips. “Remember how you fucked me against the kitchen counter the next night like you were trying to erase her? Left bruises I couldn’t sit on for a week. Marked territory like a fucking animal.”

Pieck’s laugh is dark. One hand slides up your spine, tangles in your hair, yanks your head back until your throat is bared. She leans in, lips brushing the frantic pulse there.

“Still got the scar from my teeth right here” she drags the flat of her tongue over the exact spot. “You never healed it right. You kept it like a brand.”

You buck against her thigh, slick sliding obscenely down her skin. “Because you’re a possessive psycho who gets off on owning me even when you’re the one who runs.”

Her free hand clamps harder on your ass, spreading you open a fraction, forcing your clit to drag along the ridge of her muscle with every tiny roll of your hips.

“Oh, but you love it,” she hisses. “You love that I’d kill anyone who tried to take this cunt from me. You love that I came back bleeding and half-dead just to bury my face in it again.”

You grab her jaw, force her to look at you. Your nails bite into her cheeks. “Then stop fucking playing and give it to me.”

Pieck’s eyes are fever-bright. She tilts her head into your grip like a cat begging to be scratched harder.

“Say it first.”

“Fuck you.”

“Say. It.”

You lean in until your mouths are barely touching, breath mingling, teeth grazing.

“I hate you,” you whisper, voice cracking with how badly you need her. “I hate you so much I let you back in every time. I hate you so much my pussy still gets wet the second I smell gun oil and your stupid shampoo. I hate you so much I’d rather die than let anyone else make me come the way you do.”

Her grip on your hips finally loosens just enough.

You slam down hard, grinding your soaked folds along her thigh in one long drag. The friction is brutal, perfect, too much and not enough all at once. You moan brokenly into her mouth.

Pieck groans like she’s been gut-punched. Her head falls back against the couch, exposing the long column of her throat, the fresh bruises already blooming under your earlier bite.

“Then ride me like you hate me,” she pants.

You do.

You roll your hips in tight, punishing circles, clit throbbing against her skin with every pass. Your nails rake down her chest, catching on the raised edges of new scars—she hisses, arches, thighs tensing to give you more pressure. One of her hands fists in your hair again, the other slides between you to pinch your nipple viciously, twisting until you cry out.

“Harder,” you demand, voice wrecked. “I want to feel you for weeks.”

She bucks under you, thigh jerking up to meet your next grind, and the sudden pressure sends sparks behind your eyes.

“Pieck—” It slips out.

She laughs again, triumphant and ruined. “There it is. My good little slut finally saying my name.”

You slap a hand over her mouth to shut her up. She bites your palm then licks the sting away while her eyes stay locked on yours, daring you to stop.

You don’t.

You ride her faster, messier, until the wet sounds are obscene, until your thighs burn and your clit is so swollen every drag feels like a direct hit to your nerves. She’s trembling beneath you, hips twitching like she’s close just from watching you fall apart on her.

“Gonna come?” she mumbles against your palm, words muffled and smug. “Gonna soak me like the desperate bitch you are?”

You yank your hand away, replace it with your mouth. The kiss is all teeth and desperation.

“Yes,” you gasp into her lips. “Ahh fuck yes, Pieck.”

She grabs your ass with both hands, hauls you down harder, forces you to grind in short jerks right where you need it.

“Come on my thigh,” she growls. “Come like you’re punishing me for ever leaving. Come so hard you ruin the fucking couch again.”

You shatter with a choked scream, hips stuttering, cunt pulsing against her slick skin as wave after wave rips through you. She holds you through it, fingers digging bruises into your hips, whispering filthy praise against your ear the whole time.

“Good girl. Still all fucking mine.”

When the aftershocks finally ebb, you’re both panting, sticky, shaking.

You don’t move.

Neither does she.

You stay straddled on her thigh, forehead pressed to hers, hearts hammering in vicious tandem.

“You’re still not leaving,” you mutter.

Pieck’s arms snake around your waist, possessive, unyielding.

“Try to throw me out again,” she whispers back, lips brushing your temple. “See what happens.”

You breath out, falling boneless in her chest. She wraps her arms around your waist, letting you feel her heat.

"Carry me to bed," you tell her. "I really wanna taste you."

Pieck’s hands slide under your thighs, strong despite the exhaustion etched into every new line of her body, and she lifts you like you weigh nothing. Your legs wrap around her waist on instinct, arms looping loose around her neck, face buried in the crook of her shoulder so you can smell the salt and smoke still clinging to her skin.

She walks you both to the bedroom without a word.

She drops you onto the mattress. You bounce once, still trembling from the aftershocks. Pieck stands at the foot of the bed for a second, chest rising and falling too fast, cocky little smirk already curling despite the way her hands shake when she braces them on either side of your hips.

You sit up on your elbows, legs spread shamelessly.

“Get on the bed,” you say. “I wanna see how fucking pathetic you got just from me humping your thigh like a bitch in heat.”

Her breath hitches. She obeys—crawls onto the mattress, lies back, thighs parting wide. The sheets are already cool against her overheated skin. You can see the shine between her legs from here, slick smeared down her inner thighs, clit swollen and dark. She’s even dripping onto the bed.

You crawl over her, straddling her stomach first so she can feel how wet you still are, how you’re leaving a glossy trail across her abs.

She looks up at you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered and the only thing she’s ever wanted to destroy.

You lean down, grab her jaw hard, force her mouth open.

“Open wider,” you murmur.

She does.

You gather spit on your tongue then let it drip straight into her waiting mouth. It lands on her tongue with a wet sound. Her eyes flutter, pupils blown to black.

You don’t let her swallow.

Instead you push two fingers past her lips, deep enough that her throat clicks around them. She gags once then sucks hard, tongue curling, cheeks hollowing like she’s starving for it.

“Look at you,” you sneer, pumping your fingers slowly in and out of her mouth. “So fucking eager. Came back half-dead just to choke on my fingers and drool like a desperate slut.”

Tears prick at the corners of her eyes immediately from how badly she needs this. From how much she loves when you talk to her like she’s nothing.

You pull your fingers free with a wet pop, strings of spit connecting them to her swollen lips. She whines and tries to chase them.

You slap her cheek lightly, just enough to make her gasp.

“Stay still.”

You slide down her body, dragging your nails over her ribs, catching on every raised scar until she arches and hisses. When you settle between her thighs, you shove them wider with your shoulders, hook her legs over your arms so she’s folded open, completely exposed.

Her cunt is a mess. Glistening, puffy, clit throbbing visibly. You can see her pulsing around nothing, desperate little flutters.

“Jesus, Pieck. You’re fucking soaked. Look at this.” You drag one finger through her folds, collecting her slick until it webs between your digits. You hold it up so she can see. “This much just from me grinding on you and spitting in your mouth? You’re literally crying already and I haven’t even touched your clit yet.”

She whimpers, hips jerking up toward your hand.

“Please—”

You spit directly onto her clit, watch it drip down her slit.

“Don’t beg yet. You don’t deserve it.”

Then you dive in.

You lick a long, flat stripe from her entrance to her clit, tasting salt and musk and how fucking turned on she is. She cries out, hands flying to your hair, trying to pull you closer.

You pin her wrists to the mattress with one hand, use the other to spread her open wider.

“Keep your fucking hands to yourself or I stop.”

She sobs once, nodding frantically.

You eat her like you’re punishing her.

Suck her clit hard, flick your tongue against it in tight, mean circles, then pull back just when her thighs start to shake. Shove two fingers inside her without warning, pumping fast while you lap at her entrance, tasting every gush of fresh slick.

“So wet it’s obscene,” you mutter against her. “You’re making a puddle on my sheets. Can’t even pretend you don’t need this, can you? Came back just to get your cunt ruined again. Just to cry for me.”

She’s shaking now, whole body trembling, tears streaming down her temples into her hair. Every time you curl your fingers against that spot inside her she keens, high and broken.

“Say it,” you growl, sucking her clit again. “Say why you came back.”

“I—I came back to mmph to fuck ya” she chokes out, voice cracking. “T'let you u-use me.”

You add a third finger, stretch her open, fuck her fast and deep while your tongue lashes her clit without mercy.

“Once more.”

“I came back because—because I’m yours, okay? All yours, please let me come please!”

You bite the inside of her thigh, then soothe it with your tongue.

“Come then,” you snarl against her skin. “Come all over my fingers like a desperate slut who can’t stay away.”

She breaks.

Her back bows off the bed, thighs clamping around your head, cunt spasming so hard it forces your fingers deeper. She sobs your name over and over, tears soaking the pillow, body jerking with every brutal wave.

You finally pull back, crawl up her body and kiss her deep, messy, letting her taste herself on your tongue.

She’s still crying, clinging to you like you might disappear.

You pull back just enough to look at her flushed, tear-streaked face.

“Still all fucking mine?” you whisper, mocking her earlier words.

Pieck nods, frantic, eyes glassy.

“Always,” she rasps. “Even when you hate me.”

You smirk, wipe a tear from her cheek with your thumb, then push it between her lips so she can suck it clean. She roll her eyes back, your cunt is already clenching again at the sight. You lick your lips, letting her roam her hands in your body, playing with your nipples as she takes one on her mouth. You throw your head back for the stimulation, feeling her lap at your nipple while her other hand pinched the other. You're dripping down her abs, again.

"Pieck," you call her between gasps. She just lifts here eyes, not letting your nipple go. "I need more."

"More?" She laughs against your breasts. "Greedy girl, I'm here, just do whatever you want with me."

You take that literally, pushing her back again and moving until you're straddling her face.

"Oh, we're doing that," she swallows at the sight of your puffy lips and red clit, waiting for you to lower yourself in her face.

You hover just above her mouth, knees digging into the mattress on either side of her head, thighs trembling from how badly you want this.

Pieck’s hands come up immediately, gripping the backs of your thighs like she’s afraid you’ll change your mind and climb off. Her eyes are locked on your cunt.

“Sit on my fucking face already. Don’t tease.” she rasps, voice muffled against your skin.

“Of course, sweetheart,” you say.

You sink down slowly, until your folds spread over her mouth, clit brushing the bridge of her nose. The first contact makes you hiss. Her tongue is already there, flat and eager, lapping up every drop like she’s dying of thirst.

You grind once,then settle your full weight, not caring if you suffocate her. Her moan vibrates straight through your core, deep and desperate.

“Good girl,” you purr, rolling your hips in a circle. “Haah, you haven't lost practice, sugar plum.”

She laughs at the petname, the sound pairing perfectly with her licks. Her tongue dives deep while her nose nudges your clit with every breath she manages to steal. Her hands knead your ass, spreading you wider, pulling you down harder until she can barely breathe.

You reach back with one hand, find her dripping cunt again and drag two fingers through the slick before circling her clit with cruel precision. Light, teasing pressure at first, just enough to make her hips jerk up off the bed.

She whines into your pussy, the sound muffled and frantic.

You laugh again, low and vicious.

“Aw, already twitching? I’ve barely touched you.” You pinch her clit lightly between thumb and forefinger, rolling it. “Look how fucking sensitive you are. One orgasm and you’re already crying for the next one.”

Pieck’s response is incoherent, vibrating against your entrance as she sucks harder on your clit like she’s trying to pull the orgasm out of you by force. Her hips buck uselessly, chasing your fingers.

You speed up on her clit while you rock harder against her face, using her nose, her tongue, her whole face like a toy made just for you.

“Fuck, babyy,” you gasp, grinding down until her nose is buried against your clit and her tongue is as deep as it can go. “You love being my personal fucktoy after you ran away like a coward, mmhm?”

She’s shaking, hips jerking every time you flick her clit just right. Her moans are constant now, broken and so fucking needy.

You lean forward slightly, changing the angle so her tongue hits deeper while your fingers work her faster, curling hard against that spot that makes her sob into you. The room fills with slick noises, muffled whines and your own moans.

“Are you gonna cum or what?” you taunt, voice shaking with your own building pleasure.

She breaks almost instantly.

Her back arches off the mattress, thighs clamping around your hand, cunt spasming violently around your fingers as she comes with a muffled scream that sends vibrations ripping through you. Fresh slick gushes over your knuckles, her whole body convulses, hips grinding up into your palm like she can’t stop.

The feeling (her crying out against you, tongue still working frantically even as she falls apart) tips you over.

You grind down hard one last time, clit mashed against her nose, and come with a sharp, bitten-off curse. Your thighs lock around her head, hips stuttering as you ride out the waves, soaking her face, her mouth, her chin until she’s drenched in you.

When it finally ebbs, you don’t lift off right away.

You stay seated while you catch your breath, lazily circling her oversensitive clit with one fingertip just to feel her twitch and whimper beneath you.

Eventually you rise, just enough for her to gasp in a ragged breath.

Her face is a wreck: flushed, tear-streaked, shiny with your release, lips swollen and trembling. She looks up at you like you’re god and devil in the same skin.

You lean down, kiss her slow and filthy—tasting yourself on her tongue, tasting her tears, tasting how completely ruined she is for anyone else.

“Don't ever leave me again, you hear me?” you murmur against her mouth.

Pieck shakes her head weakly, arms wrapping around your waist like chains.

“Never,” she croaks, voice hoarse from crying and screaming. “I’m yours. Fucking keep me.”

You collapse beside her, both of you sprawled across the wrecked sheets. The room smells terrible after all of it. Moonlight slices through the half-open blinds, painting pale stripes across her tear-streaked face and the fresh bite marks blooming on her throat.

For a long minute, there’s only the sound of your breathing syncing up, like your bodies are remembering how to exist in the same space again without tearing each other apart.

Pieck turns her head toward you. Her ponytail’s long gone. She reaches out, slow, and traces the edge of your jaw with knuckles still trembling from aftershocks.

“You didn’t throw my shit out the window this time,” she murmurs. Almost soft. “Progress.”

You snort, catch her wrist before she can pull away, and press your lips to the pulse point there.

“Don’t get cocky. I still have your favorite jacket in a box under the bed. I sleep with it sometimes when I’m too drunk to pretend I don’t miss you.”

Her eyes darken at that. She rolls onto her side, props herself on one elbow so she’s looking down at you. The new scar on her collarbone catches the light; you want to drag your tongue over it again, claim it, remind it who it belongs to.

“You kept it,” she says quietly.

“Of course I fucking kept it.” You slide your hand up her ribs, fingers splaying possessive over the worst of the fresh marks. “Everything you leave behind ends up mine anyway. Clothes, scars, pieces of your stupid stubborn heart. You don’t get to walk away clean.”

Pieck leans down, brushes her lips over yours, just a ghost of contact. Her breath smells like you.

You cup the back of her neck, pull her the rest of the way down until your foreheads touch. Your free hand finds hers, lacing fingers tight enough.

“Stop leaving me,” you say, and it comes out quieter than you mean it to, almost pleading, which pisses you off. “Stop acting like you can survive out there without me. We both know you come crawling back every time because nothing else feels like home.”

She closes her eyes for a second.

“I tried,” she admits. Voice cracks on the words. “I really fucking tried to stay gone. Told myself I was protecting you. That if I died out there you wouldn’t have to watch it happen. But every night,” She swallows hard. “Every night I closed my eyes and all I saw was this bed. Your mouth. Your hands. The way you look at me like I’m the only thing that’s ever mattered and the only thing you want to destroy.”

You tighten your grip on her hand until her knuckles blanch.

“Good,” you breathe. “Because if you disappear one more time without telling me first, I’ll hunt you down myself. I’ll drag you back by your fucking ponytail and chain you to this bed until you forget what the outside world even looks like.”

Pieck laughs, the sound vibrating against your chest when she finally presses her body fully along yours. Skin to skin. Heartbeat to heartbeat.

“Promise?” she murmurs, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. Her lips brush the old scar she left there years ago.

You turn your head, catch her mouth in a slow, deep kiss. No teeth this time. Just tongues sliding lazy and possessive, tasting the remnants of everything you’ve already done to each other.

When you pull back, you rest your forehead against hers again.

“Every single day you’re here,” you say, “I’m going to remind you why you can’t leave. I’ll fuck you until you’re crying my name. I’ll kiss every scar you come back with until you forget how you got them. And if you ever try to run again?” You slide your hand down to rest over her heart, pressing hard. “I’ll rip mine out and hand it to you so you have to carry it. So you can’t ever pretend you’re whole without me.”

Pieck’s breath hitches. She curls tighter against you, leg hooking over your hip, arm wrapping around your waist like she’s trying to fuse your bodies together.

“I’m not running,” she whispers. “You’ve got me. The broken parts, the bloody parts, the parts that still want to bite you back. Keep them. They’re yours.”

You kiss her temple.

“I missed you so fucking much, Pieck,” you say against her skin. She hums in agreement.

It was then, in the chaos of a collapsing world, that you saw her for the first time.

She didn't look like a monster. The Cart Titan, thick, scalding steam hissing from its nape, sank to its knees among the ruins. From the Titan's flesh, tearing through muscle fibers, a young woman slowly emerged.

She breathed heavily, leaning on her hands. Her long, disheveled black hair clung to her pale, exhausted face. She wore the standard Marleyan uniform, soaked in sweat. But it was her eyes that struck you most.

You froze on the rooftop of a half-destroyed house, forgetting for a moment that you were on a battlefield. It was a fatal mistake for a soldier, but you couldn't look away. Her eyes, dark and half-lidded with heavy lids, seemed incredibly tired, sleepy, almost melancholic. They didn't hold the fanatical hatred with which other Marleyans looked at you. There was a hypnotic, lingering weariness in them that, for some reason, made your heart skip a beat. You were captivated by this strange, broken beauty of the enemy.

You watched her. And she, slowly raising her head, looked at you.

In that moment, time stopped. The distance between your rooftop and her Titan felt non-existent. You thought you were studying her, trying to understand the enemy.

You didn't know that Pieck Finger had already decided everything in that very second.

Her sleepy gaze, meeting yours, shifted imperceptibly. The tiredness didn't leave, but deep within her pupils flared a spark of absolutely cold, analytical, and frighteningly hungry interest. Pieck was always famed for her intellect; she could assess a situation in a fraction of a second. And in the second you looked at each other, she assessed your posture, your deadly grace, and the fact that you, a soldier of the "Island of Devils," were looking at her not with hatred, but with mesmerized admiration.

To Pieck, you stopped being an enemy. You became a target.

A shell explosion nearby shattered the eye contact. Snapping out of it, you fired your anchors and vanished into the smoke, cursing yourself for losing concentration.

Pieck Finger slowly climbed out of her Titan, her eyes following the spot where you had just stood. A barely noticeable, lazy smile touched her lips. "I’ll find you," she whispered to herself, and there was more threat in that quiet promise than in the roar of any Titan.

The next few months were a living hell for Paradis. The front lines shifted, political intrigues twisted into a tight knot, and the threat of the Rumbling hung over the world like the sword of Damocles.

You tried to survive, following orders. But the image of that girl with the tired eyes haunted your nightmares and brief snatches of sleep. You didn't understand the nature of your obsession. Why, of all the enemies, was it she who stuck in your memory like a splinter?

You didn't know that your obsession was mutual. But while your feeling was akin to a strange, romantic melancholy, Pieck’s feeling was pure, crystallized obsession.

Pieck was not impulsive; she was a tactician. After returning to Marley following the first phase of the operation, she used all her connections and all her access to intelligence to find out everything about you. Your name, your habits, your fighting style, your squad affiliation. She studied the reports as meticulously as if the fate of the empire depended on it.

When Marleyan forces secretly infiltrated Paradis a second time, Pieck had a dual mission. One was official, from command. The second was her own.

The trap snapped shut exactly seven days after her infiltration behind the Walls.

You were patrolling the perimeter of an abandoned district when your ODM gear suddenly jammed. It wasn't an accident—the mechanism had been surgically sabotaged back at the base so that it would fail at just the right moment. You tumbled onto the wooden floor of an old warehouse, your shoulder taking a hard hit.

Before you could draw your blades, a figure stepped silently from the shadows.

Pieck.

She was dressed in simple civilian clothes from Paradis, hiding her enemy affiliation. She walked toward you slowly, her gait relaxed, almost lazy, hands tucked into the pockets of a long coat.

"Hello," her voice was low, with a slight huskiness that sent a shiver down your spine.

You scrambled to your feet, drawing one of your blades. Your heart pounded wildly—a mix of fear and that same, abnormal fascination you felt at your first meeting. "Marleyan! How did you get here?!"

Pieck didn't even flinch at the sight of the drawn weapon. She tilted her head, her dark, half-lidded eyes attentively studying your face as if she were enjoying the view.

"You move so beautifully, Y/N," she said, ignoring your question. Hearing your name from her lips made you freeze. "Like a wild, graceful cat. I’ve reviewed our intel dozens of times, but it’s not as impressive on paper."

"How do you know my name?" You lunged, intending to put the blade to her throat to take her prisoner.

But Pieck was a Titan shifter. Her reflexes surpassed human ones, even if she appeared sleepy and sluggish. She dodged your blade with frightening speed, caught your wrist with her left hand, and with her right—professionally, without a wasted motion—plunged a syringe of a powerful sedative into your neck.

You gasped, dropping your blade. The world before your eyes instantly blurred, losing its shape. Your legs gave way.

The last thing you felt before darkness consumed you was her arms catching your limp body with care, almost tenderness, preventing you from hitting the floor.

"Don't worry," she whispered in your ear, her warm breath brushing your skin. "Your war is over. Now, you belong to me."

You woke up to a smell. It was a strange, sweet smell of fresh peaches, almost out of place in these circumstances.

Your head throbbed with a dull pain. You struggled to open your heavy eyelids. You expected to see a damp torture chamber or a death cell in Marley, but reality turned out to be far stranger.

You were in a small but cleanly furnished room with no windows. The walls were made of thick stone, and oil lamps burned, casting a warm light. You were lying on a wide, soft bed, tucked under a clean blanket.

You tried to sit up but heard a quiet clink. Your right leg was shackled with a metal cuff, from which a long, thick chain stretched, securely mounted into the wall. The chain was long enough for you to move freely around the room and reach a small washstand behind a screen, but no further.

Panic washed over your mind like an icy wave. You were a prisoner.

"Awake?" a calm voice came from the corner of the room.

Pieck was sitting in a chair, her legs tucked under her. An open book was in her hands. On a small table beside her stood a plate with those very sliced peaches whose scent had woken you. She looked absolutely relaxed, as if you weren't in the epicenter of a world war, but at a peaceful tea ceremony.

"What the hell..." You jerked your leg convulsively, making the chain rattle loudly. "What did you do to me?! Where am I?!"

Pieck slowly closed the book, set it aside, and rose from the chair. She approached the bed. You instinctively pressed into the headboard, expecting a blow or an interrogation. But she merely took a piece of peach from the plate and held it out to you.

"Eat. You need to restore your sugar levels after the tranquilizer," her tone was caring. It was so sincerely caring that it was more frightening than any threat.

"I won't take anything from you!" You struck her hand away. The piece of fruit fell to the floor. "Let me out! If you think I’ll give up Paradis’s military secrets, you’re dead wrong! I’d rather die!"

Pieck looked at the fallen fruit, then turned her heavy, melancholic gaze to your enraged face. She didn't get angry. She only sighed heavily.

"Y/N. Calm down," Pieck sat on the edge of your bed. "I don't need military secrets. My command believes you died during your patrol. Your squad is likely already mourning you. For the rest of the world, you no longer exist."

The words hit you like a physical blow. You stopped breathing. "What... what are you talking about? Why? What do you want me for?!"

Pieck leaned closer. Her face was inches from yours. You could see the dark circles under her eyes, every one of her freckles. Your foolish, treacherous heart, which had been charmed by her at the first meeting, started racing again, mixing fear with a toxic, painful attraction.

"Because I wanted to," she answered simply, and in that simplicity lay absolute, psychopathic power. "When I saw you in Shiganshina... something inside me shifted. I am a Warrior of Marley. I am used to following orders, living for others, for my father. I never had anything of my own. Nothing I wanted to keep just for myself. Not until I met you."

Her hand rose slowly, smoothly, and touched your cheek. Her fingers were cool and surprisingly gentle. You wanted to flinch away, but your body felt paralyzed. Her sleepy, hypnotic gaze bound you more securely than any steel chain.

"You didn't look at me like a monster. You looked at me... as if I were something beautiful to you," Pieck's voice dropped to a velvety whisper. "I analyzed it. I realized you feel this attraction too. But you are a soldier of Paradis. You would never have surrendered voluntarily. So, I had to remove you from the equation of war."

The days blurred into an endless, strange routine. You lost track of time in that windowless room.

Pieck came to you every evening. She brought food, clean water, books. She told you stories about Marley unrelated to the war and asked about your life before you joined the Scout Regiment. She never raised her voice, never caused you physical pain.

But her presence was suffocating. She was everywhere. She controlled your life, your diet, your sleep.

Your hatred fought against the painful admiration you had felt for her initially. You were a soldier, you were supposed to resist, but how do you resist someone who treats you like their greatest treasure?

One evening, while Pieck sat in the chair brushing her long black hair, you couldn't take it anymore. The rattling of the chain broke the silence as you approached her as closely as the metal allowed.

"Why are you doing this?" your voice trembled from the built-up tension. "You realize this is madness, right? You keep me on a chain like a dog! This isn't love, Pieck. This is a sickness!"

Pieck stopped brushing her hair. She slowly turned her head. Her eyes seemed like two black pools in the dim light. She set down the comb and walked over to you.

She stood right in front of you. The height difference was small, but her aura was overwhelming.

"A sickness? Perhaps," Pieck raised her hand and ran her fingertips over the metal cuff on your ankle. "I don't deny that my methods are unorthodox. But I didn't have a choice, Y/N. If I had left you there, you would have died in that senseless meat grinder. And I couldn't allow a Titan to tear you apart or a sniper to shoot you."

She straightened up, her hands resting on your shoulders. "I saved you. I created a safe world for you. A world where you no longer have to fight, lose friends, and bleed out. A world where there is only you and me."

"But I didn't choose this world!" Tears of helplessness rolled down your cheeks. You struck her chest with your fists, but she didn't even budge, taking your blows with frightening calm. "I want to go home! I want to see the sky!"

Pieck caught your wrists, easily stopping your weak resistance. She pulled you to her, pressing you tightly against her chest. You could feel her heart beating—steady, measured, without a hint of panic.

"Your home is here now," she whispered, burying her face in your hair, breathing in your scent. Her voice was saturated with such thick, possessive obsession that it took your breath away. "The sky up there is choked with smoke and blood. There is nothing there but death. But here... here I can protect you. Here I can love you as no one ever will."

You sobbed, goings limp in her arms. Your will, eroded by isolation and her hypnotic tenderness, began to break. A part of you still screamed for freedom, but another, darker part craved to stay in those strong, secure arms that had closed you off from the horrors of the outside world.

Several more weeks passed. Stockholm syndrome, mixed with your initial infatuation with her image, finally poisoned your mind. You stopped yanking the chain. You began to wait for her arrivals.

That evening, Pieck came later than usual. Deep exhaustion was etched on her face, and fresh soot stains marked her uniform. She had clearly just returned from a heavy battle on the surface.

She silently locked the door behind her, walked to the bed, and, with an exhausted sigh, sank onto the mattress beside you. She laid her head in your lap, closing her heavy, sleepy eyes.

You froze. Before, you would have pushed her away. But now... now your heart tightened with a strange, painful tenderness. Slowly, hesitantly, you raised your hand and gently touched her tangled black hair.

Pieck let out a quiet, almost cat-like sound of pleasure, pressing her cheek against your thigh.

"Is it... bad up there?" you asked quietly, continuing to stroke her head.

"It’s hell," she answered without opening her eyes. Her voice was muffled. "People are tearing each other apart. Marley, Paradis... soon there will be nothing left of this world but ash."

She rolled onto her back, looking up at you. Her eyes were full of such desperate, naked need for you that your final defenses collapsed. In that moment, she wasn't a brilliant tactician or a ruthless Warrior of Marley. She was just an exhausted girl who had found her only comfort in you.

"Do you know how I survive up there?" Pieck whispered, raising her hand and touching your cheek. "I think about how, deep underground and in safety, you are waiting for me. My own personal piece of paradise, hidden from the whole world."

Your lips trembled. A tear rolled down your cheek, falling right onto her face. "Pieck..."

"I’m obsessed with you, Y/N. I’m sick for you," her words were full of dark, intoxicating passion. "And I will never let you go. Even if the world collapses, I will lock us in here, and we will die together."

She pulled herself up, closing the distance between you. Her face was so close her breath scorched your lips. She waited. She gave you the final seconds to pull away, to show the remnants of your Paradisian pride.

But you didn't pull away. Your resistance was broken. Your wild panther nature had been tamed by the slow, gentle poison of her attention.

You leaned forward and covered her lips with your own.

Pieck let out a quiet moan of triumph. Her arms instantly wound around your waist, pulling you to her, drawing you down onto the rumpled sheets.

The kiss wasn't gentle. It held all the thirst built up over these months, all her possessive nature breaking free. She kissed you authoritatively, deeply, her tongue subordinating yours, leaving you not a single chance for control. Her lips tasted of gunpowder and iron, but for you, it became the sweetest taste in the world.

You responded to her pressure with desperate, painful passion. Your hands buried themselves in her black hair, pulling her to you so tightly as if trying to merge into one. You gave yourself to her completely—your body, your will, your freedom.

Pieck pulled away from your lips, breathing heavily. Her sleepy eyes were now burning with the black, triumphant fire of a predator who had finally secured its most coveted prey. She began to cover your neck and collarbones with hot, wet kisses, leaving red marks on your skin that would prove you belong only to her.

"Mine..." she whispered feverishly, her fingers sliding under your clothes, exploring every curve of your body, making you arch and moan her name in quiet, jagged breaths. "Only mine. Forever."

And as the heavy steel chain clinked softly in rhythm with your movements, you finally realized: you were no longer a soldier of Paradis. You were no longer a free girl. You had become a voluntary prisoner, a precious bird in Pieck Finger’s cage. And the most terrifying part was that you no longer wanted to fly away.