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misaerabl · 2 months ago

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Fallen Grace

CW: wc… 5.4k - fallen angel reader x caitlyn kiramman, plot with some smut, caitlyn eating you out, religion (obviously), hurt/comfort, based on this request SUMMARY: Fallen from grace, you are found broken and bleeding in Caitlyn’s garden. She takes you in, tending to your wounds with reverence, even as you reject her mortal kindness. You long for heaven—for the gates that have shut you out—but Caitlyn is relentless. She shows you the beauty of the world below, the softness of human hands, and the warmth of a love that does not demand divinity. Slowly, you let her in. And when she worships you—not as an angel, but as a woman—you find yourself reaching not for the sky, but for her. In the end, heaven no longer feels so far away.

𝕴. The Descent

The night is brittle with frost, and the gardens of Caitlyn Kiramman’s estate slumber beneath a veil of moonlight. The roses, once proud and sharp with scent, bow to the cold, their petals sagging beneath the weight of frozen dew. The wind slips through the iron railings, carrying the faint scent of lavender from the hedges, but it is soured by something heavier—something bitter.

Beyond the manicured rows and trimmed laurels, in the northern patch where wildflowers disobey the gardener’s hand, something stirs. The brush is damp with mist, thorned branches heavy with rain. The ground, muddied by the day’s storm, clings to something that shouldn’t be there.

A body—ashen, bloodied, and trembling—lies crumpled in the grass. Wings, torn at the edges, barely cling to the figure’s back. Feathers, once ethereal and whole, spill loosely into the dirt. Pale gold stained with rain and iron. Some catch in the brambles, others float in the waterlogged soil. The ground drinks the blood in shallow rivulets, red seeping through the weeds.

You are still. Your breath barely ghosts through parted lips. The remnants of grace flicker faintly, a halo’s dying ember, quickly fading to nothing. The earth is unkind to you—it holds you down, its weight foreign and cruel. The flowers bend beneath your ruin.

Caitlyn finds you there, a slumped figure in the moon-drenched overgrowth. Her boots scuff the edge of the stone path as she draws near, her lantern’s glow catching on broken feathers. She pauses, breath halting in her throat, eyes narrowing at the sight.

For a heartbeat, she thinks you are already dead. But then you shudder—a broken gasp—barely more than a breath.

She drops to her knees, hands unthinking, ungloved. Her fingers press into the dirt as she reaches for you. She brushes strands of rain-soaked hair from your face, smearing blood across your temple by mistake. You flinch faintly beneath her touch, but you are too weak to recoil.

Her hands press against torn flesh, and she feels it—the heat of blood thick on her palms, seeping through her fingers. Her throat tightens. She does not pull away. Instead, she moves quickly. Her arms slip beneath your broken form. She is trembling as she lifts you, as though afraid you might fracture further in her hold.

You weigh almost nothing. A celestial ruin, cradled by mortal hands.

Her boots sink slightly in the sodden earth as she carries you toward the house. The lantern swings at her side, its flame barely holding against the wind. She does not stop to wipe the blood from her hands. She does not pause when her breath catches. She holds you closer, desperate and steady.

The night is heavy with iron and roses. The ground where you fell is quiet again, nothing but damp earth and broken feathers left behind. And you, trembling and wingless, are carried into the dark.

𝕴𝕴. The Cage of Mercy

You wake beneath silk sheets, cool and unfamiliar against your skin. The fabric clings slightly to the fever-slick sheen still clinging to your body. The bed is wide and soft, too soft, as though meant to hold someone fragile. Pillows of down frame your head, and the faint scent of lavender water drifts from a porcelain basin on the nightstand.

You shift, but your body protests. Dull aches bloom beneath your ribs and along the plane of your back. Bandages cross your chest in careful lines, soft and taut, but you feel no reverence for them. No gratitude. They feel foreign—holy remnants wrapped around something no longer sacred.

You push yourself up with trembling arms, but the weight on your back drags you down. Your wings—stiff, broken, and molting—lie heavy and useless against the mattress. Their edges are frayed, the feathers matted and torn, dull where they once gleamed. You attempt to move them, and a sharp pain lances through your shoulder blades, the muscles spasming. They twitch weakly, pathetic in their ruin.

You grit your teeth. You do not cry. Instead, you rise.

The sheets slip from your frame as you stagger from the bed, breathless and aching. Your legs threaten to buckle beneath you, joints stiff from too many still hours. You reach out, catching the edge of a carved mahogany table, your knuckles white around the wood. Your bare feet press into the polished floor, slick with the sheen of cold sweat, but you do not stop.

Your eyes catch the window. The curtains—thin and gossamer—stir faintly in the morning breeze, the fabric limned with pale gold light. You move toward it, shoulders tight with defiance.

Your knees hit the sill before you realize they’ve buckled. Your hands press to the glass—damp from your trembling palms—as you stare upward. Toward the sky.

The clouds drift slow and indifferent. There is no hand reaching down for you. No warm light. Only the cold sun and the dull ache in your bones.

Your lips part, and you begin to pray.

Your voice is cracked and raw, barely more than a whisper. You murmur psalms Caitlyn has never heard, verses in tongues no mortal tongue could shape. Your voice frays against the edges of the words, quiet and fractured. You clutch your trembling hands together, knuckles white with devotion, fingers curling tight in desperate reverence.

“Sanctus. Sanctus. Domine Deus Sabaoth…” Your voice falters. You breathe and try again. “Pleni sunt caeli et terra gloria tua…”

You chant, broken and breathless, waiting for heaven’s reply. But no light answers you. The sky remains pale and still.

A soft sound stirs from the doorway. You don’t turn.

Caitlyn stands there, silent in the morning light. She leans against the frame, her arms loosely crossed, but there is no steel in her stance. Only a quiet, folding tenderness. Her eyes soften when they fall on you—on your trembling hands and your lips moving soundlessly against the windowpane.

You don’t see how she lingers. How she holds her breath every time your voice wavers. How she exhales slowly when you do not fall apart.

You do not see her carry the weight for you. But you feel it. And you refuse it.

She steps forward after a moment, voice careful. “Come back to bed,” she says softly. “You’re still weak.”

You flinch slightly at the sound, as though the mortal words disturb the fragile thread holding your prayers together. You do not look at her.

Your voice rasps against the glass. “Leave me.”

She doesn’t. Instead, she moves closer, footsteps light against the polished floor. She sets a tray on the table beside you—a modest meal of broth and bread. It smells warm, faintly savory. She brought it to be kind. To care.

You do not touch it.

Her voice is gentler this time, but firmer. “You should eat.”

You stare through her. You press your palms harder against the window, fingers trembling faintly.

When you do not respond, she steps closer still, her fingers skimming the edge of your ruined wing. You tense at the touch, your breath hitching, the sensation both familiar and deeply, terribly wrong. She means it to be gentle, but you recoil as though burned. You twist away from her, arms closing over your chest.

Your voice is a low rasp, cracked from disuse. “Don’t.”

Her hands drop to her sides immediately. She doesn’t reach for you again.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The silence is heavy, stretching too long, filled with the thin space between you. You breathe heavily, staring down at your shaking hands.

Caitlyn exhales softly. She turns back toward the table, removing the lid from the small pot of salve beside the tray. The scent of mint and chamomile drifts faintly from it. She dips her fingers in, rubbing the ointment between her hands, warming it.

“Your wounds…” she says, carefully measured, “…they’ll heal faster if you let me help.”

You do not move. You do not answer. You fix your eyes on the sky, on the fragments of light filtering through the glass, and you try to imagine it is heaven looking back.

She kneels beside you. Her voice, when it comes again, is softer. “Please.”

You turn your face away.

You do not thank her. You do not accept her salves. You do not touch the food she brings you.

She speaks of the city—the warmth of summer markets, the idle laughter of children playing by the fountain, the scent of spiced bread in the lower quarters. She tries to conjure life in her voice, to breathe warmth into it. She tells you about the festival that will arrive soon, the colors that will drape the streets. She smiles softly, trying to make you imagine it, to see it through her eyes.

You stare through her. Your eyes remain on heaven, indifferent to the hands that save you.

And still, she stays.

𝕴𝕴𝕴.Soft Chains, Soft Hands

Days stretch into weeks. Time becomes a dull and heavy thing—measured only by the slow mending of your mortal flesh and the steady, inevitable wilting of the divine in you.

Your body recovers. Your limbs strengthen, and the bruises fade from your skin. But your wings—once celestial, once a thing of glory—dull from silk to dust. The feathers, once radiant and fine, shed in brittle clumps. They fall in uneven patches, leaving bare spaces along your spine. You no longer feel the tug of the sky when the wind drifts through the open windows. Gravity has claimed you fully.

You no longer speak Caitlyn’s name. You do not even look at her when she enters the room. You only call for your Father, for the gates, for the light.

When you wake, you whisper prayers to a heaven that does not answer. When you sleep, you see it slipping further away.

You become a relic of your own punishment. Trying to claw your way back to paradise with trembling hands.

But Caitlyn—relentless in her devotion—stays. She does not move like a martyr, nor a fool, but with a tenderness so steady it threatens to break you.

She brings you clothes softer than the robes of your choir, carefully folded and left at the edge of your bed. She brushes the ends of your matted hair, fingers slow and patient, working through the knots with infinite care. She never pulls too hard. When her fingertips catch against a tangle, she stops, smooths it out, and continues with quiet reverence.

She kneels beside you when your legs buckle from the pain of phantom flight. When the ache beneath your shoulder blades becomes too much—when your ruined wings spasm uselessly, still searching for the currents they’ll never find again—she is there.

She offers her arms without hesitation. And you do not reject them. You let yourself lean into her touch, trembling but stubborn, without a word.

She never asks why you do not speak. She never asks why you flinch when she presses warm cloths to your back, or why you turn your face away when she calls you by name. She simply stays.

And in the quiet moments, you begin to break.

One night, you dream of fire.

It does not begin with flame. It begins with wind. With the sudden and terrible absence of light—the cold snuffing out of warmth and grace. You see the sky rupture, clouds folding inward. The stars retreat as your wings fold downward in unholy descent.

You dream of the fall. Of gravity claiming you in a sickening pull. Of the divine spilling from your veins in molten ribbons. Of your feathers blackening mid-flight, blistered by some unseen judgment. Of sin blistering your skin as you plummet. Your own screams tear through your throat like ash.

You strike the earth with shattering force, your grace torn from you. You hit the ground in a broken heap, lightless. And then— Nothing.

You wake violently, gasping for air, the sheets tangled around your legs. Sweat clings to your skin, a thin sheen of cold across your neck. Your hands claw at the blanket, seeking purchase against something, anything—

But you cannot breathe. The fire is still in your throat. You swear you can taste the ash.

“Hey—hey, it’s alright.”

You startle at the voice. Hands—warm and steady—close over your arms.

You do not recognize them at first. You are still in the fire, still in the ruin. You thrash against the hold, your chest tight and heaving, the phantom of gravity still clutching at your lungs.

“Shh, you’re safe. You’re safe.”

Her voice cuts through the haze, low and trembling but steady, and you come back to the room by fragments—the silk sheets damp with sweat, the moonlight trembling against the window, the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth.

And her hands. Her hands, anchoring you.

“Breathe,” Caitlyn says softly. “Just breathe.”

Her thumbs stroke slow, tender circles along the inside of your wrists. Her voice—rough from sleep—carries the faintest tremor. You feel the ghost of it on your skin.

You shudder in her hold. Your hands, still shaking, curl weakly into the fabric of her nightshirt. You feel the tremor in your fingers even as you grip her, even as you press your forehead into her collarbone.

You feel her breath catch sharply when you do. But she does not pull away.

“Did you dream of it?” she asks quietly.

You do not answer. Your throat is too raw, too tight, to speak. But she doesn’t need you to.

She shifts slightly, pulling you further against her. You feel the strength in her arms, the solid press of her palm against the back of your head. She holds you as though you might fly apart, fingers curled into the fabric of your sleep shirt, gentle but unyielding.

Her breath ghosts over your temple, uneven and warm. “You’re here,” she murmurs softly. “You’re alright.”

You are not alright. You are anything but. But she repeats the words like a prayer, low and steady, as though willing them into truth.

Her fingers stroke softly along the sharp ridges of your shoulder blades, where your ruined wings twitch faintly beneath her touch. She is careful. Reverent. The weight of her hand warm against the place where your divinity once rested.

And though you will not admit it, you lean into her. Your hands remain fisted in the fabric of her shirt, knuckles white and trembling. Your forehead stays pressed against her throat, your lips parted, pulling shallow, uneven breaths.

You feel the warmth of her arms encircling you completely, the faint press of her lips at your temple—so light, you might have imagined it.

You breathe against her skin. And you do not pull away.

For the first time since the fall, you do not dream of fire. And she does not let you go.

𝕴𝖁. She, Your Eden

Caitlyn begins bringing you out into the gardens—the very place where you fell. The place where the earth first cradled your broken body, where the grass still remembers your blood.

You resist at first, your legs still weak from disuse, your steps faltering as though your body does not recognize gravity’s grip. She stands beside you, patient, always within reach but never touching.

The morning air clings cool to your skin. The scent of damp earth rises beneath your feet. You walk side by side, though you never brush against her. Your hands remain clasped behind your back, fingers lightly interlaced, as if in silent prayer. As if holding your holiness like a barrier between you.

You always keep one step ahead. And Caitlyn lets you.

But her eyes linger. She watches you. Always.

She watches the way you tilt your face toward the sun, as though waiting for it to split open the clouds and carry you back to grace. The way your eyes flutter closed, desperate for warmth that no longer recognizes you.

She watches your lips form prayers that never rise. She watches your knuckles tighten when you clutch at your own hands, as though trying to hold yourself together. She watches you fall apart.

She speaks of life. Of mortality. Of things that bloom in the dirt and not in the clouds.

“Look,” she says softly one morning, gesturing toward a cluster of wild roses growing unruly along the garden wall. Their petals are pale gold, blushing faintly at the edges, heavy with dew. Some have begun to wilt at the tips. Bruised by the cold. Imperfect.

“They’ll be gone by next week,” Caitlyn muses, crouching beside them, brushing her fingertips over a drooping stem. She glances at you over her shoulder, lips pulling into a faint, almost mischievous smile. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

You look at her, disbelieving. “It’s dying.”

Her smile does not falter. She plucks the bloom from its branch and holds it out to you. Her voice is quiet, steady. “And still beautiful.”

You do not take the flower. You turn from her, from the roses, from the dying beauty she speaks of, and walk away.

She does not stop you. But when she finds you the next morning—hunched by the fountain, your fingers trembling over your beads of prayer—she kneels beside you without a word. She does not speak of flowers that wilt or the beauty of decay.

She only presses a shawl around your trembling shoulders, her fingers warm against your skin. And you let her.

When she realizes the garden cannot reach you, she tries the city. You refuse the first time she asks. And the second. And the third.

But she is stubborn. And when she stands before you that morning, her eyes suddenly soft but unbearably earnest, her voice quiet but breaking faintly at the edges—you cannot deny her.

“Please,” she says softly. There is no command in her voice. No persuasion. Only a quiet, fractured plea.

And so, you follow.

The city is a tangle of warmth and dust. Stone and iron. Smoke and spice.

It is nothing like heaven. And yet, she keeps showing it to you. As though it might be.

She takes you to the market first. You walk beside her, your posture rigid, unsure. The crowd swells around you, voices low and rough, unrefined. Mortal laughter clatters against stone walls, uncontained and imperfect.

You do not understand the appeal of it. But Caitlyn does.

She stops by a fruit stand. The merchant hands her a sliver of honeyed pear on the edge of a dull knife. She turns, holding it out to you, eyes glinting with unrestrained delight.

“Try it,” she says simply, her voice lighter now, teasing at the edges.

You stare at the sliver of fruit, brow faintly drawn. “I don’t need it.”

Her smile tilts, coy and knowing. “No. But you might want it.”

You glance at her. The sun catches in her hair, turns it to dark silk, makes the blue in her eyes burn a little brighter. And against your better judgment, you take it. You place the sliver of pear against your tongue, slow and uncertain, and the taste—syrupy sweet, clinging to the roof of your mouth—shocks you with its richness.

Her eyes flicker with satisfaction. But she says nothing. She only hands you another.

You do not refuse.

In the following days, she shows you more of the city. She lets you walk behind her at first, always allowing you the space you demand, though her hand lingers close enough to catch yours.

She buys you books filled with mortal poetry—thin volumes with gilded edges and worn spines. She leaves them by your bedside. You tell yourself you will not touch them.

But you do. You read them before you sleep. You read about broken hearts and fleeting beauty and stars that live and die in the same breath. You read about a world meant to end and bloom again in the ashes.

And when she finds you on the veranda one evening, book still open on your lap, you scowl at her. She only smiles. The slightest tilt of her head. Like she knew you would.

One evening, the wind is sharp with the promise of rain. You shiver slightly when it drags its cold fingers along your skin. You do not complain. You would not dare.

And yet, without a word, Caitlyn unwinds the scarf from her own neck and drapes it around your shoulders. Her knuckles brush against your collarbone, slow and deliberate, before they retreat.

The scarf is warm with her scent. You clutch it closer without meaning to. And you despise yourself for it.

You watch her as she glances away, her eyes settling on the rows of lanterns swaying softly in the evening breeze. You do not see the smile she hides.

You still pray. Still beg for the gates. Still clutch at your beads with trembling hands.

But she cannot bear it. Cannot bear the way you gaze at the sky with longing eyes, waiting for the light that will not come.

She watches you ache for a heaven that has already closed its gates. And so, she decides.

If you will not stay for the world, She will become your reason.

She will make herself your Eden. And she will be merciless in her devotion.

𝖁.Soft Damnation

That night, you break.

It happens without warning. The sky offers no omen—only emptiness. Ink-black and void of answers.

The stars are sharp, pale shards scattered across the heavens, and yet they do not hear you. No light answers when you beg. No voice calls your name.

So you fall. Again.

You collapse to your knees in the dirt where Caitlyn once found you. Where you first became something unholy. The cold earth clings to your skin, biting against your bones. But you do not rise. You only bow lower.

You press your trembling hands together, knuckles white with desperation. Your voice rasps against the stillness, cracking with every breath.

“Domine, adiuva me.” Lord, help me.

But the words feel like ash on your tongue. Dry and dead. Familiar and useless.

You clutch at your beads, fingers unsteady, the rosary trembling in your grip. You pray again, louder this time. “Domine, ne derelinquas me.” Lord, do not forsake me.

But there is no answer. There never is.

You feel your throat tighten. Your eyes burn with the betrayal of salt. And you shatter. Into something less than divine. Something broken. Something mortal.

She finds you like that.

Caitlyn’s breath catches in her throat when she sees you—the fierce, unyielding creature who once spoke of salvation with such reverence—now trembling in the dirt, splintered by absence.

“Hey,” she calls softly, her voice barely a whisper. But you do not lift your head. You do not answer.

You only press your forehead deeper into the soil, as though the earth might swallow you whole. As though you wish it would.

“Please.” Her voice is closer now, low and unsteady. The smallest fracture in her tone makes your spine stiffen.

You feel her hands on your arms—gentle at first, uncertain. Fingers hesitant against your skin. But when you refuse to rise, when you resist her, she grows bolder.

“Stop—” You twist away from her, your nails biting into your palms. But she is stronger. Her arms circle around you, unyielding. And this time, she holds you.

“Stay,” she murmurs, her voice breaking. She buries her face against your neck, her breath uneven, trembling. “Stay. Please.”

Her lips are too close. Her words too human. Too pleading.

You feel her desperation in the way her arms tighten around you, anchoring you to her. You feel her voice quake against your skin.

And you break. Utterly. Completely.

First in sobs, sharp and breathless. Then in silence, your body trembling in her arms. And finally—finally—in her mouth.

You do not know who moves first. Only that your lips find hers, seeking with the violence of sorrow. A collision of trembling mouths and sharp breaths.

Her lips—warm, mortal—burn against your trembling mouth. You taste the salt of your own grief on her tongue. And she tastes the sorrow on yours.

Your hands, still shaking, rise to her face, fingertips unsure. But she holds them there—keeps them against her cheeks with her own trembling hands. Grounding you.

She murmurs against your lips—desperate, reverent, wild. “Stay with me.” The words press against your mouth like a vow. Like a plea.

And you answer her in the only language you have left. In the only prayer you have left.

You pull her closer. Your hands tangle in her hair, wild with grief and need. Your fingers twist into the strands at the nape of her neck, desperate to keep her near, to feel the weight of her. To know she is real.

You kiss her with the fury of a lost soul seeking light. And she answers you. With no hesitation. No grace. Only need.

That night, Caitlyn worships you. But not with reverence. Not with delicate prayers. But with hands that devour. With lips that consume.

She carries you into her room, your limbs weak and unsteady. And when your knees buckle, she catches you. Her arms steady around you, her breath at your ear.

“I have you,” she whispers. A promise, low and feral.

She lays you down on the bed, her hands trembling as she undresses you. You let her. You do not resist when her mouth finds your throat. When her lips trace the hollow beneath your jaw.

She leaves her mark on you—soft and fleeting at first. But then harder. Fiercer. Like she wants to brand herself into you.

“You’re mine,” she rasps against your skin, her voice raw with need. A confession. A claim.

You do not protest. You do not stop her when her teeth scrape softly against your collarbone, when she bites down just hard enough to make you gasp. You do not stop her when she kisses her way down your stomach, slow and deliberate. Her mouth reverent but merciless. A prayer in every press of her lips.

Her hands trace the curve of your hips, shaking with restraint, afraid you might still disappear. But you don’t. You stay. You stay with her.

You cry out softly when her lips trace the inside of your thigh, when her mouth finds the heat between your legs. You bury your hands in her hair, trembling as you pull her closer. Her breath is hot and heavy against you, and you arch into her mouth, into her devotion.

She leaves no part of you untouched. No part of you unworshipped.

Her lips press prayers into your skin—desperate, broken prayers. Her mouth speaks the only gospel she believes in now: You.

And when she rises over you, when she sinks into you with shaking hands and a trembling mouth, your back arches off the sheets, wings limp and breathless. Your nails score soft marks down her back, and she gasps at the sting.

“Say my name,” she pleads against your lips, her voice barely more than a broken whisper. Her eyes—dark and raw—search yours, aching. “Please, say it.”

And you do. For the first time, you speak it without shame. Without resistance.

“Caitlyn.” A whisper, trembling and reverent. The first prayer you speak without heaven in mind.

And she swallows it. Takes it into her mouth like sacrament. Like she could live on the sound of it.

That night, you do not reach for God. You reach for her. And she holds you like she is the only salvation you will ever need.

𝖁𝕴. The Flightless Dawn

The morning is golden. And cruel.

The sun breaks in through the window, spilling light across your skin like a slow and deliberate confession. It exposes everything. The shallow curve of your back. The faint, bruised blooms where her mouth had lingered too long. The tender scrape of her nails down your spine.

You sit by the window, draped in nothing but the linen sheet, your knees drawn loosely to your chest. The fabric clings to your damp skin, still cloyed with the scent of her. Your hair is tangled from her hands, wild and unkempt, and you hate that you no longer know if the heaviness in your chest is from grief— or from the weight of her gaze.

Your fingers tremble faintly as you trace your own shoulder, feeling the faint indent where her lips had pressed too softly, too reverently. The memories cling like damp cloth. Too close. Too heavy.

You should be praying. You should be weeping for the sky, for the grace of it, for the gates you once called home. But you only sit there. Flightless. Silent.

You press your forehead to the windowpane, its chill biting at your skin. But the cold does nothing to cleanse you. It only makes you ache.

You hear her footsteps before you see her. Soft against the wooden floorboards. Slow. Careful.

As though she is afraid she will break whatever fragile peace exists between you.

Caitlyn enters quietly, her hair damp from the bath, clinging in darker strands at her temples. She has already dressed, loose-fitting pants and a thin button-down shirt that clings in places still damp. But she carries none of her usual formality, none of her sharpness. No holster at her hip. No stiff posture. Just her.

She does not speak. Not at first.

She only crosses the room, barefoot and silent, her eyes never leaving you. And when she reaches you, she kneels beside you, slow and deliberate.

Her fingers find your bare shoulder—hesitant at first. Testing. Like she expects you to flinch.

You do not.

She exhales softly, her hand warm and steady against your skin. Her forehead comes to rest against your temple. And she stays there. Breathing you in. No words. Only silence.

For a long moment, neither of you speak. You only breathe into each other. Soft and slow. Like two souls trying not to wake the storm.

And then her voice—low, raw from the night before—breaks the stillness. Fragile and unsure.

“Are you alright?”

The question is a whisper, meant only for you. But it carries more weight than it should. More fear. More longing.

You do not answer right away. Your throat tightens. Your hands flex faintly against your knees. But you feel her fingers trace along your shoulder—slow, soothing—and you lean into the touch before you realize it.

You feel her breath hitch.

“Hey…” she murmurs softly, shifting slightly, her other hand coming to your jaw, gently coaxing you to face her. Her thumb brushes over your cheekbone, reverent, seeking. “Look at me.”

And you do.

Your eyes meet hers, and something in your chest buckles. Because there is no demand in her gaze. No expectation. Only tenderness.

Only her.

You hate the way your eyes burn at the edges. The way the ache in your throat rises like a swell. But Caitlyn does not look away. She does not flinch from the fragility in your gaze. She only leans in.

Her lips brush softly against your forehead, lingering longer than they should. She does not press for more. She only holds you there, unmoving, like she might somehow steal away the weight you carry if she just stays close enough.

“I’m here,” she whispers against your skin. Soft. Certain. Steady. “I’m right here.”

You exhale softly—ragged, broken—and you press your cheek against her palm, eyes fluttering closed.

You do not speak of the night before. You do not say her name. You do not weep for the sky.

You only let her hold you.

She shifts, carefully, pulling you into her lap. Her arms wrap around you with a gentleness that is almost painful. You bury your face in the curve of her neck, and she tightens her arms around you, one hand threading slowly through your hair.

You do not fight her. You do not resist when she places her lips softly against your temple. When she murmurs words into your skin—too quiet to be prayers, too raw to be anything but love.

“I’ve got you…” “You’re safe…” “I’m not letting go.”

And you believe her. For once, you let yourself believe her.

The sun slips higher, spilling golden warmth across the room. You feel it stroke your bare back, warm and insistent. The light brushes your skin like a fading echo of the divine. But you no longer flinch from it.

The sky is endless. But you do not weep for it anymore.

You let yourself lean into her, your hands weak but clinging softly to the fabric of her shirt. You let her press her lips against your hair. Let her cradle you. Let her carry you.

For now, this is your heaven. And you do not turn away from it.

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devdozes · 2 months ago

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♥ Love you Love you Love you Love you

AND 100 FOLLOWERS THANK YUO SO MUCCH AAAA FLAMEREAVER PHAINON AAAA!! Phainon header art is mine!! Flamereaver phainon fanart below at the end of the post

The first time you met Phainon, he was leaning against the marketplace wall, bathed in the amber glow of Amphoreus' setting sun. His fluffy white hair ruffled in the breeze, and his blue eyes sparkled with mischief as he greeted you with a grin, the picture of an ordinary young man with a penchant for teasing.

But you were never one to trust easily. Especially not when his swordsmanship—so graceful, so precise—felt oddly reminiscent of a ghost story whispered through the alleys at night. But in the end you fell for him, you fell into an inescapable rabbit hole for him.

The Flamereaver.

A nameless swordmaster who carved a path of ruin, driven by a thirst for the Titans’ Coreflame. A shadow in the black tide, their identity unknown.

You brushed the thoughts away at first. Phainon was charming, sometimes irritatingly so. He paid attention to the smallest details, catching things even you overlooked. His laughter was easy, his movements controlled, but there was something about him—something lurking beneath the surface. A momentary flicker in his gaze when he spoke of fire, of war, of lost things.

And then the Grove of Epiphany burned.

You stood at the edge of the ruin, the scent of ash thick in the air, staring at the lone figure amidst the wreckage. His back was to you, but you knew that stance. That impossible, immaculate swordplay.

A gust of wind carried the embers, and he turned.

Phainon’s blue eyes met yours, and for the first time, they were cold.

Madness and obsession entwined within them like an inferno restrained by sheer will. His sword—slick with molten red—gleamed under the fractured moonlight.

“Ah,” he murmured, voice still as light as before, but tinged with something… older. “I suppose you’ve figured it out now.”

Your heart pounded. “You’re the Flamereaver.”

Phainon sighed, running a hand through his ashen locks, expression almost sheepish. “I preferred when you just thought I was a little too perceptive.”

“Why?” The word came out raw, barely above a whisper.

He tilted his head, considering. “Because I must. Because the Coreflame calls.”

His sword rose, an invitation, a warning.

“Will you stand in my way?”

You didn’t know how to answer.

Because the Phainon you knew—the one who smiled, who made a game of guessing your thoughts, who felt so achingly human—was standing before you, wreathed in the flames of a legend that should never have been real.

And yet, he was still Phainon.

Still the man who watched the stars with you.

Still the man who now waited for your answer, his gaze unreadable, his grip on his sword loose—but ready.

The flames crackled around you both, but all you could hear was the sound of your own heartbeat.

And his quiet, unwavering breath.

Then, he spoke again, his voice softer, almost pleading beneath the weight of something neither of you could control. "I didn’t choose this. The Coreflames… they are my burden. I must take them all, or—" He clenched his jaw, shutting his eyes for a moment before opening them again, burning with desperate resolve. "Or everything will be undone."

His fingers tightened around his sword, knuckles pale. "It’s madness, I know. But I have no choice. Every Coreflame I claim brings me closer to an end I cannot escape." A bitter chuckle escaped his lips, but there was no mirth in it. "So tell me, will you hate me for it? Will you turn away now, knowing what I am?"

His gaze softened—achingly so. Even with those cold, inhuman eyes, he looked at you as if you were something precious. Something he wished he could hold onto, even as the fire consumed him.

"If you stay…" Phainon exhaled, his grip trembling for the first time. "You will see what I truly am. And I fear—" He hesitated, his voice dropping into something barely above a whisper. "I fear that I will not have the strength to let you go."

The fire roared behind him, licking at the ruins of a past he could never return to.

And yet, in this moment, with his sword lowered and his heart laid bare, Phainon stood before you—not as the Flamereaver, not as a legend, but as a man on the edge of despair, clinging to the last remnants of something real.

You.

And then, as if realizing his own weakness, Phainon took a step back, forcing steel into his voice. "You should leave." The words were clipped, calculated—like the swing of a blade meant to sever something before it could grow too deep. "Go before I change my mind."

But his eyes betrayed him.

Even as he turned away, as he tried to retreat into the cold, his gaze lingered, filled with something twisted and aching. A love so consuming it bordered on obsession. A longing so desperate it threatened to unravel him.

Phainon had always been good at deception. But not with you.

Not when his very soul was screaming for you to stay, even as his lips told you to run.

And in that moment, you understood.

Phainon did not fear the Coreflames. He did not fear battle or ruin or even his own demise.

He feared losing you.

And the worst part? He already had.

Your breath hitched as you took a hesitant step forward. The embers danced around his silhouette, painting him in a light both divine and damning.

"Phainon…" You whispered his name, but he did not turn. His grip on his sword tightened instead, knuckles bloodless.

Another step.

The blade was at your throat before you could react, its edge gleaming with the reflected flames of everything he'd destroyed.

"Don’t."

The word was hoarse, raw, barely above a breath, but it carried the weight of something lethal. Phainon's expression was composed, carved from cold steel—but his eyes.

His eyes betrayed him.

They held the torment of a man drowning, even as his hands pushed you away.

"You don’t know what you're doing," he continued, voice sharper than the blade itself. "I warned you. You should have listened."

But you did know. You knew exactly what you were doing.

And you knew what he was doing, too.

You could see it in the way his fingers trembled, the way his chest rose and fell with breathes too uneven for someone as disciplined as him. You could feel it in the space between you—so close yet impossibly far.

"Then tell me to leave," you said, voice steady despite the sting of metal against your skin. "Tell me you don’t care. Tell me you wouldn’t regret it if I walked away right now."

A flicker.

Just for a second, his lips parted—silent, breathless, as if the words had caught in his throat before they could escape.

Then, his jaw clenched.

He pressed the blade a fraction closer, the bite of it sharp but not enough to draw blood. It was a warning. One that you knew, deep down, he would never follow through with.

"Go," he forced out. "While you still can."

And yet, despite his words, his gaze remained locked onto you, burning with something far more dangerous than fire.

Something desperate.

Something that screamed that if you took another step, if you reached for him—he would break.

And he would take you down with him.

But maybe… maybe you were already falling.

"One more step," he murmured, his voice flat, almost bored, "and I’ll carve you open like the rest."

A lie.

You knew it was.

You could see it in the tension coiling through his muscles, in the way his grip on his weapon was almost too tight, as if it were the only thing tethering him to this wretched act of self-denial.

But his eyes—

Those blue, frostbitten eyes were void of the warmth that once greeted you at dusk. They didn’t waver, didn’t soften. They remained locked onto you with the lethal calculation of a man who had convinced himself of his own monstrosity.

And still, you moved closer.

Another step.

Another drop of blood slipping from his blade.

Something inside him snapped.

With a sharp inhale, Phainon moved faster than breath, his weapon slashing outward—stopping just short of your throat. Close enough for you to feel the whisper of its edge, for the heat of freshly spilled blood to radiate between you.

You didn’t flinch.

He noticed.

His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, wasn’t quite a snarl. "You don’t get it, do you?" His voice was quiet, laced with something dark. "I am not playing with you."

His weapon remained poised, steady, the weight of it absolute.

And yet, in the flickering light, you saw it—the minuscule tremor in his fingers, the unspoken war behind his stare.

He wanted you to fear him.

He wanted you to run.

But even now, with his face splattered in blood and his hands heavy with ruin—he could not bring himself to push you away.

"Why aren’t you afraid?"

You didn’t answer. Because you knew fear had never been the problem.

He let out a sharp breath, his control slipping. "Damn you," he whispered, his grip tightening. "You should be running. You should hate me."

A muscle in his jaw ticked. He took another step forward, backing you into the ruins. Not to corner you—no, it wasn’t that. He just wanted to be closer. To see you clearer.

To feel your warmth in the cold abyss he had thrown himself into.

His free hand, the one not gripping his sword, twitched at his side. He wanted to touch you. To brush the soot from your skin, to trace the shape of you with reverence, to make sure you were still real. That you hadn’t left him behind like the rest.

Phainon inhaled sharply through his nose, his expression twisting. He was losing this battle.

"You don’t understand," he growled, his voice raw now, slipping past the walls he had built. "I would burn this world for you. I would tear the Coreflames from the Titans themselves if it meant keeping you safe."

His blade lowered an inch. His control cracked another fracture.

"But you… you are the one thing I cannot have." His voice was hoarse, his breathing uneven. "Because I would ruin you. I would drag you into my flames, and I would never let you go."

You could see it now, the full weight of his obsession. The way it clawed at his ribs, at his very being. He could not afford to love you, and yet he did—so completely, so utterly, that it hurt.

And still, despite it all, you took another step. Closing the space between you.

Phainon shuddered. His sword fell from your throat. He let it drop, let it clang uselessly to the ground between you. His hands, empty now, hovered—hesitant, desperate, aching.

His breath was unsteady, his entire body wound too tight, as if one more second of restraint would shatter him entirely.

"You should run," he whispered one last time.

But his hands had already found your face. His sharp golden claws went over your skin, the cold metallic claws made you shiver, touch featherlight, as if he was afraid he would break you.

Or maybe… as if he was afraid you would break him.

His forehead pressed against yours, his breath warm, shaky. His heart thundered against his ribs, wild, unrestrained.

"I should let you go," he murmured, but his grip only tightened. But Then— Phainon trembled.

For all his power, for all the flames that had swallowed cities at his command, he was fragile beneath your touch.

His breaths came shallow, uneven. His body was wound tight, every muscle locked in a battle he had already lost. And when your fingers—warm, steady, unbearably gentle—cupped his face, he broke.

A sharp, wounded inhale. A shudder.

Then, the first whimper left his lips.

It was soft, barely there, but it shattered something inside him. He tried to hold it in, to swallow the weakness, but it was too late. His knees buckled slightly, his weight pressing into you, seeking something—anything—solid to hold onto. His forehead still rested against yours, but now he was trembling, his breath hitching as the first tear slipped down his cheek.

"I…" His voice cracked. His hands, rough with callouses and stained with blood, clutched at you like you were his last tether to sanity. "I can’t—"

Another whimper, this one quieter, almost strangled.

Phainon, the Flamereaver, the man who had stood alone against armies, who had burned everything in his path, was crying.

Not for the world he had lost.

Not for the lives he had taken.

But for you.

Because he knew he could never have you the way he wanted—not without dragging you into his fire, not without dooming you to the same madness that consumed him.

And yet, he couldn’t let go.

His fingers dug into your waist, clinging as if you might disappear. His body shook against yours, and when you ran your thumb over the tear-stained skin of his cheek, another broken sound escaped him—something between a sob and a sigh of surrender.

"You shouldn’t be here," he whispered, but it was an empty protest. One he didn’t believe himself.

Because when you held him, when your fingers combed through his bloodstained hair, he leaned into you like a man starved.

Like you were the only thing that had ever been real in his world of fire and ruin.

"I love you," he choked out, the words raw, torn straight from the depths of his soul. A confession and a curse all at once. "I love you so much it’s killing me."

His grip tightened, desperate.

"And if you don’t leave now…" He exhaled shakily, pressing his damp face into your shoulder, his body curling inward, caging you against him. "I’ll never let you go." . . . . . You had always loved Phainon. Not just the man who teased you beneath the golden glow of Amphoreus’ sun, not just the warrior with an unreadable gaze and a blade that moved like lightning, but all of him—the bloodstained, broken, and burning parts too.

Your heart ached, raw and desperate. He had tried to push you away, to scare you with the sharp edge of his blade, but he had underestimated you.

You were just as lost in him as he was in you.

With trembling hands, you cupped his face, your thumbs gliding over his cheekbones, wiping away the smears of blood that marred his skin. The red smeared under your touch, streaking his pale skin with warmth that did not belong to him.

His breath stuttered, his lips parting slightly, but he didn’t pull away.

He never could, not from you.

Your thumbs brushed down, grazing the corner of his mouth, lingering there. His lips were slightly chapped, parted as if he wanted to say something, but the words never came. Instead, his breath hitched—a shuddering, fragile thing—and you could see the war raging inside him.

The desperation. The love so overwhelming it made him weak.

Phainon’s hands twitched against your waist, torn between pulling you closer and keeping you away. But you made the choice for him.

You surged forward, claiming his lips in a kiss that burned.

It was not gentle. It was not soft. It was everything you had both held back for too long.

Phainon inhaled sharply against your mouth, a strangled gasp lost between your lips as his hands finally—finally—snapped up to grasp you, no longer holding back. One hand tangled into your hair, the other clutching your waist so tightly it almost hurt, pressing you against him as if you might disappear if he let go.

You deepened the kiss, tilting your head, and he whimpered against your mouth. The sound made your stomach twist, heat pooling in your chest as your fingers slid into his silver-white locks, pulling slightly. He groaned, the sound low and needy, and then he kissed you back with a fervor that nearly stole your breath away.

Phainon kissed like a man who had never known softness, like he was trying to carve the memory of you into his soul. His lips moved against yours feverishly, desperately, like he was terrified this moment would be ripped away from him.

His tongue flicked against your bottom lip, hesitant, seeking, and you granted him entry without hesitation. The kiss deepened, turned messier, hotter. He swallowed your gasp as his arms caged you in, his body pressing you closer, like he was trying to mold you into him, to make you his in every way possible.

Your hands slid down, over the hard lines of his shoulders, his chest, feeling the tension coiled in his muscles. His heart pounded beneath your palm, beating wildly, erratically, and you realized—he was scared.

Not of you. Never of you.

But of what he might do to keep you. Of how far he was willing to go.

Phainon broke the kiss with a ragged gasp, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath warm and uneven. His hands trembled where they gripped you, his body taut with restraint, as if he was fighting himself even now. "Please.. Stay.. By you, I am forever incomplete."

THIS WAS RUSHED IM SORYRYR IM USING MY MOBILE DATA

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hellinistical · 5 months ago

Text

in which you are trapped in a haunting pact with Caleb, bound by the pomegranates you unwittingly took. Caleb x fem. reader. mdni.

Part two here

tw: kidnapping. dubious consent/non-con. choking. manipulation. forced arrangement. coercion. scaring. panic attacks. nightmares. threatening of loved ones.

wc: 10.7k

The pomegranate orchard sprawled like a cursed labyrinth, its gnarled trees clawing at the ashen sky, their twisted branches skeletal and accusing. The bitter clouds churned above, heavy and oppressive, a leaden canopy suffocating the air with an unnatural stillness. The light barely penetrated the gloom, casting long, distorted shadows that seemed to shift and writhe, as though the orchard itself were alive and watching.

Hanging like swollen wounds, their dark crimson skins mottled and bruised, glistening faintly in the little sunlight presented. Some had burst open, spilling their putrid seeds onto the blackened soil, a grotesque mockery of spilled blood. The ground was slick and sticky, as if the land itself bled in a silent protest. Bitter winds slice through the orchard, the howl a whispered warning, carrying the faint, acidic tang of decay. The rustling of the brittle leaves sounded almost human, like the dry whispers of unseen figures lurking just beyond sight. In the distance, a crow’s cry pierced the silence, sharp and grating, cutting through the thick atmosphere like a blade. The sound didn’t fade; instead, it seemed to linger, twisting unnaturally, echoing back and forth between the crooked trees.

Heavy footsteps crunched the brittle leaves below, their sharp sounds splintering the fragile silence like broken glass. His sandals, worn and cracked, struck the earth with a deliberate cadence, their weight unforgiving in their wait for departure. Each step left behind a faint imprint, quickly swallowed by the restless soil as if the orchard sought to erase his presence.

The ends of his robe dragged through the dirt, gathering its stain—dark, earthy smudges seeping into the white threads that might have once been pure. The fabric clung and twisted, weighted by the dampness of the soil, as though tethering him to the cursed ground.

Above, the crow’s cry came again, louder now, a guttural warning that seemed to reverberate through the trees. The sound merged with the eerie rustling of the leaves, their whispers sharpening into something intelligible yet incomprehensible, a chorus of voices too faint to follow but too distinct to ignore.

And yet...

His eyes lingered on a single leaf that had defied the rot and ruin surrounding it. Its green shimmered faintly in the muted light, an unnatural vibrancy that seemed out of place amidst the decay. It quivered slightly, though no wind stirred, as if beckoning him closer. Beneath it hung a fruit, untouched by the blight that marred its siblings, its skin smooth and taut, glowing a deep crimson that bordered on otherworldly.

How did this happen?

He was sure he had killed them all. Every last one. The orchard had been his domain, its life snuffed out by his own hand. The trees, once vibrant, now stood as withered husks, their fruit rotting where it fell, their roots choking in soil poisoned by his will. There was no room for life here—he had made sure of it. And yet...

That single leaf, green and defiant, mocked him. It was small, insignificant, but its existence burned in his chest like a splinter lodged too deep to remove. His fingers curled into a fist as he stepped back, the weight of realization settling over him. The leaf shouldn’t be there, and neither should the fruit it sheltered.

A smile almost rose to his face. Almost. But his lips hesitated, caught in the tension between amusement and unease. He could almost admire its resilience, the audacity of this life that refused to die, as though it had been waiting—challenging him.

A laugh bubbled in his chest, rising unbidden, loud and boisterous, yet devoid of humor. It spilled out of him, echoing through the lifeless orchard like a cruel specter. The sound was harsh, jagged, and wrong, as though the land itself recoiled at its presence.

“Defiant to the last,” he muttered, his voice low and sharp, as if addressing the fruit itself. The defiance only fueled his resolve.

Without hesitation, he reached out and tore the pomegranate from its branch, his grip crushing the delicate stem with a brutal finality. For a moment, he held it in his hand, the fruit’s weight heavier than it had any right to be, almost as though it resisted his grasp.

With a vicious twist of his hands, he split it open. The rind cracked like brittle bone, its blood-red juice spilling over his fingers, staining them with its vivid essence. The stark white flesh inside was veined with crimson, its beauty grotesque and unsettling. The seeds, glistening like rubies, tumbled free, falling to the earth like droplets of freshly spilled blood.

The air thickened as the orchard seemed to shudder, the ground beneath him trembling faintly. A sharp, metallic tang filled his nostrils, and the hum, once faint, now roared in his ears, a relentless rhythm that seemed to emanate from the fruit itself.

His laughter died in his throat as his smiled shifted, stifling itself into a chuckle.

“The seed of vengeance is sown, and the promise is broken.”

The shadows around him deepened, crawling closer as if drawn to the fruit’s destruction. The ground beneath his feet cracked, a network of fissures spreading outward.

***

Your bed was unusually cold, but not so; winter had long since approached, and the snows were well into place, their heavy flakes falling in absurd elegance, a reunion with the earth that was both beautiful and terrifying in its silence. The chill settled into your bones, seeping beneath the blankets, but it was nothing new.

No, the cold wasn't what bothered you.

It was the dreams.

Each night they came, vivid and suffocating, like they were not dreams at all, but memories dredged up from some other place, some other life. They had started innocently enough—fleeting glimpses of darkened forests, whispers on the wind, strange figures lurking just beyond the light. But now, they were growing more real, more unsettling, the edges blurring with your waking moments.

You had stopped sleeping soundly weeks ago.

In your dreams, you walked through an orchard—a pomegranate orchard. The trees, gnarled and twisted, loomed overhead, their branches reaching down like the fingers of some forgotten god. The air was thick with the scent of decay, yet the fruit—pomegranates, gleaming blood red—hung from every tree, too heavy for the branches that bore them.

The dreams always ended the same way.

You would reach for the fruit, compelled by something you couldn't name, your fingers brushing its smooth surface, only for it to burst open in your hands, the seeds spilling out like blood from a wound. The voice would come then, whispering in a language you couldn't understand, its tone low, almost mocking.

Each time you awoke, you were left with a lingering taste of iron in your mouth, and the sensation that something had shifted, something had changed, though you couldn't say what. The coldness, yes, but also the weight of the dreams pressing down on you, growing heavier with each passing night.

You’d seen a priest. Three of them, in fact. And an oracle. None of them had anything useful to say.

Sure, the priests had been polite, their hands steady as they muttered prayers over you, their voices low and soothing. They spoke of purification, of light and darkness, of the spirits that roamed the earth- the usual stuff. But their words felt empty- like they were reciting from a script they’d memorized just for this kind of thing. Their incense did nothing to clear the air, and the talismans they’d brought you did little. They were a token, nothing more.

The oracle, however, had been…strange. She’d stare at you with eyes that seemed to pierce through you, as if peeling back you skin, tissues, and muscles, down to the bones and deeper. She spoke in riddles you didn’t care to try an figure out for more than a day, words twisting in ways that made the hairs on the back of your neck and on your arms stand up.

But you did remember one thing.

How her gaze was almost pitiful, and the last line before she ultimately went silent.

“The pomegranate seeds have been spilled. They will find you.”

You tried to understand, you really did. The words clung to you, spinning in your mind, but they felt as if they were wrapped in shadows, half-formed and out of reach. Pomegranate seeds? What did that have to do with anything? Aside from the dreams at least. And besides, no pomegranate would grow here; it was far too plush a land- too vibrant and thriving. Pomegranates only grew in hot, dry places. The soil was rich, the air thick with moisture, and the trees were lush and green. At least, it was that way in the summer and spring. Now it was late winter.

Never mind that.

Swinging your legs over the side of the bed, the cold wood pressed uncomfortably against your skin, sending a shiver up your spine. The chill wasn’t anything you weren’t used to- it always got like this in winter.

You glance at the fireplace, untouched since the last time you managed to stoke a fire. You’d have to light it again- soon, when you had time. Eh, it could wait for now.

The farm was waiting for you, and with it, your work. The chickens needed to be fed, the barn doors needed fixing, and the well was still frozen over.

With a heavy sigh, you rise to your feet, feeling the weight of your body against the cool air. You step carefully, avoiding the floorboards that creak underfoot, and cross the room to the window. Snowflakes continue their relentless descent outside, drifting in and out of view as the wind picks up, swirling around the empty landscape.

Grabbing your coat and gloves, you sluggishly tug them on, the motions stiff and uncoordinated from the lingering cold in your joints. You hold the sleeves of your nightgown tight against your wrists, trying to keep them in place as you slip your arms into the thick wool coat. It doesn’t quite work. The fabric bunches awkwardly beneath the layers, twisting and pressing against your skin, the discomfort a small, irksome distraction in an otherwise bleak morning.

Your fingers fumble with the buttons, the chill making them clumsy, and you tug your gloves on with the same sluggish effort. The leather is stiff and worn, the seams stretched from years of use, but it’s enough to keep the worst of the cold at bay.

You exhale sharply, your breath misting in the icy air of the room, and glance toward the door. The world beyond it waits, indifferent and unchanging. The tasks ahead loom large, heavy in your mind, but there’s no avoiding them.

With a final tug to straighten your coat, you steel yourself and step forward, boots scuffing against the wooden floor as you make your way to the door. The cold greets you like an old adversary the moment you open it, biting at your face and creeping past the gaps in your layers. But you push through. You always do.

Outside, the snow continues to fall, the landscape quiet and heavy beneath its weight.

***

The chickens squawked and flapped in a frenzy as you tossed the feed onto the frozen ground, scattering it with a hurried motion to keep the snow from clinging to your coat and gloves. Their frantic clucking rose in a chorus, a cacophony that only deepened your irritation.

"God—hey—no! That’s all you’re getting, you freeloaders," you snapped, shaking the nearly empty bag at them for emphasis. One particularly bold hen pecked at your boot, and you glared down at her.

Flipping them off with a gloved hand, you added, "I’m gonna turn you into a soup just for that. Matter of fact, who’s got eggs?"

Your voice echoed in the cold air as you scanned the coop with a narrowed gaze. Most of the chickens scattered at the sound, pecking furiously at the feed as though they hadn’t eaten in days, while a few stayed huddled together near the corner, unbothered by your threats.

Grumbling under your breath, you made your way to the nest boxes, brushing a layer of frost from the wooden edges. Carefully, you reached inside, your fingers brushing against something warm. A small victory, you thought, as you pulled out a freshly laid egg.

"One of you finally decided to be useful," you muttered, holding the egg up as if showing it to the flock. The hens clucked indifferently, entirely ungrateful for your ongoing tolerance.

You shook your head, pocketing the egg in the folds of your coat, and moved to check the other boxes. "Soup," you repeated under your breath, the word a half-hearted promise. "Mark my words. Soup."

"She laid an egg?" Josephine’s voice called out from the window, muffled slightly by the frost-covered panes. She peered out, her gray hair tucked under a knit cap, the lines on her face softened by the faint light streaming through.

You turned, clutching the egg carefully in your hand, and squinted back at her through the falling snow.

"Yeah, one of them decided to be useful for once," you said, holding the egg up for her to see. "The rest of them are freeloading."

Josephine chuckled, a dry, raspy sound that carried a warmth the cold couldn’t touch. "Don’t be too hard on them. It’s a miracle any of them are laying at all in this weather. Poor things probably feel like they’re in the Arctic."

"They’re fine," you replied, brushing snow off your sleeve. "I feed them, don’t I? Besides, they’re tough little things."

Josephine leaned further against the sill, her joints too stiff and fragile to be out in the biting cold. "Well, don’t break that egg before you bring it in. We might need it for supper."

"You think I don’t know how to handle an egg?" you shot back with a mock glare.

"Not with those gloves on," she teased, grinning despite herself.

You rolled your eyes and turned back to the coop, muttering under your breath. "I’ll bring it in safe. Not like we have a whole flock waiting to replace it or anything."

Josephine’s laughter followed you, soft and fleeting, as you went back to your work. It wasn’t much, but even her small remarks made the cold day feel just a little warmer.

Not even a second passes before you hear it: a faint, wet crack. Your heart sinks as you freeze, slowly looking down at your hand.

"Gods..." you mutter under your breath.

Sure enough, the egg is broken, its yellow yolk oozing between your gloved fingers and dripping onto the snow below.

"Cursed chickens," you hiss, shaking your hand instinctively, though it only makes the mess worse. The yolk clings to the wool of your glove, smearing like a bad omen. You curse again, louder this time, kicking at a nearby patch of snow in frustration.

You wipe the yolk off your gloves quickly, making sure Josephine doesn’t catch sight of it—she'd never let you hear the end of it. You brush the remaining mess onto the snow, hoping it’s out of view before she can see the disaster.

"Grandmother?" you call, turning back toward the house. "I'm, uh—I'm gonna go to the market. The horses are good, right?"

Your voice comes out a bit more strained than you intended, but it's enough to keep her from asking too many questions. The market is a short walk, but it’ll take you most of the day. And truth be told, you don't relish the thought of another day with only the chickens and the endless chores for company.

Inside, you hear a faint groan from the other room before Josephine responds. "Yes, yes, they’re fine. Just make sure you get back before dark."

"Of course," you reply, trying to sound more confident than you feel.

You hesitate for a moment, then glance back at the coop. You can’t help but wish for just one more egg, a small consolation for the misfortune of the morning. But you know it’s pointless. You’re not going to get any more today, no matter how hard you try.

"Fuck," you mutter under your breath, glancing down at your now-eggless hands. "Guess I’ll just have to buy them."

You head back inside quickly, pulling your coat tighter around you, and grab your purse from the hook by the door. The cold is starting to seep through your layers again, and you can already feel the chill nipping at your fingers.

Still, despite the morning’s mess, a small part of you is eager for the trip. Eggs are a rarity these days, and you haven't had a decent meal in weeks. The market might be a small reprieve—at least for a little while.

***

The market was...gross. Gross, crowded, wet. Mud clung to every surface, pooling in the uneven cobblestones and splattering onto hems and boots alike. The air was thick with the scent of damp wool, unwashed bodies, and the acrid tang of smoke from hastily lit fires.

The man didn’t like it—not that he was a fan of humanity to begin with. They moved like insects, a swarm of noise and chaos, bartering and shouting, their voices clashing in a discordant symphony. He towered over them slightly, his presence noticeable but not quite commanding.

His clothing was woefully out of place for such weather. The himation draped over his figure was far too thin, the edges soaked and clinging to him as if mocking his indifference to the cold. Snow clung to his sandals, his feet chilled but steadfast against the biting frost.

The crowd parted instinctively as he walked, some murmuring complaints at his carelessness as his steps splashed muddy water onto their garments. He ignored them. He always did.

His eyes scanned the bustling market with vague disinterest, a predator among scavengers. Stalls lined the streets, overflowing with goods: baskets of wilted vegetables, carts of salted fish, bolts of cheap fabric in dull, washed-out colors.

And yet, as he moved through the throng, his attention drifted—not to the wares, but to something far more elusive. Something that lingered at the edges of his awareness, like a scent carried on the wind, or the faint echo of a memory just out of reach.

He stopped suddenly, his gaze narrowing on a stall piled with winter fruit. Among the pale oranges and frostbitten apples, a single crimson pomegranate sat, its skin glistening unnaturally in the dim light.

His lips curved into a faint, humorless smile.

"Well," he muttered to himself, his voice low and rough, "isn't that something?"

"Excuse me!"

The voice startled him—not the sound itself, but the sheer audacity of it directed his way.

You stumbled past him, nearly colliding, your basket of produce wobbling precariously in your hands. One of the eggs inside cracked, a faint, sticky wetness starting to seep through the cloth lining, though you hadn’t noticed.

His eyes followed you, narrowing slightly.

You didn’t look back. Your focus was entirely on the fruit stall ahead, where the winter fruits were piled high. He watched as you approached, your fingers brushing over frostbitten apples and oranges with practiced ease, checking for firmness, for ripeness.

Curious.

You paused at the pomegranate, the same crimson fruit that had caught his attention. For a moment, his breath stilled, waiting.

But you didn’t take it.

Your hand hovered, then moved on, picking up an apple instead.

The man’s gaze lingered, his curiosity piqued despite himself. You left the fruit untouched, walking away as though it meant nothing at all.

His fingers twitched at his side. Strange. Most would have taken it, drawn by its unnatural allure, even if they didn’t know why. But you? You walked past, oblivious.

His gaze sharpened as realization dawned. No, not oblivious—wary.

You had seen the fruit. He was certain of it now. The way your hand had hovered, hesitated, before choosing something else—it wasn’t chance, nor indifference. It was deliberate.

His fingers flexed at his side as he watched you, taking note of the subtle tension in your shoulders, the way your eyes darted briefly toward the pomegranate and then away, as though avoiding something dangerous.

You knew.

Not in the way others might. Not with clarity or understanding. But something within you had recognized it for what it was—or, perhaps, what it wasn’t. And instead of succumbing to its allure, you had chosen to move past it.

The man’s smile grew, faint but unmistakably sharp, curling at the edges like smoke. This was unexpected. Most people stumbled through life blind to such things, ignorant of the strange and the unnatural, even when it was placed right before them.

But you? You saw it. And you chose to walk away.

He tilted his head, considering you as you handed a coin to the vendor and turned to leave, your basket shifting with the weight of your purchases. Snow clung to the edges of your boots as you moved with purposeful steps, casting one final, fleeting glance back at the stall—and, inadvertently, at him.

That fleeting glance. Wary. Appraising.

His smile vanished, replaced by a flicker of something darker.

And so, he followed.

Silently at first, blending into the crowd, a shadow among the many. He kept his distance, his footsteps measured, not too fast, not too slow—just enough to remain unnoticed. His eyes never left you as you wove through the market, your pace quickening as you made your way toward the edge of the town.

He watched as you passed by stalls, the vendors' shouts fading into the background, the market’s noise muffled under the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat. Your unease was palpable, your steps purposeful, as though you knew you were being watched, yet you refused to acknowledge it directly.

He admired that about you. Most would have fidgeted, glanced over their shoulder, or given in to the primal fear that comes with being hunted. But not you. You walked with the sort of quiet determination that made him all the more curious.

Through the alleys and narrow paths, you moved with a sense of knowing, a sense of urgency that tugged at him.

There was something in your movements—something sharp, something instinctual—that made him feel as though you weren’t just trying to escape, but were leading him.

And so, he kept his distance. Close enough to see you, but far enough to remain just a presence in the background.

The market’s noise faded as the streets narrowed. He could feel the chill creeping in with the wind, but it wasn’t the cold that had his attention now. No, it was you—wary, sharp, unknowingly playing a game with him.

"Let’s see where you go," he whispered under his breath, the words barely audible.

As he passed the fruit vendor, the farmer at the stand smiled. “Sir, would you like a pomegranate? It’s the last of this season.”

He looked at the farmer, at how he leaned over the stall, holding the pomegranate out to him. It gleamed in his hands, its skin rich and flawless.

The last of the season, huh?

"No," he replied quietly, his voice cold and precise. "Not today."

"Granny? Granny, I'm home!"

***

Your boots crunched in the snow, the sound sharp and clear against the muffled backdrop of the winter day. The path beneath you shifted from the soft powder to the slush of the thawing ground, then to the thick, stubborn mud of the dirt road that hadn’t frozen over yet. It clung to your boots, stubborn and sticky, each step making the journey feel slower, more deliberate.

The words spilled from your mouth, half-relieved, half-frustrated, as you made your way toward the warmth of the house. Your voice cut through the cold air, but there was something strange in the way it echoed—almost too still, too empty, like it was bouncing off walls that shouldn’t be there.

You pushed the door open, the familiar creak of the hinges greeting you, but something felt off. The warmth from the hearth didn’t reach you, the air inside too still, too quiet.

The house seemed empty.

"Granny?" you called again, stepping further inside. Your eyes swept the room, landing on the empty chair by the fire where she should’ve been, knitting or reading or simply gazing into the flames. But there was nothing there—nothing but the faint, cold smell of the earth creeping in through the door, the faintest trace of something… wrong.

The kitchen was untouched, the table bare, and the silence was thick, almost oppressive.

Your heartbeat quickened as the feeling in the pit of your stomach began to rise. You knew the house was old, but it had always felt alive, warm with the presence of your grandmother. Now, it felt... hollow.

A strange shiver crawled down your spine, as though the house was holding its breath, waiting for something. Or someone.

"Welcome home."

The words sliced through the heavy silence like a knife. You whipped your head around, your heart skipping a beat as you saw him standing there, just inside the door. The man from the market.

His smile was too warm, too wide. His eyes gleamed with an amusement as he closed the door behind him with a soft click, shutting you in.

You took an instinctual step back, your hand tightening around the handle of the door you’d just entered through, but it was no use. It was already too late.

He was too close now.

"Your coat?" he asked, extending a hand, his smile lingering, unbothered by the tension that crackled in the air.

You froze, staring at the hand he offered, as if it were a venomous snake. Every nerve in your body screamed to refuse him, to turn and run—but there was no escape. The cold, oppressive feeling from earlier intensified, filling the room, the walls suddenly closing in.

"Get out." Your voice was firm, but your body felt rooted in place. You tried to gather your bearings, but the unsettling calmness of the moment was too suffocating.

His smile didn’t falter. He stepped closer, the warmth of his body too near, too intrusive.

"Not yet," he murmured softly, his eyes never leaving yours. His hand remained outstretched, waiting. "You and I have much to discuss."

“Where’s my grandmother?”

The door was behind you, but the air in front of you seemed to thicken.

Your breath catches at his words. "Where's my grandmother?" you demand again, a trembling edge creeping into your voice. Your fists clench involuntarily at your sides, desperate to hold onto something solid, something that might keep you anchored in this strange, unsettling moment.

He tilts his head slightly, a smirk curling at the corner of his lips. "You mean Josephine? She's fine, I promise you."

But the way he says it—the way his eyes gleam—makes your skin crawl. The lack of any real warmth, the forced calm in his voice, sends a shiver down your spine.

Before you can react, before you even have time to process his words, he’s already taken your coat from your shoulders, his fingers brushing against your skin as he pulls it from you. You freeze, the realization that you hadn’t even felt him move causing your heart to race.

"No..." you mutter, shaking your head. "No, where is she?"

Your voice rises, cracking with the tension building in your chest.

But his smile only widens, almost pitying. "Don't worry," he says, his voice low, smooth, as though trying to calm you with his false assurance. "She's not far. Not far at all."

You can’t tell if he’s mocking you or telling the truth, and that uncertainty claws at you, drowning out the rest of your thoughts. The room feels too small now, and every corner is crowded with his presence, his waiting.

"What do you want with me?" you finally force out, your voice barely a whisper.

His words hung in the air like a dark cloud. "Like I said. We have things to discuss."

He gestures toward a chair—your chair, or at least, it should have been. But it wasn’t. It was far too fine, far too pristine for the rest of the crumbling shack. The wood gleamed like freshly polished mahogany, the fabric soft and deep in color, too extravagant to belong in a place like this. It was as though he had placed his own stamp on your home, turning the room into something that didn’t feel right.

It wasn’t his chair.

But that was exactly how he acted. Like he belonged here. Like this was his space.

You hesitate. The room is too heavy, too thick with his presence. Every instinct screams for you to run, to bolt for the door, but your legs feel like lead, your body unwilling to move.

Your gaze flicks from the chair to him, and for a moment, you see something in his eyes—something dangerous. Something that wants you to sit. Wants you to comply.

The smile on his face is patient, too patient.

"Take a seat?" he repeats, his tone smooth but carrying an underlying edge.

Your pulse quickens, but you force yourself to breathe. You know he’s trying to manipulate you, to force you into submission, but you won’t give him that satisfaction.

"No," you reply, voice firmer than you feel. You take a step back, trying to create distance between you and the chair, between you and him.

The air in the room seems to darken with his response. His smile never wavers, but the coldness in his eyes sharpens, as if he were enjoying your defiance.

"You misunderstand," he murmurs, his voice low and almost amused. "This isn’t a choice, love. Take a seat. I insist."

The words are like an invisible force, pressing against you, pulling at your very core. You can feel something—gravity?—something heavier than air itself, pushing you down, urging you toward the chair. Your muscles scream in protest, your mind races, but your body moves against your will.

You clench your teeth, the sharpness of the motion grounding you against the force that threatens to break you. You sit, but it’s not voluntary, not a choice. The chair feels foreign beneath you, the fabric too soft, the arms too well-formed. It's his chair now, and you hate it.

As you settle, the man steps closer, the air thickening with each movement. His smile stretches wider, an unsettling satisfaction behind it. His eyes gleam with something predatory, though it’s hidden beneath that calm, almost bored exterior.

He doesn’t answer immediately, his gaze flicking over you, almost like he's savoring the moment. Then, slowly, he steps back, his expression thoughtful.

"What do you want with me?"

"Everything," he says, his tone deceptively gentle, as if speaking to a child. "I want everything you have."

His fingers are cold as they grip your chin, turning your face toward him with an unsettling gentleness. You can feel his gaze weighing down on you, as if he's studying you, dissecting every reaction, every twitch of your body. The question is a strange one, unsettling in its simplicity:

"You didn't take the pomegranate. Why?"

Your breath hitches, but you force yourself to remain still, your eyes meeting his despite the overwhelming desire to look away. The way he speaks, the way he presses into your space—it’s like he’s daring you to defy him, but the weight of his touch, of his presence, is too much.

You swallow hard, your throat dry. You didn’t take the pomegranate, yes, but the reason feels almost insignificant now. It’s not about the fruit anymore. It’s about him. The way he’s here, in your home, making demands, insisting on control.

The silence stretches, thick with tension, as his thumb runs lightly over your skin, a strange, almost affectionate gesture that makes your stomach churn.

His eyes never leave yours, waiting. Expecting.

You know the answer should be simple, that you should give him something that satisfies him, but you don’t want to play his game. You can’t play it.

The cold touch of his fingers presses harder, forcing your jaw to tighten in an involuntary response.

"Answer me," he says, his voice turning slightly darker. "Why didn't you take it?"

“I didn’t want it. Not enough coin.” A pitiful excuse. But, a half-truth. You bought eggs.

The grip on your chin tightens, and your breath catches in your throat as his fingers dig into your skin, cold and unyielding. "Lies." His voice is a low growl, soft but cutting through the air like a knife.

You wince, your jaw aching under the pressure, but you refuse to look away. You fight the urge to squirm, to pull away, to lie your way out of this. The coldness in his eyes, though, leaves no room for hesitation, no space for escape.

"I didn’t want it," you repeat, forcing the words out despite the sting of his touch. "I have enough already."

But his face twists in disbelief, the smile fading entirely, replaced by a cold, calculating intensity. His thumb brushes across your skin again, but it no longer feels gentle—it feels as though he’s searching for something beneath the surface.

"You don't get to lie to me." His voice is quieter now, dangerous in its softness. "Why didn’t you take it?"

A heavy silence settles between you, thick with something you can’t name—an urgency, a power dynamic shifting with every breath. The weight of his presence is suffocating, pressing down on you, and the realization that he isn’t going to let you leave until you comply makes your heart race in your chest.

He knows you’re holding something back. He’s not asking because he wants an answer; he’s asking because he wants to break you.

His fingers, ice-cold and unrelenting, drift across your jawline, and you instinctively flinch at the touch, the intimacy of his proximity overwhelming. His other arm braces against the chair, closing the distance between you, and his breath brushes against your skin, the sound of his words a low whisper, too close.

"I'm familiar to you, hmm?" His voice is thick with something darker, almost possessive. "Caleb."

The name hits you like a punch to the gut. Caleb. You blink, trying to make sense of the words, but the sound of your name from his lips sends a jolt of recognition through you. You’ve heard it before—somewhere deep in the recesses of your mind, in a place you can’t quite place.

"What?" You force the word out, disbelief crashing over you like a tidal wave. You don't want to understand. You can't.

"My name." His voice is cold now, almost amused at your confusion. "My name is Caleb. And you broke our promise."

The world seems to tilt on its axis, your breath freezing in your chest. Promise? What promise?

A thousand memories flash—disjointed fragments of a time long past, faces that don’t quite fit, voices that are just out of reach.

But none of it makes sense.

The way he says it, the way his eyes darken, hints at something deeper, something long buried beneath the surface.

"Promise?" you repeat, your voice barely a whisper. You don’t know what he means. You can’t know what he means.

He leans closer, the heat of his breath on your neck sending another wave of discomfort through your body. "You promised me you wouldn’t forget."

Forget? What was he talking about? Your heart pounds in your chest, and suddenly the room feels smaller, the walls pressing in on you.

The only thing you’re sure of is that whatever this promise was, it’s something you never agreed to. Something you never even knew you had made.

Your breath catches in your throat, and before you can even process the shift in his movement, his lips are on yours, cold and forceful. The shock of it seizes your body—an electric jolt of surprise, of horror. The pressure of his kiss is suffocating, overwhelming, and you feel trapped under the weight of it.

You try to pull away, to break the contact, but his grip on you is unyielding, his hands keeping you firmly in place, as if locking you into the moment. Your heart races in your chest, pounding against the cage of your ribs. Every instinct in your body screams at you to fight, to push him away, but the force of his kiss disorients you, blurs your thoughts.

Everything in you fights against it. You don’t want this—you never wanted this.

The coldness of his lips, the sharpness of his fingers gripping your jaw, the way he dominates the space between you—it all feels wrong, like a violation of something you can’t quite define.

His tongue brushes against your lips, demanding entry, and the part of you that still has control tenses in resistance. Your breath quickens, heart thundering in your ears, as you turn your head, the strain of your muscles pulling against his hold.

But he’s relentless, insistent, as though this was always the endgame.

And it’s then, in the midst of the storm of confusion and anger, that it hits you: He’s not just Caleb. Not the Caleb you thought you knew.

This... this is a different man entirely.

The world around you blurs, your senses drowning in the sharp pressure of his lips, the roughness of his hold on you. One moment, you're sitting—frozen, fighting, overwhelmed—and the next, your back hits something soft and plush. The bed creaks beneath you, and you realize, too late, that you've been moved. You don't know when it happened, but now you're lying there, the softness of the bedding contrasting with the harshness of his body pressing against yours.

Your chest tightens as his kiss returns, insistent and suffocating. His presence feels like a weight, pressing down on you from all sides, a physical force that you can’t escape. His hands roam with a practiced familiarity, like he’s done this before, like he knows how to break you, how to keep you in this moment. Your heart pounds in your chest, and every instinct screams at you to push him away, to run, but your body betrays you, frozen in place, unable to muster the strength to move.

It’s like he’s taken control of everything—your thoughts, your body, the space around you—and you can feel yourself slipping into a fog, disoriented, trapped in this strange reality where nothing makes sense anymore. The soft sheets beneath you feel wrong, a dissonance with the terror swirling in your chest.

His lips move from yours, but it’s not relief. His breath is hot against your skin as he traces a path down your neck, his grip tightening, and you can’t shake the feeling that everything you thought you understood, everything you thought you knew about him—about you—is slipping away, piece by piece.

“Do you understand now?” he whispers against your skin, his voice low, almost mocking. “Do you remember?”

But you don’t. You can’t.

“If you can’t remember, why did you take them?”

Your eyes only held confusion. Frustrated, he asks again.

“The pomegranates were supposed to be dead,” he all but hisses, his hand moving to your throat, squeezing. “But you brought one back. How?”

The pressure on your throat tightens, sharp and relentless, and your body tenses as you gasp for breath. His words are barely audible, but the venom in his voice cuts through the fog in your mind, and suddenly, everything is clearer. The question—How?—echoes in your head, your pulse hammering against his fingers as if to answer him, but your throat betrays you, unable to form the words.

His eyes, dark and furious, bore into you, and the weight of his gaze feels like a brand on your soul. There’s an urgency in his touch, like he’s desperate for an answer that you don’t have. His grip on your throat tightens further, and you can barely think, only feeling the constriction in your airways, the frantic beat of your heart.

"Pomegranates..." you manage to whisper through clenched teeth, barely able to speak, your voice rasping in the thick tension of the moment.

He doesn’t release his hold, not even a little. The threat in his touch is clear, and something deep inside you knows he's not just angry—he’s frantic.

"How did you bring them back?!" His voice is a low growl now, filled with a chilling sense of desperation. "You had no right."

You choke on your breath, the weight of his question landing like a hammer. You know the pomegranates he’s talking about—how they weren’t supposed to be here, how they were dead. You never should’ve found one, never should’ve brought it back. But it’s not the how that you can’t answer.

It’s the why. Why is he so invested in them? And why are you suddenly the one in danger over them?

The world spins, but his hands on your throat ground you in place, trapping you in a moment where the answer is just out of reach.

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice? I walk through that hellish field every day. And every day, they are all dead. So what did you do?”

The cold grip around your throat tightens again, and your breath becomes shallow, each inhale a struggle. The urgency in his voice, the desperation, the fury—it's almost enough to send you into a panic. He’s so close now, his breath mixing with yours as he presses into you, demanding answers, demanding something from you that you don't even understand.

The mention of the hellish field sends a shiver through you. You know exactly where he means—the barren stretch of earth where the pomegranates are supposed to lie dormant, rotting, where no fruit should grow. It had been a place of silence, of dead leaves and dust. The pomegranates had always been gone, and you thought nothing of it when you found one that had somehow survived.

But now, he is asking about it, and something in his words tells you that this is more than just a passing curiosity. He’s not asking because he’s wondering how the fruit is growing. He’s asking because he knows. He knows it shouldn’t be possible, and somehow, you’ve made it so.

“I didn’t…” you gasp, your voice weak, struggling against the pressure of his hand. “I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean?” he interrupts, his fingers digging into your skin, forcing you to look him in the eyes. “Do you think I care about your good intentions? Do you know what this means? What you’ve done?”

You try to focus, but his eyes are too intense, and you can feel the world around you closing in, everything blurring except the sharpness of his words, of his grip.

He knows. He knows, and that makes you realize you’ve stepped into something far beyond your understanding.

“You... you were the one... who killed them...” Your words come out haltingly, the pieces falling into place—his anger, his fury, the strange obsession with the pomegranates. “You—You’re the one who made them die.”

The realization hits you like a bolt of lightning. This isn’t about the fruit. This isn’t about something that grew in the wrong soil. This is about something much darker, something he’s tied to, something you can’t comprehend.

And yet, as the words leave your mouth, you wonder—how could you have known? How could you have guessed?

The pressure on your throat burns, every second stretching into an eternity as you feel yourself slowly suffocating under his gaze. His eyes, dark and furious, make you feel small, insignificant, like nothing more than a mere insect beneath his heel. His grip tightens further, the reality of his anger closing in like a vice around your neck.

Your thoughts are clouded, your body trembling, desperate for air, for release from this moment that feels like it might swallow you whole. The world around you blurs, and the edges of your vision darken, but you can't afford to lose consciousness—not now, not when everything feels like it's slipping through your fingers.

The field, the pomegranates, the months since you wandered through that cursed stretch of earth—they all seem like distant memories now, as irrelevant as the flutter of a bird's wings in the storm of your present. What did it matter? You never meant for any of this to happen.

Months? Yes, it had been months since you came across the field, since that moment of discovery. The fruit had been so alluring, so strange. But now, it doesn’t matter. It doesn't matter at all.

All that matters is this: the suffocating weight of his hand on your throat, the rage in his eyes, the sense of power he holds over you in this very moment. It’s not about the pomegranates anymore, or the field, or anything else you’ve done. It's about survival, about whether you can stay conscious long enough to find a way out.

"You have no idea what you’ve done," he hisses through clenched teeth, his voice low and venomous. His fingers dig into your skin, making it feel as though your very breath is being stolen from you. You can feel the blood rushing to your head, the pressure mounting, and for a moment, you wonder if this is how it all ends.

It’s hard to focus, hard to think. And then-

The realization hits you like a cold slap to the face. Your breath catches in your throat, the air refusing to fill your lungs, even as his grip loosens just a fraction, as if sensing your sudden understanding. The seeds. Those damned seeds. You had taken them, thinking nothing of it. Just a curious moment, a strange instinct to keep something from that cursed field. They hadn’t grown, though—at least, you’d thought they hadn’t.

But one of them had.

The cold weight of it settles in the pit of your stomach. You must have dropped one, somewhere between your hurried walk and the spill of your water satchel. Perhaps on the way home, or somewhere in the market. It could have fallen unnoticed, but it had taken root. And now… now, you know exactly what that means.

It wasn't just the fruit that was alive—it was the seed itself, brought back from the dead, blooming in a place it shouldn’t. In the wrong soil. Under the wrong conditions. And he must have sensed it, felt the change, the unnatural resurrection of something that was supposed to stay buried.

It wasn’t just a seed anymore. It was something else. Something that had no place in this world, and definitely no place in your hands.

Your pulse spikes, your breath still strained but clearer now. You can’t let him know you’ve figured it out. Not yet. Not until you can find a way to make this right—or at least survive the next few moments.

"I didn’t… I didn’t mean to," you rasp, the words stumbling out, barely audible. "I thought they were dead... I thought I was doing no harm."

His eyes narrow, a sharp flicker of something darker passing through them. He doesn’t speak at first, his fingers still lightly brushing your skin, but there's no mistaking the shift in the atmosphere. The air thickens, tension pulling tighter, and the room itself seems to darken in his presence.

"You didn’t mean to?" His voice is dangerously low, but there’s an edge of disbelief in it. "You thought they were dead?"

The mockery in his tone is almost worse than his rage, as if everything you’ve done—everything you thought was inconsequential—has led to this. The pomegranate, the seed, the field… this has been waiting for you. Waiting for someone to make the mistake of finding it, of bringing it back.

"I didn’t know," you whisper, your eyes darting to the edge of the room, anywhere but his burning gaze. "Please... I didn’t know."

For a moment, there’s silence—heavy, suffocating silence. And in that silence, you realize just how much danger you’re really in. This isn’t just about the seeds. It’s about what you’ve awakened. What you’ve released.

And he’s not done with you yet.

“That doesn’t matter. You owe me. You owe me everything. The pomegranates are a contract. How many seeds did you take?”

His grip on your throat has tightened again, though not as much as before. He’s holding you in place, forcing you to face him, to answer him, to acknowledge what you’ve done.

Your pulse quickens, fear seeping into your veins. He’s right. You owe him, but what he doesn’t know is that you hadn’t taken them for any grand purpose. You’d been foolish, reckless even, thinking that the seeds were just something to keep, something harmless. But now, his words cut through you like a blade—those seeds were never meant to be collected, never meant to be used. They weren’t just fruit, they were a binding, a covenant, a contract you hadn’t understood.

You swallow hard, trying to focus, trying to keep your voice steady. "I—I only took a few... just a handful," you whisper, your words hoarse as they tumble from your mouth. "I didn’t think they’d… grow. I didn’t think it meant anything."

Which hand? The right or the left? It’s such a simple thing, such a small detail, but you can feel the gravity of it. He’s making a game of it. Toying with you. You wonder if this is his way of breaking you down, piece by piece.

“A handful, huh? So I should decide how many then?”

“No!”

“So how many?” Caleb’s voice is almost playful in its mockery. “Actually. I’ve decided. Which hand did you take them with?”

Your breath catches in your throat, a lump of dread settling in your stomach. You can barely think, your mind reeling from the weight of his question, his control, his power over you.

A lie wouldn’t do you any good. He’d know. He always knows. The truth is the only way out, even if it feels like a betrayal of your very self.

You try to steady your breath, your hands trembling at your sides as you force yourself to speak, though your voice is barely a whisper. "The right," you manage, the words feeling like acid as they leave your mouth.

“So should I take it? Or break it?” His voice is laced with amusement, yet the question itself is far from playful. There’s a menace in his tone, a quiet assurance that whatever choice you make will only lead to more pain, more consequence.

Your right hand trembles at your side, feeling like a weight you can’t escape. It’s as though he’s already decided your fate, and the moment you answer, it will be sealed. The choice—take it or break it—feels like the very foundation of your existence teetering on the edge. One wrong move, and you’re shattered.

It’s not just your hand he’s talking about. It’s everything. The lies. The theft. The contract. And you have to make a choice.

"Well?" He presses, his smile widening slightly, his patience wearing thin.

His grip tightens around your mouth, pressing down hard enough to stifle your breath. The weight of his hand is suffocating, and your thoughts are scrambling to make sense of everything. His words from earlier echo in your mind: You can thrive with no hands.

Calebs gaze shifts.

“Nevermind that.” he takes your right hand, kissing it. “You can thrive even with no hands, I’m sure, so that would be pointless.”

You try to push through the panic rising in your chest, but it only gets worse when one thought cuts through everything—Josephine.

Your grandmother. Where is she? What has he done to her?

You open your mouth to ask, but his hand clamps over it with more force, cutting off your words, your breath. You struggle, your pulse thundering in your neck, the terror building with every passing second. You can’t think of anything else but Josephine, and the fear of what might have happened to her.

"Shhh," he says softly, almost patronizingly. His voice is too calm, too cold. "No need to speak right now. We'll get to that later."

“Caleb-”

“You took a few. It doesn’t matter. Your hands will know how many it was, even if you forgot. And your tongue will know how many you’ve eaten.”

"Six," he repeats, his voice cold as he watches your hands, as if counting them. The weight of the word presses down on your chest like a heavy stone, and your throat tightens. Six. The number echoes in your mind, a cruel reminder of what you've done, of the mistake that’s now spiraling out of control.

"Please-" his hold goes to your hands, and his eyes close. you struggle to break free, try to kick at him, but he's firm.

"Six."

Dread fills you.

"Six?"

"Six seeds. You ate six seeds."

You struggle against him, your breath quick and uneven as you fight to break free, but his grip is ironclad. His hands are everywhere—on your wrists, your throat, your arms—and no matter how hard you kick or twist, you can’t escape. He’s too strong.

"Please..." you gasp, the word slipping out in a broken whisper, but it’s more out of desperation than anything else. You can feel the weight of the seeds in your gut, the aftermath of your recklessness settling like a poison in your veins.

"Six," he repeats again, the word dragging out in a way that makes it sound almost like a verdict, as though he's already decided what will happen because of it. The dread in your chest deepens, and the air around you feels thick, heavy with an impending sense of doom.

His eyes close for a moment, like he’s savoring the knowledge of your mistake, the fact that you’ve already crossed a line you didn’t even understand until now. When he opens them again, they’re sharper, more piercing than before.

"You don’t understand the consequences," he says softly, almost too calmly. "But you will."

You try to steady your breath, to gather yourself, but everything inside of you is shaking, fear and confusion clouding your thoughts. What did it all mean? Six. Six seeds, and now you're trapped, tangled in a contract you barely remember signing, but which he is now holding you to.

"Six," he repeats one last time, his eyes scanning you like a predator eyeing its prey. The word is both a warning and a promise.

His voice is a low, chilling whisper, a cold wind sweeping through your mind with every word.

"Six seeds in the winter. Six months. Every year."

The weight of his words sinks in slowly, painfully. Six months? Every year? A feeling of dread floods your body, a cold sweat breaking out across your skin as the meaning starts to claw its way to the surface. The pomegranates. The seeds.

The finality in his words cuts through the air, sending a cold shiver down your spine. His hand remains on your jaw, pressing down, his eyes never leaving yours. He leans in, his presence suffocating, his breath hot against your skin.

"You... you will be bound to me. Me. Every year."

The implication of his words settles over you like a weight too heavy to bear. Each year, you’ll have to answer to him, every winter, every cycle, every six months, until... until what? The uncertainty gnaws at you, but the truth is undeniable: you’ve made a pact. And now, you are bound, tethered to him in ways you don’t fully understand yet.

The reality of what he's saying—what it means—sinks in like ice, creeping through your veins. Your breath catches in your chest, and the urge to run, to escape, is overwhelming. But you know better now. You know you can’t escape him. You’ve already given too much away, unknowingly, thoughtlessly.

"You won’t be free," he continues, his voice a low, venomous promise. "Not for as long as you live. Every year, you will return to me. And you will serve your purpose." His thumb traces your lower lip, slow and deliberate, as if savoring the taste of your fear.

"Every year." The words ring in your ears, a constant reminder of the contract you’ve unknowingly entered.

You open your mouth to protest, to plead, but nothing comes out. What could you say? How could you explain that you never meant for this to happen, that you had no idea the consequences would be so... severe?

His eyes gleam with something darker now. Something almost... triumphant.

"You’ll learn the price of what you’ve done," Caleb murmurs, his grip tightening around your wrist, holding you firmly in place. "And when you do, you’ll understand why you belong to me."

His lips crash against yours, urgent and hungry, as if trying to consume you whole, each kiss more fervent than the last. But in that brief, fleeting moment, as his hands grip at your body, you see it. The truth in the shadows of his touch.

His fingers, stained with something dark. Black and red. It’s not just dirt. Not just the earth.

Juice.

The realization hits you in an instant—what you thought was just a product of the field, of his rough nature, was something far worse. Something tied to the very fruit that had been the cause of this entire twisted encounter. His hands, stained with the dark liquid of the pomegranates, blood and juice entwined together. You could smell it faintly—a sweet, acrid scent that clings to him like a curse. It coats his palms, dripping as he touches you, as if his hands were forever stained by the fruit’s sacrifice.

A chill runs through your spine as his touch lingers, his grip tightening. The pomegranates, the seeds—he’s been part of this too. His very essence is tied to them. He’s not just a man, not just some random stranger from the market. He’s part of the cycle, just like you. He’s no god, hes a curse! A snake!

You try to jerk away from his touch, but the force of his hands holds you firmly in place. The stains on his skin are like a brand, marking him, marking you. It’s as though the blood of those fruits courses through him now, and through you.

The softness of the bed feels foreign against your body, like you’re sinking deeper into a pit you can't escape. Your nightgown clings to you, the fabric damp and uncomfortable against your skin. You can’t remember when your boots came off, but the cold from the snow on your clothes lingers, biting at your skin as if it’s refusing to let go. It’s a strange contrast—how you feel trapped in this bed of softness, yet every part of you is screaming for escape.

Caleb’s presence is overwhelming, suffocating. He follows you, his weight pressing down, his breath hot against your skin. His hands are still stained, dark and red, as though the pomegranates’ curse has been embedded in his very touch. Each time his skin brushes yours, it's like you can feel that stain transferring—marking you, binding you further to him.

You try to shift, to find any escape, but his hold is unyielding. Your heart races, your mind scrambling for any way out. But everything feels wrong—like this is the inevitable result of a choice you didn’t even consciously make. The blood on his hands is no longer just the pomegranate juice; it feels like it’s becoming your blood too, intertwining your fates.

"Stay still," Caleb's voice murmurs in your ear, his tone low, almost soothing in its malicious calm. "You’ve already done enough. Now, you just have to accept it."

The weight of his words settles heavily on you, the reality of it all pressing in, making it harder to breathe. You close your eyes, trying to block him out, but you can’t escape the feeling of being completely consumed. He is everywhere—his hands, his touch, his scent.

And you are trapped.

He opens his mouth to bite, and there, you see it- fangs. Horrible, horrible fangs, like a snake. And when he bites-

Your breath is erratic, each inhale sharp and frantic, as your chest heaves with the remnants of the nightmare. The warmth of your bed clings to you like an unwanted weight, your body still tense from the terrifying images that danced in your mind. You blink rapidly, trying to focus, the disorienting haze of sleep still clinging to your thoughts.

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t have been.

But as you scramble out of bed, panic surging through your veins, your legs barely hold you up. You stumble, almost falling as you rush through the dim hallway toward Josephine’s room. Your heart pounds in your ears, and your hands tremble, brushing against the walls to steady yourself. Every step feels like it takes forever.

You reach her door, your breath caught in your throat. You hesitate for just a moment, but the terror, the urgent need to see her safe, pushes you forward. You twist the handle and burst into the room.

"Granny?" you call out, your voice trembling. The room is dark, the shadows in the corners unnerving, but the familiar smell of Josephine’s comforting herbs fills the air. You can hear her slow, steady breathing from the bed, the soft rustling of blankets as she shifts in her sleep.

For a second, you just stand there, listening. Waiting.

Relief washes over you as you realize she’s still there, still alive. The nightmare, the horrible fangs, seem to retreat into the dark corners of your mind as the reality of the moment settles in. Your mind fights to differentiate dream from reality, the lines so blurred, you almost can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

You collapse onto the edge of her bed, your hands trembling as you reach out to brush a lock of gray hair from her face.

She stirs slightly but doesn’t wake.

Your heart stops. The basket, innocently placed beside Josephine’s sleeping form, feels like a jolt of ice through your veins. Pomegranates. Red, ripe, gleaming under the dim light filtering through the cracks in the curtains. You blink, your vision swimming for a moment as you try to steady yourself, but there they are—those cursed fruits, as if mocking your worst fears.

The world seems to tilt as the realization sinks in. You hadn't brought them inside, had you? The dream... had it been a dream? Your eyes dart from the basket to Josephine, your breath catching in your throat. Her soft, even breathing remains unchanged, oblivious to the dangerous gift that sits at her side.

You step closer, as if by instinct, as your fingers tremble at the edges of the basket. Each pomegranate gleams like a secret, an omen you can’t understand, yet it feels all too real.

You stumble away from Josephine’s side, the unease gnawing at your gut. The sight of the basket, so innocently placed, is now burned into your mind. But the chill is not just in your bones; it’s in your very skin.

Racing to the mirror, you meet your own reflection. At first, the face staring back is foreign—disheveled, pale from the cold, with eyes wide in panic. But as your gaze drifts downward, you freeze.

There, just below your jawline, is a mark. The skin is raw, bruised, angry red. It’s a bite. Caleb’s bite.

Your hand reaches up, touching the tender spot. The scar doesn’t just throb with the usual tenderness of a bruise; it burns.

What had been a dream now feels like a slow, suffocating reality that’s slowly tightening its grip around you. You feel his presence lingering like a shadow just outside, and you know deep down that he's watching you, even from a distance.

Outside, the first rays of sunlight are breaking through the clouds, spilling over the snow. You watch as it melts, revealing the earth beneath, yet it feels wrong. Almost like the sun, so pure and innocent, is powerless in this moment. The air feels thick with something you can't name, the stillness broken only by the slow, steady drip of melting ice.

Everything feels wrong. And with each passing second, it becomes clearer: you are no longer in control. The pomegranates have bound you to something you can't undo. The bite on your neck, the basket by Josephine's side, the promise... it’s all real.

And you have no idea how to stop it.

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