Luuk's youth in the ranks of the Fractsidus
I want to apologize in advance for any mistakes; English isn't my native language, so I'm using a translator
Tags
Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Tragedy, Angst and Tragedy, Slow Burn, Forbidden Love, Soft, Gentle Sex, Gentle Kissing, Tenderness, Secret Relationship, First Kiss, First Time, Cunnilingus, Pet Names, Intimacy, Main Character Death, Emotional Hurt, Sad Ending, Pregnancy, Unborn Child Death, Violence, Blood and Injury, Physical Abuse, Time Skips.
WC ~ 9200
Songs: Deftones – Sextape, Mr.Kitty - Resurrection, My Chemical Romance - The Ghost Of You
Luuk lay on the iron cot, his hands tucked behind his head, staring at the ceiling, where cracks crawled across the plaster. They traced intricate patterns he'd noticed by the third hour of the sleepless night. His mind was empty and quiet. The years spent in the ranks of the Fractsidus had taught him not to think about life. The burden of a spy had long since fused with his true self. He had stopped separating himself from the mask and no longer remembered who he had been before.
Toward morning, sleep finally began to wrap itself around Luuk's strained consciousness. But the moment was ruined by loud voices outside. The scouts had dragged in new hostages and were deciding what to do with them.
"Kill the girls at once. Interrogate the strong lads carefully. And what do we do with this runt?" came the thoughtful voice of a scout.
Luuk reluctantly got up and stepped outside. In the grey morning light, among the dirty and terrified prisoners, stood that very "boy." Scrawny, dishevelled, with the wild gaze of a cornered animal. The scouts shuffled in indecision. Someone suggested letting him go, while others proposed using him for labour.
Luuk lazily swept his gaze over the prisoner. Uneven ends of hair, as if hastily cut with a knife. Big eyes that burned not with fear, but with an angry, stubborn little fire. Around the chest area, a slight roundness was visible, which even the baggy clothes couldn't fully hide. A posture too upright, a back too straight, shoulders too narrow. These fools hadn't even realised there was a girl in front of them. Luuk decided to keep her secret and said detachedly:
"This one goes to the storeroom. He'll work."
The scout shrugged and shoved the prisoner toward the barracks. Passing by, she shot a questioning glance up at Luuk. He gave a condescending smile, and she nodded cautiously in gratitude. That gesture touched Luuk, and his heart began to beat faster. A genuine interest stirred inside him, and a feeling that now he was no longer the only one hiding in this place.
The scout shoved you roughly, pushing you into a tiny little room. There was nothing inside. With a desperate sigh, you shouted an insult at the man and huddled into the corner. Now you were left alone with your thoughts:
"I'm alive and not even beaten. That's something already. Everything is going well, and that's reason enough to be glad. But that soldier who stepped out onto the porch... He's strange. Too calm and too watchful. Why did he let me go? I need to keep an eye on him. And I need to change my disguise, in case there's someone else here with just as sharp a gaze."
You met again a week later, in the storage rooms. You were unloading crates of supplies, straining your back just to keep being useful and to stay here a little longer. Luuk watched from around the corner, mulling something over.
"Don't overdo it," he said quietly all of a sudden. His voice was level, without mockery.
You flinched but didn't turn around.
He stepped closer. You could feel his gaze on your back, that same sharp look, but not hostile. A pause hung between you. At last, you set the final crate down and turned to face him.
Luuk tilted his head slightly. Not a single muscle in his face moved.
You shrugged, wiping your hands on your trouser leg.
"Well, the rest would have just killed me. But you kept me for some reason. Not out of pity, that's for sure."
"No. There's a more weighty reason."
Luuk fell silent for a moment. Then he leaned forward a little and spoke more quietly.
"You and I have something in common. That's why I decided to keep you."
Your suspicions that he was no ordinary soldier were beginning to prove true. Your body tensed with an invigorating excitement. You wanted to unleash a whole torrent of thoughts on him, to ask him about everything, but you held yourself back. Somewhere deep inside, something from your former self stirred, something long buried beneath the baggy clothes and the mask of a street-hooligan boy, something feminine. You crushed the feeling back down, stretched your lips into a crooked smile, and whispered coldly, "Thank you."
Luuk nodded and handed you a loaf of bread. Heavy, with a crispy crust, still holding the warmth of the oven. He turned and quickly walked away, melting into the damp half-darkness of the corridor. You stood there alone, slowly, with relish, chewing the bread and chasing away any tender thoughts of him.
The impatience grew with each passing day. It ate at you that he knew more about you than you did about him. And then a dangerous but very fruitful idea came to you. Having eavesdropped on the senior officers, you learned that he was heading out on a sortie for a few hours. That meant the surveillance in the squad would slacken, and his room would be empty.
You waited until the voices outside fell quiet and the scouts began to laugh and booze. When the seniors weren't around, they showed their true selves. Stupid, wretched, stinking scum. But he wasn't like them. Always neat, his light hair tied back in a tidy ponytail, that confident yet soft stride... You chased away the sentimental daydreams and forced yourself to return to the plan.
With a careless step, you approached the guard who was watching over your corner. Clearing your throat, you tried to make your voice rough and low. You asked to be let out for lunch, adding that you had already overworked yourself that morning. The scout grunted and waved his hand. The scrawny boy didn't seem like a threat to him.
Silence hung in the corridor. You slipped to the right door, pulled the wire you had stashed in your sleeve beforehand, and popped the lock in no time. You slid inside and silently closed the door behind you. With a relieved exhale, you allowed yourself to relax and look around the room.
In the far corner stood a perfectly made cot. Not a single crease on the linen, the pillow fluffed evenly, the blanket pulled tight along the perimeter. Next to it, an oak desk. On it lay neat stacks of military documents, maps, and letters, arranged with a pedantry that was his alone. The window above the desk was curtained, but light seeped through the worn fabric in soft stripes, and in those golden rays a few specks of dust drifted lazily. The room wasn't beautiful, but being here felt pleasant. His scent enveloped you, sending warm little tingles through your body. Over the years of wandering, you had grown unaccustomed to male attention. For the most part, the men you encountered were like those morons outside. But he was different.
For a moment, you froze and closed your eyes. Your imagination painted a picture: him sitting at this desk, shoulders relaxed, his light hair a little tousled after a long day. He turns to you, smiles softly, and invites you to sit beside him to discuss something. Something important, or maybe not. What did it matter, if you could simply be near him and listen to his quiet, gentle voice.
"Argh!! Stop daydreaming, you stupid girl!" you cursed yourself under your breath and clenched your fists, forcing yourself back to reality. You quickly walked over to the desk and began rummaging through the drawers, trying not to think about how traitorously your fingers trembled and your heart pounded.
After twenty minutes of searching, you managed to find what that friendly soldier had been hiding. In his desk, there was a secret little drawer, and inside it, a thick book. It recounted the history of nations, spoke of military affairs and the tactics of leading an army. Flipping through the pages, you noticed a carelessly folded sheet of paper tucked into one of the spreads. You unfolded it with a sinking heart, afraid of being disappointed and hopeful all at once. The handwriting turned out to be sweeping and cramped, almost doctor-like. Not every word was legible, but you spotted numbers, and names, some of them underlined. At the end, it read: "Luuk. For Rover." Now you knew the name of your saviour. And you began to piece together that strategically important data wasn't written for unknown recipients and hidden in secret drawers. And then you remembered his words: "You and I have something in common." He was a spy too.
Another couple of weeks passed. You went about in agonising anticipation, each day dragging on longer than the last. You caught yourself more and more often searching for Luuk in the crowd of soldiers, following him with your gaze, memorising his every gesture and every word. And he looked at you too. You noticed he had begun to come here, to the hostages. He said he was making his rounds, but he always looked only at you, the way you lay curled up in a little bundle on the cold floor, picking at the wall. In those moments, a pang of pain slipped through his heart, along with the urge to tuck you into his own arms. Sometimes he watched you on the sly in the corridors, as you headed to work or back from it. Inside, he worried about your health, because the hostages were never spared. These meaningful glances became your way of speaking to each other. You waited for him to come see you, so that the two of you could talk for real.
You were sitting on the floor, resting after the work you had done. The morning had barely begun, yet you were already tired. Your back ached more and more, your legs throbbed, and even your fingers felt stiff. Your silent staring game had come to an abrupt halt a few days ago, and you had managed to torment yourself with waiting. You began to think it had all been your foolish imagination. And then the door opened, and there stood Luuk in the doorway. Tired, dishevelled, his light hair slipping out of the ponytail and clinging to his forehead. Shadows had settled under his eyes, but his gaze remained the same. He closed the door behind him and allowed himself to relax. You rose from the floor, dusting off your palms, and suddenly realised you didn't know what to do with your hands. The nerves swelled inside you, and you were trying to think of how to start the conversation, but he did it first:
"Something happened? You've been acting strange these past few days," he said, trying to hide his concern.
"Yes, Luuk. I understood what you meant back then," at last you allowed yourself to exhale and confess what you had been carefully guarding inside.
He tensed when you called him by his name. Luuk remembered that he had never introduced himself to you, and in the squad they addressed him by his rank. He was used to expecting a trap everywhere, even from a young prisoner who had no rights at all compared to him. Unwilling to surrender and open up right away, Luuk said:
"And what would that be?" He crossed his arms over his chest and looked at you coldly. Could it be that, having shown kindness to someone for the first time, he would get a knife in the back in return?
You took a deep breath. The words you had rehearsed so many times in your mind suddenly felt clumsy, but it was too late to retreat.
"The part about us having 'something in common.' Remember? You're not just a soldier, Luuk. You're a spy."
"Where did you get that?" he asked slowly. His voice sounded lower, duller, but there was no threat or hatred in it – only wariness.
You turned away, hiding your ashamed expression. You had hoped you could avoid this question. You were afraid to confess, and even more afraid of losing his trust and his favour.
"I... I was in your room. Forgive me, please. You can have them punish me," you were ready to burst into tears, but you swallowed the hard lump in your throat and looked back at Luuk.
He exhaled heavily, turning over his next steps in his mind. Usually, the Fractsidus acted ruthlessly and killed traitors on the spot. Sometimes, if the person was useful enough, they beat them within an inch of their life. But Luuk had never been a true member of their organisation.
"No. Don't think about that. What are you planning to do with this information?"
"Nothing," you took a step closer to him. "I won't tell anyone. You saved me back then. And I..." your voice wavered. "I'm tired of hiding alone, Luuk. Tired of being afraid, tired of pretending to be a boy people can kick around and insult. You're the only one who knows my secret. And now I know yours. Maybe it's foolish, but it makes it easier for me."
Luuk listened without interrupting. Then he stepped forward and laid his palm on your shoulder. Heavy, warm.
"Not anymore," he said quietly. "You're not alone."
You raised your wet eyes to him. In his gaze, there was no more wariness, no more coldness. Only weariness and something else, something you were still afraid to believe in.
Months passed, and your bond with Luuk grew stronger. He came to the storeroom almost every day, inventing a new excuse each time. He helped you haul crates, never letting you strain your back. He tidied up the service corridors while you ate the food he had brought. Sometimes you sat on the floor together, propping the door shut with your backs so no one would wander in, and talked. Usually, he addressed you by your name and considered it the highest form of respect. By doing so, he didn't underline your status or elevate himself; he simply signalled that you were a person, just as he was. But one day, when you couldn't reach the top shelf, he did it himself, quietly adding, "Little one." You grew flustered. An awkward silence hung in the room, unfamiliar to you both. Your cheeks flushed, and you averted your gaze, hoping he hadn't noticed. He grew embarrassed too, stepped back, and hastily cleared his throat.
You nodded and muttered something about the crates. The conversation veered back to work, but you could feel that something had changed between you. He had called you that by accident, but your reaction had stayed with him.
A few days later, a rough overseer shoved you out of the little room and dragged you in an unknown direction. You didn't even manage to grab your jacket. Your heart leapt somewhere into your throat, and scraps of thoughts raced through your head: "Where? Why? Did someone snitch? Have I been found out?" The corridors changed one after another, and every step throbbed in your temples. You tried to remember if you had slipped up anywhere, if you had said too much. Your palms grew sweaty. Breathing became harder and harder. The further you went, the louder your heart pounded, ready to burst out, if only to avoid whatever was waiting ahead.
And then you saw a familiar door, and you went limp, letting yourself be dragged further. But the overseer had other plans. He shoved you forward sharply; you staggered and nearly smashed your face into the wall. At the last moment, someone else's hand caught your wrist, holding you firmly in place.
Luuk, focused and intent, stood in the doorway. Without a word, he saw the overseer off with a brief glance and, waiting until the footsteps faded at the end of the corridor, pulled you in after him. The door closed behind you.
The room was quiet and warm. Somewhere in the corner, an old lamp hummed, casting a soft orange light onto the walls. Luuk reluctantly let go of your wrist, but he didn't step away. He stood beside you, looking down, and the stern composure with which he had faced the overseer slowly melted from his face.
"You alright?" he asked quietly.
"I am now," you caught your breath and looked around. The cot was still perfectly made, the desk held its neat stacks of papers, the book you had already seen. Everything was in its place. And you, for the first time not in secret, but as an invited guest, felt like you belonged here.
Luuk paced back and forth, as though mulling something over. Then he stopped in front of you.
"I arranged it. You'll be my personal assistant. Sorting papers, bringing meals, cleaning the room, whatever I ask. In return, you won't have to rot in that damp little cell or haul crates anymore."
You wanted to thank him, but the right words wouldn't come. Too much had built up inside you over these months: fear, gratitude, and a boundless warmth that you only ever felt around him. And so you did what you had never dared to do before. You leaned forward and hugged him, burying your face in the rough fabric of his coat.
Luuk didn't flinch, didn't tense. As if he had been waiting for it. His arms closed around your back, a little tighter than politeness required. His fingers gently ruffled the hair at the nape of your neck.
"I'll look after you, little one," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, so as to keep the closeness of the moment.
You said nothing in return, only tightened your fingers on his coat. Your cheeks were burning, but you were glad he couldn't see your face.
From then on, you slept in a cozier room, one that at least had a mattress on the floor. You were fed more often and barely bothered over trifles. Being promoted to personal assistant turned out to be the best thing that had happened to you in all these months. You were sitting in his room, waiting for instructions. His only request that morning had been to bring tea.
You brought the mug, set it on the edge of the desk, and settled onto the chair beside him. Luuk nodded without lifting his eyes from the papers. The pencil raced quickly across the lines; he frowned, made notes, flipped through pages. At first you sat in silence, but then you began peering at the maps and photographs. Sometimes, right next to his ear, you quietly read aloud what he was writing. You were genuinely curious about what Luuk was doing. For him, however, it was a burden. His hands were tense, his gaze focused, and occasionally he let out a heavy sigh without looking up from the papers. In a whole hour of work, he took only one sip of tea, and only because you had lifted the mug to his face. At last he leaned back in his chair, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and said:
"You already know, anyway. So listen."
You listened with that greedy, childlike attention reserved only for those who are truly dear. He told you about Rover. They shared a single goal – revenge against the Fractsidus, but for each of them, it was personal. Luuk's father had been a deranged scientist, controlled by the Fractsidus like all their other pawns. He had conducted experiments on Luuk and his half-brother. The brother hadn't survived. Since then, Luuk had lived with the need to uncover the full truth and settle the score. That was why he had stayed here, endured this rabble, and sacrificed himself. You drank in every word, and somehow his story, so unbearably heavy, seemed to grow just a little lighter. When Luuk finished speaking, he rolled up his shirtsleeves and showed you his arms, where golden veins glowed faintly through the skin.
"These are the after-effects of his experiments. I've since learned to control this power and wield it. Besides," he admitted with a touch of pride, "I trained to be a doctor. So you can turn to me."
You smiled warmly, inwardly marvelling at just how much this steadfast, silent man had been carrying inside him all along.
It had already grown dark outside the window, and the room was wrapped in the warm, yellowish glow of a single lamp. The light fell softly on the walls, on the desk, on his tired face. Everything around seemed to invite silence and solitude. In the corridors, the signal for lights-out rang out. You reluctantly rose from the chair, lingering a little in place, unsure where to go. You didn't want to leave his room, but staying here any longer was dangerous. You were just about to step toward the door when Luuk suddenly spoke.
"Wait. I have one more request."
You turned around, ready to help him again. Luuk was looking at you a little differently, and his face in the amber lamplight seemed so soft. He stepped closer and quietly went on.
You froze. Your heart skipped a beat, then began pounding somewhere in your throat. Your palms grew sweaty. You shifted from foot to foot in confusion and felt a traitorous blush flooding your cheeks.
"I..." you didn't know where to hide from the awkwardness, so you covered your face with your hands.
He came closer. Slowly, not taking his eyes off you. He reached out and carefully touched your palms, coaxing you to reveal yourself to him. His fingers were warm and a little rough.
"Little one," he whispered. "May I?"
You couldn't answer with words. You only nodded and looked away again. Luuk leaned in unhurriedly, giving you time to change your mind, to pull back, to run. But you stayed where you were, frozen, your arms hanging at your sides with nowhere to go.
At first, he touched your lips with his, lightly. Once. Twice. Short, almost weightless touches, as if he were asking, "Are you sure? Do you really want this?" You didn't pull away. Then his lips lingered a little longer, and he gradually deepened the kiss, filling it with warmth and careful insistence. He smelled of tea. You opened your lips to meet him, and he accepted you with flaring passion, responding to every movement.
Luuk savored you. His thumb stroked your cheek in a slow, steady rhythm, while his other hand held you firmly by the waist, as if he were afraid you might disappear. You felt the heat of his palm even through the thick fabric of your work sweater. In his embrace, it was calm and safe, like a shelter you had never had.
You rose onto your tiptoes, leaning into him, and your hands finally found their place: one came to rest on his shoulder, the other hesitantly touched the collar of his coat, drawing him closer. His eyelashes tickled your skin, your breathing faltered. The world beyond this room ceased to exist. All that remained was this slow, sweet kiss, which spoke more than any words ever could. At last, you had confessed to each other everything that had been growing inside you all these months.
The kiss made something bloom inside you, a tenderness and a sense of being in love the likes of which you hadn't felt in what seemed like an eternity. With each passing day, you felt lighter and more alive. That warmth seeped outward: it changed the way you walked, softened your gaze, lent your face that elusive expression that can't be faked. You noticed the changes yourself, catching your reflection in the cloudy window glass. Your cheeks had gained a rosy tint, your eyes shone differently, and even the unruly tufts of your hair seemed to fall more softly.
Those around you couldn't help but notice. First came the sidelong glances, then the whispers behind your back, and soon one of the other hostages threw the word "faggot" in your face for the first time. Simply because you were too neat, too delicate for a boy. You swallowed the taunts in silence, but inside, everything clenched with fear: if they figured it out, the scouts would too.
And then the day came when Luuk took you beyond the camp grounds for the first time. It was a simple reconnaissance mission, a routine sweep of the outer districts. You trudged at the rear of the squad, bent under the weight of weapon cases and supply bags, but you kept your ears sharp. Every word dropped by the senior soldiers lodged itself in your memory: routes, passwords, post locations, names. Luuk strode up ahead, upright and focused, only now and then throwing a brief glance at you over his shoulder to make sure you hadn't fallen behind.
At one of the rest stops, when the squad had scattered among the ruins, he turned to you carefully, and his lips had already begun to shape that familiar tender word.
"Litt..." – it slipped from his lips, but he caught himself instantly, cutting the word off mid-syllable. Irritation at his own carelessness flickered across his face. He drew a breath through his teeth and, louder, harsher, in a tone that was entirely foreign, snapped:
"Hey, little runt! Get over here, now!"
You pulled your head into your shoulders, playing the frightened boy, and trudged over to him. One of the scouts let out a snort of laughter, another turned away indifferently. To them, it was just a commander barking at a worthless errand boy. And only you heard that severed tenderness that had flickered in his voice for a fleeting moment, before it was replaced by feigned harshness.
The next sortie proved to be far more serious and went deeper than all the previous ones. The squad was heading far out, for a week, into territory where they had not yet entrenched, but were already probing the ground. Once again, you trudged at the rear, hauling a sack behind you, while the biting wind crept under your thin jacket and chilled you to the bone. The nights were especially cold, and every halt turned into an ordeal, after which you no longer believed you would ever feel warm again.
On the fourth day, the squad stopped in an abandoned building, a former school, of which only peeling walls, empty window frames, and the smell of musty furniture remained. The floor was littered with shards of glass and plaster, and the draft roamed the corridors like a restless spirit. The soldiers scattered among the rooms, and you were assigned a tiny little office on the ground floor, frozen through, with a battered sink in the corner. You huddled beneath it, tucked your knees to your chest, tried to warm yourself with your own breath, and had nearly slipped into sleep when footsteps sounded outside the door.
Luuk came in soundlessly, closed the door behind him, and lowered himself onto the cold floor beside you. Without a word, he pulled the heavy red coat from his shoulders and wrapped it around you. It still held the warmth of his body. You pressed your cheek to the soft fabric, pretending it was a pillow. For the first time in long hours, you exhaled, feeling the cold retreat, feeling your stiff muscles slowly relax. He sat beside you, leaned his back against the wall, and stretched out his legs. For a while, you simply stayed silent, listening to the scouts talking upstairs and the wind howling through the empty corridors.
Then Luuk began to speak, quietly, as if afraid the walls might overhear. He told you that the goal was already close, that all that remained was to obtain the last papers , the final proof, and then he could finally leave. And you would leave with him. You would settle somewhere far away, where there were no Fractsidus, no war, no endless fear for your life. You listened, wrapped in his coat, and a fragile hope for happiness began to bloom in your chest.
And then your gaze fell on the wall ahead. A poster hung there, tattered and faded, its corners torn away. A cheap advertisement for a seaside getaway. Turquoise water, white sand, dark silhouettes of palm trees, and a bright, almost unnatural sun that, right now, in this grey, frozen room, looked like a portal into another reality. You shifted your gaze to Luuk and froze. He was staring at the poster, and in his eyes there was such a deep, settled sadness that your heart clenched. You suddenly understood that he had never wanted to be here, among blood and deceit. He had wanted to know what an ordinary, measured human life felt like. But to one day earn the right to freedom, he had to finish what he had started.
Your eyes began to sting. You blinked quickly, chasing away the rising tears, and suddenly said:
"Relax. Lay your head in my lap."
Luuk raised an eyebrow slightly, but he didn't argue. He settled himself more comfortably, rested his head on your legs, and closed his eyes. You gently pressed your thighs around his face, covering his ears to muffle all the sounds of this grim place. A faint smile touched his lips, and he whispered:
"I don't know what's happening, but keep doing it."
You began to lightly, barely perceptibly, trail your fingers over his face and body. Clenching your teeth, you tried to imitate the sound of a soft evening breeze. Luuk let out a deep, long sigh. His shoulders dropped, his jaw relaxed. For a few seconds, he truly believed he was with you on a deserted beach. You leaned down and kissed him. He answered at once. And when he pulled back, there was a gleam in his eyes, like that of the imagined sun.
"Can we count that as a kiss on the seashore?" you whispered right against his lips.
Luuk paused for a moment, then smiled warmly, the way you loved. "Yes," he answered. "Our first holiday together."
After returning from the sortie, everything changed. Luuk was buried in assignments, you were barely allowed near his room, and entire days flew by in empty, exhausting routine. You didn't speak for weeks. You only caught glimpses of him, and each time something inside you tightened with longing. At night, you lay on your mattress and remembered his voice, his fingers in your hair, that kiss in the abandoned school. You wanted more.
And then, on one of those nights, you slipped your hand under the mattress to straighten the bunched-up fabric, and your fingers brushed against a folded piece of paper. Small, torn out unevenly, with a hurried inscription: "Tonight. Storeroom." You recognised the handwriting at once, that same sweeping, sharp script from the letter to Rover.
You waited until the camp sank into sleep, threw on your jacket, and crept your way to the storeroom. Luuk was already there, sitting on an upturned crate, his elbows resting on his knees. At the sound of the door opening, he lifted his head, rose without a single word, and wrapped you in his arms. He pressed you close, burying his face in your hair. In that embrace was all the sorrow that had built up over the weeks of separation.
You stood like that for several long minutes, arms still wrapped around each other. He stroked your hair, you toyed with the fabric of his shirt, and in whispers you told each other just how unbearably these days had dragged on. You lifted your eyes to him and, stumbling over the words, said:
Your palm slowly travelled down his back, traced his shoulder blades, and stilled. Luuk looked at you with adoration, pleasantly surprised by your initiative. He had dreamed of this too and had been waiting for the right moment. After hesitating only a second, he immediately scooped you up in his arms and, without breaking the deep kiss, carried you to the darkest corner of the storeroom. You found yourself pinned between the cold wall and his heated body, a sturdy cardboard crate bending beneath you.
You broke the kiss to catch your breath, and a thin thread of saliva still linked you together. You blushed deeply and lowered your head, watching as his palms gently stroked your thighs. Luuk nuzzled against you, rubbing his nose along your neck, and then quietly asked if he could go on. You nodded and reached for his shirt, beginning to undo the buttons. He gently took your hands away and started with you instead. He pulled off your dirty sweater, and beneath it he saw your chest, tightly wrapped with thick bandages. You did this every night, and over time your breasts had grown used to it, seeming to shrink on their own, helping you hide. He let out a heavy sigh and began to unwrap you, as if you were his most precious patient. Gradually, the pressure eased, more oxygen reached your lungs, and you marvelled at how easy it was to breathe. But your breasts began to ache and throb. They were small, yet they still hung with weight, and now, without the bandages, they felt like stone. You groaned in pain, but Luuk immediately took them into his gentle hands, giving them the support they needed. At first he simply held them, and then he carefully began to knead. For a while, you still whimpered from the burning sensation, but gradually you began to relax and lean into his hands. Then he touched your nipples, and you shuddered. You had never suspected they were so sensitive. He smiled and decided to touch them with his lips, licking them with his tongue and drawing them deeper into his mouth. From this caress, you grew wet below, and your breasts no longer felt like a hindering burden, but something that could give you such pleasure.
After these caresses, when you had grown impatient, he helped you remove your trousers along with your underwear, and now you sat before him, completely bare. You shyly covered yourself with your hands, once again averting your gaze out of embarrassment. Luuk asked you not to hide, and to ease your shame, he undressed himself. He tossed his coat further away and draped his shirt over you, saying it would be warmer that way. He only lowered his trousers enough to free his cock more comfortably.
For a while, you went on kissing. You took his face in your hands and reached for him like a flower turning toward the sun. You couldn't bring yourself to move to the next stage and take him inside you. It wasn't your first time, but that first time had been so horrible that you chose not to remember it. You had gone so long without a partner that you had become just as tight as before. Luuk decided you needed to be prepared, so he knelt before you and draped your calves over his shoulders. You confessed that no one had ever pleasured you with their mouth before, and he replied that making you come was his duty.
He licked cautiously. First, he graced the insides of your thighs with kisses, and then he began to kiss your pussy. Luuk had perfect command of his tongue, touching your clit with precision and softness. You whimpered desperately beneath him, stroking his hair. When you were already on the verge of coming, a strong shiver ran through your thighs, and you grew frightened by just how intensely it was happening. You cried out:
"Luuk, Luuk, something's strange... it feels so good."
He smirked against your folds and kept licking, more insistently now, catching the first drops of your pleasure with his tongue. He stopped only when you began to squeeze him and tried to pull him away from your pussy.
"You're so responsive," he whispered, lifting his face to you. "So beautiful the way you give yourself to me."
By now, you were wet enough, and after asking your permission, he drew out his swollen cock. Large and just as beautiful as Luuk himself. You shifted forward, spreading your legs open for him.
"You're my good girl," he said, and began to enter you carefully.
For the first time, Luuk let out a moan himself and buried his face in your neck, kissing it weightlessly. He didn't pick up the pace; he did everything slowly, waiting for you to ask him to go faster. At first, you felt nothing special, until he reached the deepest part of you. He touched that very spot, and you whimpered beneath him again, tilting your head back:
"Please, faster... touch me there... it feels so good."
He smirked and began to drive into you harder. Your moans grew louder, more plaintive. Luuk smiled and said, his voice unsteady:
"My little one, you're so tender and sweet."
You breathlessly agreed with him, pressing yourself closer.
After a while, his pace grew very fast, and you moaned without pause. He muffled you with kisses, catching your every plea, every moan, every answering movement. It was the best sex. At some point, he warned you that he was about to come, and you began to beg him to do it inside. You wanted something to keep warming you after Luuk had gone. He froze for an instant, then spilled himself deep into you, filling everything inside with warmth. His palms gripped your thighs tightly, his breathing ragged, and he didn't leave you until your walls had stopped clenching around him.
You stayed like that a little longer: you sat on the crate, completely limp and drained, while he stood beside you, stroking your shoulders over your shirt. Afterwards, Luuk wrapped you in his coat, shielding your nakedness from the cold air of the storeroom. He pulled it snugly around you, carefully adjusted the collar. He would certainly help you gather yourself and return to your room, but for now, he wanted to sit beside you. To gently, unhurriedly, take in this new stage of your relationship.
More than a month had passed since that night in the storeroom, and you had begun to notice changes in yourself that you initially blamed on ordinary exhaustion. But with each passing day, the weakness seeped deeper into every part of your body, your head spun more often, and nausea rose to your throat at the most unexpected moments. You woke up shattered, things slipped from your hands, and even the simplest movements drained you of all strength. And then, one night, lying on your mattress, you ran your palms over your lower belly and froze. Beneath your fingers, you could feel a barely perceptible firmness? something not yet visible to the eye, but already sensed from within. Your heart skipped a beat, then began pounding heavily and rapidly. Nausea surged to your throat again, this time brought on by a sharp, piercing anxiety. You were pregnant.
The next day, you tried to refuse work. Your body ached, your stomach heaved at the mere smell of those vile men, and you honestly told the scout that you couldn't even get up today. He listened to you with that particular expression worn by people who have gotten their hands on a bit of power. Slowly, he crouched down beside you, grabbed you by the collar, and yanked so hard the fabric strained.
"Have you lost your fucking mind, runt?" he hissed into your face. "I don't give a shit how you feel. You're here to work, not to whine. Got it?"
You tried to smooth over the conflict, mumbled something about being unwell, about working twice as hard tomorrow. But every word of yours only stoked his anger further. He saw the way you pressed your hands to your belly, and something in that gesture made him bare his teeth. He decided to teach you a lesson.
The first blow struck your shoulder, knocking you to the floor. The second landed beneath your ribs, forcing the air from your lungs. Then he kicked you, heavily, methodically, pouring into every swing all the brute cruelty he was capable of. And every time you curled into a ball and shielded your belly with your arms, he aimed precisely there. You didn't scream or beg him to stop. All that mattered was protecting that tiny life, the existence of which he didn't even suspect.
When the scout grew tired, he spat in your face and walked away without looking back. You were left lying on the cold floor, breathing in dust and the smell of your own blood. Time stopped. You just lay there, pressing your palms to your belly, whispering something incoherent, meant for the tiny embryo inside you.
And then Luuk came. You heard his footsteps, heavy and swift, echoing hollowly in the empty corridor. He appeared in the doorway and froze for a second, taking in the sight: your twisted body on the floor, the blood on your lip, the bruises on your arms, already darkening to black. Something flared in his eyes and then went out at once, replaced by icy calm. He spun around sharply and disappeared, and you caught the sound of his hard, displeased voice, one you had never heard before. He was dressing down that very scout, and in his words there was no uncontrolled aggression, only cold fury. Luuk was saying that they should not stoop to senseless violence. They were soldiers, not animals.
Luuk returned, knelt down beside you, and helped you up. You clutched his arm, barely able to stand, and he led you to his room. Slowly, step by step, never letting go for a second, shielding you with his body from prying eyes. Only when the door closed behind you and you were in the saving silence of his room did you finally let yourself break down. The tears burst forth in a hot stream, salty, mixed with the blood on your split lip. You sobbed uncontrollably, burying your face in his shoulder, and words tore from your chest along with convulsive gasps:
"Luuk, I... I'm pregnant. You're going to be a father. I was so scared... he kept hitting right there... I thought I had lost it."
He froze. You felt his entire body go rigid. A paralysing, icy fear gripped him: for you, for the child that might already have lost its chance to be born, for a future that now hung by a thread. For a second, a wild fury flashed in his eyes, but he held it back. He clenched his fists until his knuckles went white, exhaled heavily, and buried everything deep inside, because right now you needed his support and strength. He lowered himself onto his knees before you, took your trembling hands in his, and brought them to his lips, warming your icy fingers with his breath.
"We'll leave this place soon. I'll arrange an escape. There's very little left to do. Just hold on a little longer, little one."
You sank down beside him, your tears slowly subsiding. He gave a faint smile, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.
"I'll buy you a white dress, I promise. And then I'll give you and our child a quiet, happy life, where you'll never have to be afraid again."
The battle began suddenly. The squad was heading toward a data collection point when the first shots tore through the sky. You had been expected. The low-ranking scouts fell almost at once, mowed down by automatic fire, their bodies slumping heavily into the dust and broken glass. Some of the senior soldiers, without a second thought, bolted backward, saving their own skins. Luuk was left alone, at the very heart of the chaos, amid the roar and the flames.
He darted between crates of documents, grabbing maps and reports, whatever came to hand, but the main thing he was looking for wasn't among them. The enemy pressed forward in dense waves, tightening the ring. Everything around was already ablaze: wreckage of equipment burned, ceilings collapsed, the air grew thick with gunpowder smoke and the smell of seared flesh. You stayed close, crouched low, covering his back.
"I can do this," you shouted, catching his worried glance. "Give me a weapon, Luuk."
He hesitated for only a second, then thrust his personal pistol into your hand.
"Stay close, little one. If anything happens, run at once."
"I'm not scared at all. I'll surprise you yet!"
Luuk gave a short smirk, and for a moment, in the midst of this hell, something warm and utterly out of place passed between you. And then the chaos tore you apart.
The smoke was so thick you could only make out silhouettes. Flashes of gunfire tore the sky apart, and each time you fired before the enemy could level their barrel. Your pistol never fell silent. You moved low, almost hugging the ground, slipping under debris, veering sideways when someone lunged at you, and striking at once. Butt to the jaw, elbow to the temple, knee to the groin, and then a shot, a shot, a shot.
Luuk fought at the very centre. His golden braid, woven from pure golden energy, sliced through the air with a deep, lingering hum and crashed down onto the enemy, crushing them like dry branches. The veins on his arms blazed through his torn sleeves, and every swing left a smouldering trail behind it. He didn't let them get near you.
"You in one piece?!" his voice ripped through the roar.
"Yes!" you shouted back, rolling away from a shot.
You met by a blazing barricade. Everything around was cracking and collapsing. Luuk grabbed you by the shoulders, quickly scanning your face, shoulders, chest, belly for any open wounds. You were covered in soot, in someone else's blood but unharmed.
"You're perfect," he breathed, and there was awe in his voice. His little girl, his tender, fragile beloved, the one he had kept hidden for so many months, now stood before him, killing enemies one after another.
"This is only the beginning," you answered proudly, and a stubborn smile flickered across your trembling lips. "Just wait, when this is all over..."
He didn't let you finish. He pulled you to him and cut the sentence short with a deep, hungry kiss in the midst of fire and thunder. His palm settled on the back of your head, pressing you closer, and in that kiss there was no caution, no tenderness, only a desperate need to make it in time. The flames roared behind you, sparks showered your shoulders, but you stood firm, merged into one. A beam crashed down overhead with a deafening crack, and Luuk tore himself away from you, breathing heavily. He pressed his forehead to yours.
You bolted together, crouching low, leaping over debris and bodies, and already you could see a break in the smoke, a wall, beyond which a quiet alleyway waited. Luuk was no longer thinking of revenge against his father; he didn't care about the intel, the mission. The only thing that mattered was your hand in his and your escape. And then the explosion thundered so close that the ground vanished from under your feet, and you were hurled in opposite directions like rag dolls. You tumbled across broken concrete, scraping your palms bloody, and when you lifted your head, a wall of fire blazed between you. Luuk was shouting your name; you could see his silhouette through the flames, he was straining to reach you, but a fresh collapse blocked the passage. You gathered your strength, got to your feet, and ran on. You needed to find a way around and get back to Luuk.
Everything around you was gradually falling quiet. The roar of battle gave way to the hum of flames and the occasional distant gunshot, each one sounding further away, like a storm retreating beyond the horizon. Somewhere, dying buildings crackled and popped, the very first bodies were already beginning to rot, and acrid smoke slithered along the ground, choking your lungs. You crept cautiously through the rubble, stepping over debris and corpses, scanning for any enemies still alive. Your palm gripped the pistol; your fingers had gone numb from tension, your eyes stung and streamed from the fumes.
A hand grabbed you from behind by the collar and yanked you into the air. The rough fabric bit into your throat. You let out a strangled gasp, kicked out with your legs, but the grip was like iron. From the uniform, you knew at once it was one of the Fractsidus. One of those considered an ally, someone you had stood shoulder to shoulder with just that morning. For a second, an absurd, bitter question shot through your mind: «Would they really kill their own?»
The man spun you to face him and let out a venomous laugh, watching you helplessly try to aim the barrel at him. He caught your wrist, squeezed until it cracked, and tore the pistol away in a single motion, as easily as snatching a toy from a child. His gaze slid over the engraved letters on the grip, and his face twisted into a poisonous smirk.
"So that's how it is," he drawled with vile satisfaction. "A spy's whore. And knocked up, too."
You went cold. He knew your secret. He aimed the pistol at your belly, right where that tiny life still flickered.
"Drop dead, you scum," you rasped.
Three muffled shots rang out, one after another. The pain that pierced your belly was so immense you couldn't even scream. Hot blood gushed downward, flooding your thighs, spreading beneath you in a thick crimson stain. You wanted to say something more, but the blood rose to your throat and spilled over your lips. You tried to cough it up, but only choked harder, convulsively gasping for air that no longer stayed in your lungs. Each breath became agony; each exhale carried away the last of your strength. The man tossed you aside like a discarded thing and walked away without looking back. You were left lying among the rubble, staring up at the grey sky, and inside you the warmth, the hope, the love slowly faded.
Luuk was making his way through the ruins, and his voice sounded hoarse, erratic. He was talking to himself, because the silence was unbearable.
"They got away again. If I hadn't been so cautious, I could've "taken care" of them this time..."
He was thinking that today could have been the last day of your shared nightmare. That he would have done everything he'd set out to do, and you would have escaped together. His golden braid had long since vanished, the veins in his arms no longer glowed. He was just a man, searching through the smoke for his love, and every step echoed in his chest with a dull hope that you would answer any moment now, step out from behind the rubble, smile. Suddenly, something vibrated in his pocket. After two years of silence, Rover had made contact.
"You want me to go to Lahai-Roi? Why?"
"There's evidence of their activity in Lahai-Roi. I need you to keep an eye on things. And frankly, you need a break."
And then he saw you. You were lying by a concrete slab, his little one, curled up, in an unnatural position. Your hands were still pressed to your belly, even in death protecting what could no longer be saved. Beneath you, a crimson stain had spread, already beginning to darken at the edges. Your eyes were open, staring at a sky that no longer mattered to you. His pistol lay beside you, completely emptied.
Rover was asking something on the other end of the line, her voice reaching him as if through a wall of water.
"Now is not the right time," Luuk said, his lips dry.
"You've already drawn enough attention. Do we really have to wait for you to get killed to decide it's "the right time"?"
"How can a doctor save anyone else's life if he doesn't value his own? Keep pushing like this and you'll be no different from them."
Luuk stood over your body and stared, unable to look away.
"Not pulling any punches, are you?"
"Trust me, that's only the warm-up. Lahai-Roi is a nice place, Luuk. Bright, passionate students, beautiful snow. Perfect for slowing things down."
"Listen to me on this. Come."
He was silent. He stood over you and couldn't utter a single word, looking at your still face, at your hands, still clasped over your belly. The silence on the line stretched agonisingly long, demanding an answer.
"Very well. As you wish."
The call cut off. The device slipped from his fingers and clattered against the concrete. And then he let himself be weak. He collapsed to his knees beside you, right into the pool of your blood, and screamed. It was like the howl of a wounded animal, tearing from his soul. Luuk grabbed you by the shoulders, lifted you, pressed you to his chest, and your head fell back limply. He shook you, called your name, begged you to open your eyes, and hot tears streamed down his face, the first in many years.
"Little one... my little one... please..."
Luuk stroked your hair, matted with blood, wiped your face, kissed your cold forehead, your lips that would never answer him again. Self-hatred choked him, rising from his chest like bitter bile. You were his little one, his tender girl, and he had let you stand beside him in this hell. Selfish. He had been thinking about the mission, about revenge, when he should have been thinking only of you. He should have run the moment you wept in his arms and told him about the child.
Among the ruins, in the smoke and ash, he sat holding you to him, rocking back and forth, cradling your lifeless body as though you had simply fallen asleep. Your head rested on his shoulder. Luuk shuddered, convulsive sobs tearing from his chest, and his lips whispered a desperate apology that would forever go unheard.
He buried you at dawn, right there among the ruins, by an old wall the fire had spared. He dug the grave with his bare hands, casting aside every stone, every shard of concrete with the same stubbornness with which he had once believed in your escape. You lay wrapped in his red coat. He knelt beside you, placed a handful of earth on top, and whispered, "I'll come back. I promise." And then he walked away without looking back, because he knew that if he turned around, he would never be able to leave.
Twenty years passed. He never did come back.
Luuk lived in Lahai-Roi, just as Rover had suggested. With time, the pain dulled, no longer choking him every night, and turned into a quiet, familiar weight beneath his heart. He settled down, began working at the academy, made new friends, colleagues, students who respected him and were drawn to him. But every year, on the day of your death, Luuk locked himself in his room and wept. He never let anyone else into his heart, because once, long ago, he had already met his little girl and had given himself to her forever.
