#implied coercion tw

[bludstaine]

open   to   —  @burntgcds                location   —   the   parade   of   panem

THE PARADE IS ERUPTING ALL AROUND HER, the floats catch her eye and mina finds herself shrinking against the one depicting the defeat of the rebels, one following it which shows the different capitol fashions through the years which only remind her of everything which surrounds her, all which makes her feel small. it aches to be here at all, put on display for the onlookers whose eyes seem to trail after mina, and she swears she can imagine them salivating in their eager, wanting hunger for her. her eyes close, but it doesn't drown it out, not for a moment as she stands swaying before the parade floats, penned off from the crowd with the other victors as though she's part of another reaping. she can hear whispers of her name, imagines them pointing to the small, silver woman, envious of her fame and her beauty, wondering how they can claim even a handful of it for themselves. eyes snapping open, they land on her sister nearby. they should be closer, they should be, and yet mina has distanced herself from most of the family since her return home so many years back, bloodied and violent. with a sigh, she moves closer, feels her sister's presence like something heavy and impossible to ignore. “how you doing?” she asks, her voice a small and soft thing, so unlike the person she is. everything she must present to the capitol is delicate, pretty, light as the tinkling of bells. “just a few more days of this. feels like an eternity, though.”

[gladiatefm]

open to everyone , capping at 4 / 4 .

mina is still dressed in her finery , the prized lamb to the slaughter with blanche's hand in her own , glistening like a christmas ornament upon her sister's dried out branches . she sparkles , because this has been the image that sold her to this wretched city , even as she grows older mina is dressed as something pretty , something shiny . she's a beacon to those that want her , and the eyes begin to roam , over her .

" go find your friends , " mina says quietly to her sister , eyes following the little silver head as it disappears towards some of the other tributes she had befriended , little social butterfly . mina doesn't want this for her , doesn't want to open blanche up to the truth of the life she leads when she comes to the capitol .

she orders something without alcohol in it , and is handed a pretty , sparkling drink . pink and bubbly as everything mina interacts with must be . she notices a nearby glance and she'll take it , any excuse to hide from the old businessman she spots coming closer . " yes it was true . that's what you're wondering , isn't it ? old dewitt is knocked up and going to her death . "

[wvrricrs]

𝐄𝐔𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐕𝐄𝐑

full biography here !

baby , baby , baby boy -- bullet bio under the cut hehe <3

this is eugene denver ! he was the victor of the sixty seventh annual hunger games. he currently lives in district six's victor's village , his cat , lil garden , and a whole lot of guilt ! he is a part of the uprising , please don't ask him about it. he's bad at keeping secrets.

TW FOR CANON TYPICAL COERCED SEX WORK !!!

eugene grew up the son of a train conductor , something that was a big deal in district six , something not any one can boast. his mother is a school teacher . they both tell him that he can do anything he wants to with his life , that he can grow up and see the world. he grew up comfortable , with a false sense of security, and a knack for the way trains work.

the capitol sends eugene’s family bags of coal every week — in their eyes, it’s easier to send it directly to who will be using it. eugene’s job is to cut open the bags and sort them into smaller bags for each day. his family gives him three advantages over any one in his district or below — he’s fed more than almost any one in his district, he’s strong, and he knows his way around a sharp object. he knows the best way

when he is reaped, his mother holds him so tightly, he thinks he might not even make it to games. his mother holds him like she’s saying goodbye — and really, this is probably for the best. his father is less realistic, puts a hand on his shoulder and tells him that he simply must do whatever it takes. he tells him that it's okay to do whatever he needs to do, that he won’t love him any less. he promises his father that he will do it, that he'll make it out alive.

he makes good on that promise.

he is darling in interviews & capitolites love it. he’s such a cute kid, they say. i’m sure he’ll be such a looker when he’s older. the boy is a charmer. his escort tells him it’s a good thing — he’s so skinny, how will he ever beat those big careers ? ( he remembers being a "big kid" in six . much bigger than some of his peers . it is a shock to the system to go from being hated for having meat on your bones to being disregarded for being so small . )

he is brutal in the arena . no one sees it coming , not even him . eugene denver is the name sounded across the arena . across the capitol . across all of panem . he does not feel like a victor until he is clean , until he is back at his mother's kitchen , dinner given to him with a smile .

they don't have him open coal bags any more, however, having seen every minute of the massacre .

the day of his eighteenth birthday, he begins being whisked back and forth to the captiol. and it doesn’t end until he is not a capitolite darling any more. he's not sure when it happens -- when he slips from public's favor . at least now he can be alone . at least now he can live in peace .

& then the war darkens his doorstep .

and he remembers that somethings are worth fighting for .

[ominous-faechild]

MODERN EXISTENCE

CHAPTER 1: MORE OF THE SAME

CHARACTERS: ✦ Beck Molleur ✦ Dahlia Molleur

story intro moodboard table of contents < last chapter next chapter >

(if it's possible for you to read and listen to lyrical music at the same time, please listen to the music provided ❤️)

NOTE: this story is centered on two characters in a codependent, toxic marriage. Exact content warnings about the relationship will not be given for plot reasons, so if you have ANY possible worries about that subject matter, I beg of you to be cautious before reading this story. Thank you.

Most topics are implied—haunting the narrative rather than being displayed openly—and this story depicts how one can be trapped in that sort of relationship. It has portrayals of depression, self-hatred, and implied abuse... although I would still like and encourage you to read it.

Countless images flashed through Beck's mind.

Flooded streets, loose wreckage of destroyed buildings, and rows and rows of suffering people.

It was always like this. Beck was constantly tormented by these kinds of visions. Visions of pain, destruction, and death. Anything and everything going wrong around the world was stuck in his mind, constantly playing again and again and again.

Whether he closed his eyes or had them open, tried going about his day normally or not, he was tormented by visions of misery.

Still, Beck now had his eyes closed, cheek pressed up against the back of a couch, and noise-cancelling headphones over his ears playing soft, calming music.

With his senses stifled, it was easier to focus on the visions. It was easier to see what he shouldn’t be able to see, hear what he shouldn’t be able to hear, and move what he shouldn’t be able to reach.

The soft music coming from his headphones calmed Beck. He’d seen so much suffering in his life that he’d long-since grown almost numb to it, but… that didn’t mean he was okay with it.

He still wanted to help.

So, when he could, when things were “a little too bad”, Beck made an effort to use his powers for good. He’d make small changes where he could—fill in a pothole that’d been untouched for years, trip up someone on the attack, make a stray noise to draw someone’s attention near danger, or manipulate information that could otherwise destroy people’s lives—and try to help people.

… for once in his life.

“Sometimes I for-get… the world doesn’t want me…”

A whole roof had been torn off its building by the vicious winds of a hurricane. It tore through the air, flying toward another home—and suddenly steered away, crashing into the street instead.

“And I won-der where… all of my friends are…”

Hundreds of miles away, cars were bottlenecked at an aging bridge… one that had long-since been shut down for repairs. Not that it’d ever been repaired—but still. It was supposed to be closed.

People were desperate to escape the hurricane, though.

They risked the bridge, and if it hadn’t been for Beck watching over it? It would’ve cracked under the weight of their cars, plunging them all into the hungry waters below.

“But then I remember… I’d pushed them all a-way…”

So much destruction, so much panic, so much chaos—and Beck did his best to help everyone he could in small ways.

To avoid detection.

For plausible deniability.

Few people believed in magic, so what else were they going to believe? That a god walking among them—one they’d otherwise blame for their misfortune—was looking out for them? Or that the wind moved just in time? That the bridge was just a little sturdier than the architects and scientists believed? That Their God, whichever one or ones they believed in, was looking out for them?

Yes. Far better for people to assume those than the truth.

They’d all agreed on that thousands of years ago.

“So where am I? Who am I?” the song continued, melancholic.

“And what will I do… when I don’t ev-en have me?”

The couch shifted under Beck, tilting him to the side, as something landed on his shoulder.

Beck flinched, mind abruptly returning to his body.

Snapping his eyes open, Beck quickly turned to look at what had disturbed him—

A pair of bright green eyes—on the most beautiful face he’d ever seen—met his.

Despite her soft smile, Dahlia's eyebrows were furrowed slightly in concern as she stared at him expectantly.

“Who will I be?” the song continued.

Dahlia was a woman Beck knew well, though her face had changed countless times over the years. Now, she wore one of a brown woman with angular features and a mane of long, curly brown hair. She sat against the couch with one knee, her hand still on his shoulder, and the scent of her lilac perfume washing over him.

Beck swallowed, then cleared his throat awkwardly as he looked away to stare down at the cushion creased under Dahlia's knee. Every fabric of his being screamed against it, but Beck hesitantly grabbed the earpads of his headphones to slowly take them off.

“Where will I g—?” the song lamented, before getting cut off for overpowering silence.

“Beck?” Dahlia's voice interrupted, warm and gentle. “Everything okay?”

A wave of relief flooded over him.

Relaxing and smiling weakly, Beck hesitantly looked back up to meet her eyes.

“Yeah,” he said awkwardly, “just… was working on some stuff.”

Dahlia's soft smile grew faintly teasing. Then, she shifted to sit in his lap, her knees propped up against the cushions outside of his legs. Her hand moved from Beck's shoulder to his cheek as the other went to the backrest over his shoulder.

“Oh, yeah?” Dahlia asked, her tease leaking into her voice. “Like what?”

Beck felt his face flush as he pressed his cheek into her hand.

Letting out a slow, shaky breath, he turned his face away as he placed his headphones to the side and awkwardly wrapped his arm around her. It pulled her close as he stared hard at the headphones, still faintly emitting sound.

“Just… helping out around the hurricane,” Beck said, his voice subtly thick. “You know… without making it too obvious.”

He let out a small, pained laugh, then closed his eyes as he sank his cheek completely into her hand.

Beck's exhaustion leaked into his voice as he added: “not that anyone would question it, anyways. They just thank whatever god they believe in… or consider it ‘miraculous’ and move on…”

The entire couch shifted as Dahlia moved.

Beck tensed slightly, his breath catching in his throat. He quickly opened his eyes and turned his head to once again look at Dahlia.

His wife shifted to fully sit in his lap, leaning her forearms into his chest, cupping her hands around his cheeks, and meeting his eyes with a warm, loving smile.

“Awe, that’s sweet of you, Beck,” she said, voice slightly teasing still.

Then her eyes closed, and she leaned forward.

Beck took a deep breath before following her example.

Dahlia's hands dropped from his cheeks to rub against his chest as she kissed him gently, then slowly deepened it.

Beck struggled to breathe, but carefully kissed her back. Wrapping his arms around her lower back, he lifted her just enough to cross his legs under her and pull her close.

Dahlia paused the kiss—and Beck opened his eyes, though hers remained shut—to speak lightly against his lips.

“Did you know that?” she asked.

He swallowed awkwardly, looking down, not knowing how to answer.

She didn’t give him the time to figure it out. Instead, she quickly went back to kissing him, moving her hands up his chest and to his cheeks, where she rubbed his jaw with her thumbs.

Taking a slow, unsteady breath through his nose, Beck pulled her even closer and tried to just enjoy the kiss.

I love you, Ver, he wanted to say.

But he bit it back, giving her the moment to do whatever she wanted.

Instead, Dahlia pulled away after kissing him for a few more seconds. Her hands moved from his cheeks to his chest again as he met his eyes with another warm smile.

Beck was too caught up in watching every subtle shift in her expression to recognize his own relief.

“I reserved a restaurant for us to eat at tonight,” Dahlia said, a slight, sly smile on her lips. “Bistro Minuit is your favorite, right?”

Face flushing again—hotter this time—Beck hesitantly tore his eyes from hers to stare at the floor, past her hip. At the same time, he moved a hand from her lower back to place it over one of hers on his chest.

“Yeah,” Beck said awkwardly, his voice thick.

Then he gave a weak, dry chuckle, closing his eyes.

“It’s still open?” he asked, his voice weakly amused. “With how fast time goes by—”

“Uxi,” Dahlia interrupted gently. One of her hands—the one not trapped under his—moved to cup itself around his cheek again.

Beck froze, his breath catching in his throat as he quickly returned his eyes to hers.

But Dahlia still had her warm, slightly-teasing smile on her lips.

Her tease leaked into her voice as she answered: “of course it’s still open. I just told you I made reservations, didn’t I?”

Beck's heart twisted, but Dahlia's face was still soft, easygoing.

“—And, besides, I make sure of these things, you know that,” she finished warmly.

She seems fine. Nothing to worry about.

Beck forced a weak smile in return, but then sighed heavily as he closed his eyes and sank his cheek into her hand again. At the same time, he moved his hand from the one on his chest to cup it over hers on his cheek, lovingly sandwiching it between his cheek and hand.

“Yeah,” he answered, voice thick, but level. “You’re right. Sorry, I’d… I’d like that.”

Feel free to share your thoughts below, regardless of what they are.

Unless, yknow, they're "wtf are you writing; stfu". Or "men can't be abused." Keep that kinda shit out.

This is a very heavy story, and will touch on heavy topics... even if only through implication.

(Also to those of you who recognize their names... 🙂)

story intro moodboard table of contents < last chapter next chapter >

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@the-letterbox-archives @48lexr @aalinaaaaaa @thecomfywriter @an-indecisive-nerd

@seastarblue @rae-butter @mythicalmagical-monkeyman @corinneglass @friedmiu

@caffeinated-starsailor @overwhelmedfernfrond @write-with-will @theink-stainedfolk @industrialideafactory

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@homeforinsomniacs

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divider by @cafekitsune

[saints-helen]

Hehe, first suggestive piece >:333

Basically, crepic foreplay with some sad bits, I'm excited to post this!~

(if anyone thinks cross could dominate you are WRONG. he is a princess in bed and should be treated as such 😌)

cross's breaths were soft, warm, where they fanned against the side of epic's head, his fingertips trailing across his lover's ecto as he laid back in bed, all comfortable and presumably very, Very warm.

he pressed soft kisses against his neck, not biting, not yet, just pressing against the skin, breathing him in, and delighting when cross turned his head to the side, still panting, to give him better access.

"e-epic" he breathed out, and he couldn't help the soft chuckle that escaped him, grinning, as he lifted his head to look at cross, both of their bodies sweaty with all the heat in the room.

and oh.. what a sight he was.

flushed, barely trembling, his eyes lidded and desperate, mouth slightly open so Invitingly that epic Had to force his eyes away, lest he lose himself in the sight.

"yeah?" he answered, and cross took a deep shaky breath, almost whining as he threw his arm over his eyes to hide his face, head turned away from epic.

"don't- look at me like that" he prefaced, then, peeking out, he said "don't tease"

he hummed, "but i like teasing", tugging away cross's arm away from his face resulted in such a pretty little whine escaping him, his brow bones knitting in a near Pout as he tried to glare at him.

"don't Tease" he said again, and epic nuzzled his nose against his cheek, intertwining their fingers together as he kissed the bone beneath his mouth, enjoying the way he felt cross's pulse quicken at the gesture.

"not teasing, then" he replied, his smile ever present; he couldn't help it, not really, not when cross looked This pretty and tempting.

"buttering you up," he said "getting you ready"

"don't wanna" cross huffed out.

"ya gotta" he teased back, earning him yet another whine.

he'd come to find this evening that cross was a very, Very whiny person, and he'd never been as delighted at a discovery like this since he learned how Easy it was to make the man blush.

"stoopppp" he whined, turning his head from side to side in disapproval, panting with eyes squeezed shut.

"i hate you"

"you wouldn't be letting me do this if ya did~" he teases back, only to be met with silence.

ah, right, a bit too soon then, his bad for forgetting.

before it can spiral into anything more, he soothes it away with another purr, nuzzling his nose against his lover's jaw and counting it as a win when he huffs in annoyance.

"bothersome.." he mutters, and epic simply responds "i love you too~"

he's never been one not to listen, however, so he actually begins getting him ready, then.

his fingers gliding down cross's chest to his stomach, enjoying the way his breath Sputters at the sudden change in pace.

he won't go too quickly though, oh no, he's going to savour every single Second of this, commit it to memory, commit Him to memory too, as his hands smooth over the quivering 'skin".

"epic.." he pants out again, more desperation than complaint this time, a soft "a- hah!" escaping him when epic nips at the soft flesh of his neck, quickly pressing a soft kiss against it before moving a bit and doing it again.

he's always gentle with cross, would be even if cross didn't ask him a million times beforehand to be. he'd never been the rough sort of lover, and he knew it was a good thing, as he didn't think cross could handle anything But soft, at least not yet.

he knew the man's life had not been gentle, knew praise was never offered when it should've and that, when someone gripped him, it was never really just to Feel him, never for the sake of it, always was for something else.

he intended to be the exact opposite, refusing to be added to the list of shitty ex lovers who'd never treated him like he'd deserved, who'd taken advantage of his desperate need to please to get what they wanted.

oh.. no, epic would Never be like that, not with a gun pressed to his head.

he'd make sure cross was well taken care of, he'd praise him all throughout , and he knew what cross's inevitable answer would be,

"i didn't even do anything"

it seemed to be his catchphrase, almost, the thing he always said as he blushed, looking off side to side in confusion when epic would randomly tell him how pretty he was, how he loved him,

"but i didn't even do anything"

a denial, almost, a reminder, a plea that he did Not deserve this, even when epic consistently insisted that he did.

always downplaying the work he did around here, how he looked, how lovely he spoke and how funny he joked. it seemed to epic his lover wore the exact Opposite of rose tinted glasses, seeming to see himself as the devil incarnate if he didn't earn Every Little Thing.

he knew cross would feel guilty after this, he knew because he knew him, knew he hated to take an inch without giving a Mile in return, and still feeling like it wasn't enough.

how much effort did this take, then? how much work and careful wording "I enjoy this, I like spoiling my partners" the amount of wordplay needed, convincing, for cross to let him lay him back in bed, looking all pretty, and let epic do all the work?

it Was true, however, he Did like spoiling his partners, even more so if they didn't think they deserved it,

even more so if they've never experienced it before.

epic didn't Like cross's previous partners, didn't like the mark they'd left on his sweet, hilarious, kind lover.

didn't like the way they made every insecurity the man already had ten times worse, so much so that, even now, his claws digging into epic's back, finally unclenching from their place in the bed, hesitant, (and oh how he'd Beg the stars that cross left his mark there), fingers flexing and curling, he still had his clothing on, refusing, even in these most intimite moments, epic the right to look at all of him.

it took long just to get him to unbutton his Shirt all the way, and epic wasn't willing to push anymore than that lest the sweet man get nervous, so he currently admired what of him he Could see, eyes drinking it up with Hunger he'd never dare to hide.

he wantsd cross to know Exactly what he thought of him.

another thing he rememberered, then, when the hand not at his back flew to cross's mouth, eyes squeezed shut at a particularly teasing bite in a place he knew was sensitive, he saw his tempting, far too tempting sharp fangs dig into his palm hard enough to Bleed.

epic, always attentive no matter how hazy his eyes got with lust, put a stop to that quickly, tugging the hand away by the wrist and, using a kiss to the wrist to sneak a look at the wound, assessesing the damage.

not too bad, thankfully, just barely broke 'skin', and his eyes were eventually drawn back to his lover as he tried to yank his hand away, eyes dazed as the tried to focus on him, the newest victim to those teeth the lip caught between them

"please..." he half whined weakly, and epic met his eyes for a moment before pressing the nicked palm to his cheek, then kissing the cut.

"you're pretty when you beg," he murmured, "but i don't like to see you bleeding. don't do this, please" he says, the last word added to make absolutely sure that what he said did Not sound like an order.

it scared him, he'd admit, when cross looked at him like what he'd said was an order.

he hated it with a passion.

"sorry..." he mutters, face turned to the side, and epic will take it,

at least he didn't add "sir" to the end of it this time, by reflex. it never failed to make him nauseous whenever he did.

right, so where was he? ah, yes, he was trailing circles with his thumb against the dip in his hip, a spot he found he Especially liked to tease.

it was very pretty. cross was very pretty. he never understood how anyone couldn't see that, because even if he found himself with his eyes closed, his hands would still shake as he imagined the curves of that body as he smoothed them over it.

cross never liked being too loud, and epic knew it would translate to this, too, because whenever his voice got a pitch higher than he wanted his mouth would always clamp shut.

it wasn't difficult to figure out what cross needed, what he wanted, not at all, and he wasn't quite sure what all the Fuss was about.

cross had told him, hours before they began this because yes, it took him hours to soothe the anxiety enough for them to start, that sex had never really been all that.. tempting, for him before. (understandable, considering his orientation.) that he'd never craved it with anyone as much as he did so with epic.

(and oh.. how Delightful that was to hear, his soul soaring as he grinned.. but before he could inevitably tease him about it cross had thrown a pillow in his face, so he figured he'd keep his mouth shut for now)

that, with those he'd been with before, it always seemed like a dreadful ticking time clock of patience that would eventually run out, when the "I'm not ready yet" would start to be met with frustration instead of care, when the "I'm sorry. are you mad at me?" would stop being met with a response altogether.

again, he didn't know what all the Fuss was about, so what if cross wasn't willing to have sex on the first date? or second? or the thirtieth?

so what if he needed some extra time to feel up to it? to feel comfortable enough being in such an incredibly vulnerable position that required an amount of trust from the man that, frankly, most people took for granted?

epic was happy to have cross in any way cross let him, whether it be his friend, his lover, his queer platonic partner, you name it. as long as he got to stay at his side, making him happy, he was content.

he didn't Need the sex, he'd enjoy it sure, but it was far from a deal-breaker for him, he'd wait for as long as cross needed him to, hell, he'd wait Forever if that's what cross needed him to do.

because he deserved it, he absolutely Deserved it, and he'd said so, too, only for cross to deny him his conviction under the argument that "some people Do need it, epic."

it was absolute bull, the rushing the man was always subject to, but he was too busy listening to cross tell him about always eventually Caving, initiating the act under the guilt of "depriving them" just so they'd smile at him again, stop looking at him with a look that screamed "When?", the lingering looks shot to him, when they thought he couldn't see, when they both were watching a movie that happened to have an intimate scene, where cross, ever so perceptive, fascinating cross, Knew Exactly what they were thinking. He was too busy - he was never the sort to get so angry - controlling his breathing to argue his point.

"pretty thing.." he purred, cross's breath hitching as he bit him again, a calculated move, as he knew cross was about to deny it again.

"doing so good for me.. singing so sweetly.. " a whine "pretty bird~"

he extended his claws, dragging them across cross's abdomen and down his pants, feeling him squirm and writhe beneath him, and stars, he'd never been more turned on in his Life.

cross's arms both wrapped around his neck, holding on tightly as he buried his face in his shoulder, and epic could feel the tenseness in his legs as he tried not to kick them, toes curling.

he didn't enter him, yet, didn't even tease it, still trailing slow sensual circles into his inner thighs, getting a soft moan as a reward for his efforts.

he wanted cross to enjoy this, he wanted him to enjoy it as much as he possibly could, and despite his earlier protests at epic teasing him, he figured cross wouldn't want to go too fast either.

he didn't want to make him feel used, god forbid let him think epic was getting Impatient with him, so for now, and for a while yet, he'll continue to get him wet without actually doing much of anything.

he liked it better that way, anyway.

[incaensio]

setting : pre plot drop, during flickerman's after party. with : finnick odair ( @secretlics )

finnick odair is always easy to spot. once upon a time, constantinus marveled at the team work, the genius that went into building that pretty, deadly kid from four into the most desired thing around — it took the boy, sure, but also his mentors, his stylists, the whole thing. a part of the marvel is still there, con would say, but most of it has been replaced by the disgust that settles deeply into his core. finnick odair had been a boy then, and there's not a hint of that anymore. constantinus can not be afford to think like that, of that, of that boy, when he walks in his direction and plants a kiss upon finnick's lips as a greeting. "sweetheart." drawls out in his capitol accent, smirk upon his lips. he'd throw up if he could. he knows it's not one-sided.

the action allows him some room. not a lot — their affair has made headlines a few times, but con has said in an interview he's not the extremely jealous type before, and finnick is always so generous to capitolites, isn't he? "oh, i'm so sorry to interrupt." the act continues, eyes widened as if he hadn't seen anyone but finnick around them; the cockroaches make a few noises, but linger still. "would it be too much to ask for some alone time? i know these people love you so, but don't i get some priority, darling?" he quirks a brow, no lovey dovey sweetness in his blue eyes as he looks into finnick's own, even if he has a hand upon finnick's shoulder. this is a game. they need to get out of it to speak properly.

"i have something i got for you, but it has to be private." the double - intended words resume the gagging instinct to his throat, but constantinus tightens his lips into a smile, and hopes he can get out of here before he throws up.

[gladiatefm]

she feels so stupid — how could she allow this to happen when she is forced to be careful , to take accountability for what they have her do with the capitol citizens who pay good money to adore her . that dreadfully human part of her that fell into bed with caius , drunk on the expensive champagne , on the desperate need to run from her own thoughts brought her to this moment . if she survives what comes next , mina will become a mother , and she isn't ready for that . she simply isn't that person . " it's true , " she nods , though she's certain johanna can read it on her face , devastated by the fact of it . " you don't have to say anything . . . let's just get through this . hang on for as long as possible in there . i'll deal with it on the other side . "

"don't think i haven't thought about it already." they say, pointing at mina. they're trying to stave off the affection they have for the white haired girl, they're trying to plant their feet to keep from hurrying to hug her. so instead of all that they look at mina, they try to not see the truth of what had been admitted on camera. they try not to see mina as a victim, they never had before but now? now things were different and that wasn't fair but it was true. "is it true?" they ask then, just to be sure, just so they knew it wasn't a ploy for sympathy. they'd be proud almost, if it had been. but they knew before mina spoke what the answer was. "mimi, i ---" but no words came to mind, head empty, heart swollen, it was uncomfortable.

[vermillion-bloodmoon]

(TSAMS Continuity AU) When The Abused Becomes The Abuser

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TW: HEAVILY SUGGESTED SA, COERCION, AND MANIPULATION. LUNAR FANS DON'T READ THIS IF YOU DON'T WANT TO SEE LUNAR BEING AN ABUSER. ALSO HEAVY DENIAL FROM TERRY'S END.

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Terry's Memories

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The current memory Terry was dreaming of was when he and Lunar were having a movie night in Lunar's apartment. It had been one of the few times in their relationship where Lunar wasn't busy. It did bother Terry a lot, but he was desperate for a relationship like this to not end so soon, so he stayed with Lunar. Terry also noted that him and Lunar were under some blankets. Lunar had insisted on it, saying it would make things more cozy and comfy for movie night. Terry had agreed on that front, things were a lot more comfy honestly...

Terry's eyes had then widened and he let out a squeak of surprise at feeling something plant itself right around his junk area, though it quickly went away as soon as he made a noise.

Terry: Lu, what was that??

Lunar: What was what?

Terry: I-I don't know, I felt something touch me down there....I-I didn't expect it at all...

Lunar: Oh, that's weird...I don't think there's anything under here. Maybe it was just a rat.

Terry: There's rats here???

Lunar: Sometimes.

Terry had lifted the blankets they were under, checking if there was actually something crawling around.

Terry: O-Oh...there's nothing...I-I prolly just shifted the blanket weird and didn't realize it.

Lunar: Yeah, probably. Sometimes I get phantom feelings too.

Terry: Eheh...

Lunar had then given him a kiss on the forehead, Terry awkwardly smiling before going back to watching the movie. He really didn't want to believe Lunar might've done that without him being fully aware, having been deeply focused on the movie....

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Terry's Apartment...?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Terry abruptly woke up, sitting up in his bed and rubbing his left eye.

Terry: Another memory dream....been having those a lot lately ever since I made up with Lunar about the whole "attacking him in a feral rage" thing....

Terry sighs and gets out of bed, passing by his closet and stopping at his mirror. He squinted at his reflection for a minute before it showed a projection of himself in his bed with Lunar under the blankets. Terry panicked and looked back at his bed before looking back at the mirror, which showed a suppressed memory of Lunar pinning down Terry's body and whispering things into the side of his head. Terry immediately planted his own hands against the side of his own head and shook it rapidly.

Terry: No no no, shut up! He didn't do anything bad, I-I agreed t-to-!!

What Lunar was saying got louder, loud enough for Terry to hear and remember...

Lunar(Reflection): Sh...this is what partners normally do, Terry....don't you want to stay with me?

Terry(Reflection): I-I do....b-but I...a-are you sure this is a n-necessary thing?

Lunar(Reflection): I'm sure...don't you trust me, baby doll~?

Terry: No no no....he's not him! He's not him! He didn't force me! H-He didn't-!!

Terry(Reflection): I....I t-trust...y-you...

Terry didn't want to have to listen to the rest of the memory, trying to find something to smash the mirror with. The background was filled with the memory version of Terry making sudden distressed noises and cries for Lunar to stop what he was doing to him, also of him struggling and making strangled noises until Terry himself shattered the mirror, panting heavily as the memory cut to when Lunar had finally been pushed off the bed by Terry. Terry remembered Lunar being quiet, offering to comfort him but Terry rejected it and had told him to just leave....

Terry: ...I'm still dreaming...I-I'm still dreaming, no way that was real, no way that was real...! He d-didn't do that...I-I'm just....overreacting...

Terry went back to his bed and sat down right in front of it, trying to calm himself down....only for a hand to suddenly grab his ankle and pull him underneath, Terry letting out a screech of terror....

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Terry's Apartment, For Real This Time

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Terry woke up in a cold sweat, dried tears staining his face as he sat up and looked around his room. They panted as they then smacked at their own face, wincing as he felt the pain. This was real, he was back in his room...he was safe...or at least, he should be safe now.

Terry: Just...breathe Terry. You're okay...you can get through this...just...forget about it, forget about it...play it off and forget about it.

Terry sighed and tried to rub the sleep out of his eyes and put back on a silly smile, he couldn't let anyone know how much he was really hurting, and he couldn't tell Lunar's family about what happened....Lunar was already suffering the consequences of harming Soliel with dark star power and tampering with it at all, they felt now wasn't the time to add to that...maybe later...maybe later.

[gladiatefm]

mina dewitt , sole survivor .

[gladiatefm]

there is no part of her that would offer sympathy to a crane — to any of them . mina has been bought and sold , practically came up in capitol society from child to adult , a shining beacon of a celebrity from one of those dirty little districts that made it out . wasn't she so lucky ? wasn't she so brave ? she despises the sorry lot of them , but maybe it's the hormones which find her offering livinia crane the tiniest crumb of empathy she has within her . " parents , " a tight nod , what could she have in common with anyone in this place if not her overbearing , hateful father ? " did you get an explanation ? as to what happened ? it was so sudden . . . i still don't know what happened to cain . " a lie . she knows all too well , but information is out there for her prying eyes to land upon .

was she close to cain ? it depends . she wasn't home much thanks to her work within the capitol , avoided a family who looked at her as though they didn't know who the hell she was once she left that arena behind . bloody hands , far away eyes — but cain still saw a sister when he looked at her . she will miss that much . " it was complicated , " she admits , gaze falling to the ground . " my family isn't known for its compassion . . . but he was a good brother all the same . i'll miss him , i suppose . "

"Mm," Livinia hums, "We weren't terribly close." She would mourn, of course. Like Mina, the weight of everything that had happened in the past few days had not truly hit her. Maybe, once she'd had time to think about it, she would feel sadness about the death of her mother. Not for the woman she was – no, Rhea Crane was a monster of a woman, a wretched being with a heart made of stone and tongue made of daggers. One Livinia had spent her entire life trying to please and revolt in equal measure. No – she did not mourn the woman who had spent her entire life picking Livinia apart, who had never loved her as a mother should.

Instead, she would mourn what could have been. She would mourn the fact that, now, even if she wanted to, she would never have a positive relationship with her mother. She would never be able to articulate the damage that the woman had done to her. She would mourn the way her mother had sharpened Livinia into a weapon made of glass, ensuring she could never have what she wanted without destroying herself in the process.

She would mourn the fact that the hatred she felt towards her mother – for dooming her to this life, this same miserable fate – now had nowhere to go. That it would take root inside Livinia and rot her from the inside out. That her mother had left her with nothing but poison, that she was destined succumb to the same subordinance. "I imagine you were close with your brother." She says instead, face blank.

[akunya]

hello ive always loved your fics since nijien days and now more into love and deepspace, specifically sylus (the pipeline is universal, i’m afraid) so now, i beg for stalker sylus who is obsessed with everything you do, will fuck you in an alleyway please, cnc and mindbreak, thank you 🙏🏻

"window watching."

pairings: sylus x m!reader

summary: sylus can only take so much of your teasing before he breaks. unfortunately for you, his methods aren't so nice.

tw: NONCON, stalking, obsessive behavior, size diff., frottage, sph (if you squint), praise. implied kidnapping, handjobs, choking, coercion, dacryphilia etc.

notes: see how i didnt add stalker to the front of his name? i genuinely think he would stalk the shit out of you and it doesnt need to be an au, lol.

in all seriousness, i hope you enjoy it. i'm getting back into the swing of things... probably a bit ooc and doesnt follow the game lore (too much, that is).

im uploading this while sick, so i apologize for any mispellings/mistakes/etc.

please let me know what you think!

stalker sylus who cannot, at first much to his dismay, keep his eyes off of you.

everywhere you go, every time you think you have a sliver of privacy: he's always watching. whether its mephisto or one of the twins, he needs to know what you're doing at all times. taking note of what stores you visit, what time you usually come home, who you talk to. it becomes an urge he cant quite satisfy.

at first, he only watched out of boredom. yea sure, he needed you alive, so keeping note of your location was just another one of his duties. someone as naive and reckless as yourself was bound to get into trouble.

but gradually it gets worse.

"where are you off to now, kitten?" mumbling to himself, the man swipes across his phone screen, watching surveillance cameras with a bated breath as you walked home. your figure was a bit blurry, but that didn’t stop sylus as he watched intently. it was nothing truly unusual. around this time, you'd be already cozied up in bed, but it seems like work made you stay overtime tonight. "idiots.." sylus's brow furrowed slightly at the thought of you overworking yourself.

before you, he didn't care much for romance. friendship, trivial things: he thought those were what made a person weak.

but now?

every little thing you do drives him mad. the way you carefully fold your clothes after finishing your laundry to make sure your room stays clean. how you always greet the cashier at the nearby convenience store with a smile, thanking them for bagging your items. how long you take a shower for, which coffee shop is your favorite, even down to the type of shampoo and conditioner you use daily: sylus had it all down to a science. he practically knew everything about you.

even then, a question still rang through his mind. why would you waste your time with all of these other men?

he knew about that strange doctor who's gaze lingered on yours a little too long for his liking. sylus felt his fist clench when he would watch you talk to that painter too, jaw clenching in annoyance when he would see you walk home or to work with that blonde boy.

he shook his head, trying to snap out of his own thoughts. this wasn't about them. right now, this was about you.

it was another evening with you winding down after a long day of work. a tired sigh leaves your lips, and sylus’s cock throbs watching you undress as you slowly slip off your shirt. was it normal to be staring at another man like this? watching from cameras could only do so much, so this time, the villain found himself on a roof adjacent to your window. thankfully, you were too stupid a majority of the time to close the blinds, so he had a nice view of your nightly routine.

...which was mostly boring to watch, if he's being honest. you walked around shirtless for a moment, putting away your work gear and leaving your shoes by the door. it was a whole lot of nothing for a good 15 minutes, leaving sylus to rethink his choices for the night.

sitting on the cold bricks of the adjacent roof, he couldn't help feeling just a tinge of shame. "how pathetic, watching afar like some sort of pervert. i should just go in there and.." he scoffed, eyes narrowing in what seemed to be.. annoyance? the leader of onychinus hated chasing his prey like some sort of weakling. he was better than this. he deserved to have you in his arms, no matter what you thought or said.

however, his words abruptly came to a stop when your fingers trailed to the hem of your pants.

dark red eyes stared deeply at your hands as they softly pushed at the fabric of your boxers. languid fingertips played with the fabric, yawning as your thumbs hooked against the waistband and began to pull. further and further, pulling ever so slightly to show off a bit of your happy trail, the base of your cock threatening to peek for unwanted visitors to gawk at. sylus could feel himself leaning closer, the distance between the roof and your window suffocating as more of your skin was exposed.

almost, that is, before an imaginary light bulb in your head went off and you quickly took your hands out of your pants. "shit, i forgot to pick up dinner on my way home. i should do that now before i go to bed," you thought to yourself, whisking away from the window and grabbing a plain shirt to throw on. reaching for your keys and wallet, you opened the door and left your apartment as usual, unbeknownst of the dangerous man watching your every step.

sylus's own hands were nearly trembling. the ache and tent in his pants didn't help either, feverishly getting up and following you as you made your way into linkon city. he didn't have to ask mephisto or the twins to follow you - thankfully, the rooftops gave sylus a clear view of the streets below, and he could spot you out from anywhere. the man didnt bother to speed up either, knowing which store you were going to (you were very predictable, after all).

he also knew that there's a convenient dark alleyway just before you would turn the corner to go to the establishment. unfortunately, this vital piece of information slipped your mind, leaving you completely unaware and unguarded as rough hands yanked you into the darkness.

"mmph-!" you tried to scream, the hand covering your mouth muffling your pleas. even though you worked out and were pretty fit because of your hunter lifestyle, your strength was nothing compared to the man hovering above you, wriggling to no avail.

"shh, kitten. you wouldn't want anyone to hear us, would you?" the older man mocked, relishing in the fear and befuddlement in your eyes. it took a second for you to process that the other man was none other than sylus himself, smirking as you squirmed in his grasp. red eyes bore into yours, filing you with fear that rose every second. why did he have you pinned in some dirty alleyway like a thief? surely it wasn't money he was after.

the leader moved his hand from his mouth to your neck, holding you in place as you gasped for air. "s-sylus? what are you doing here?!" crying out, your body couldn't struggle anymore, so you opted for your hands gripping his wrist and trying to pull it off of your neck. "what does it look like im doing?" he scoffed, leaning in close to your ear.

"im here to see you, of course."

brow furrowing, you looked at him in confusion as you took in your surroundings. "a dark, dingy alleyway?" you thought aloud, looking him up and down. sylus fixed his posture as he looked down at you, your size difference becoming more obvious by the second. "oh, did you want me to come and knock on your door instead? i apologize, sweetie. you should've told me you wanted the big bad leader of onychinus inside your little headquarters." his grin infuriated you as you rolled your eyes.

before you could think of a clever rebuttal, sylus wedged his knee in between your legs, parting them open as his thigh pressed against your crotch. "i-i dont.." you muttered, voice raising in pitch to pair with your nervousness as he kissed your neck. he didn't bother answering your silly questions, simply smiling before biting into your shoulder. you hissed in pain, trying to push him off even more than before.

"you don't what, love?" his voice isn't serious at all for the situation you're in. cold skilled hands fiddled with your zipper, freezing for just a moment before gripping onto your girth. the sensation made you cry out again, unable to hide your face from your attacker, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. sylus coo'ed at your feeble attempts to push him away, unbuttoning and pulling out his own cock to hold against yours.

looking down, the size comparison of his cock against yours made your face feel warm. ""aww, look at you sweetie. you're all bark but no bite." the older man laughed again, fingertip circling the head of your cock as he teased you. you loathed the way you shuddered at his snide remarks, the sound of the bustling city just feet away making you panic again.

you raised your voice, "sylus, this isn't funny anymore, seriously! cut it out!".

the wordless tension spoke volumes.

sylus didn't laugh or comment on your refusal. instead, his grip on your neck only grew tighter, choking you against the wall as his other hand started to make a fist around both of your cocks. "do you see me laughing?" his tone was firm as he squeezed harder on your throat. you couldn't say anything back, choking out a sob as he slowly began to jerk you both off together, a low moan slipping from his lips.

"ive wanted this for so long, kitten. so fucking long." muttering, he continued to grind his hips against yours, the unwanted pleasure making your head spin. "i've had enough watching from afar. i think its finally time i get what i want, right?" he kissed the tip of your ear, toying with the cartilage between his teeth.

unable to believe what was happening, you could only cry out more strings of "please", "stop", "no": all music to sylus's ears. "you don't really want me to stop, right? look at how much your cock is leaking onto mine.." he chuckled lowly again, grabbing the back of your neck to force your gaze downwards.

he wasn't wrong, either - dribbling precum and throbbing the entire session, your dick looked just as eager as sylus's, twitching with every flick of his wrist. it wasn't your fault that sylus was way more experienced compared to you. whining, you shook your head again, trying to close your eyes shut so you wouldn't remember any of this. the outside world was so dangerously close, and anyone could catch you two at any moment. how disgraceful it would be: a well known hunter being caught rubbing cocks with the renowned leader of onychinus. you frowned at the thought, whimpering as sylus went back to kissing your bruised neck.

"you could come with me, yknow. back to the n109 zone, i'd take such good care of you." sylus whispered as he felt himself inch closer to his own release, hand pumping furiously between you two. hot tears streamed down your cheeks, your brain awry with the overwhelming sensations of pleasure and pain. "you could have anything you wanted. you wouldn't have to work another day in your life." he groaned, balls tightening at the thought of his own perverse fantasy, imagining you kept in his bedroom all day just for him to use.

"d-don't, sylus please -" you hiccuped, forehead resting on sylus shoulder as he toyed with you. "im gonna cum," sobbing as you held onto his biceps, not wanting to sink any further against the dirty alleyway wall. with so much teasing and dirty whispers from the other, you couldn't think straight, practically panting in sylus's ear as his hands jerked you both off closer and closer.

growling, sylus slotted his lips against yours, a surprisingly gentle kiss before muttering under his breath. "be a good boy and cum for me then," using your fluids as lube, the squelch of his tight fist jerking off your cock made you spill. moaning loudly, your nails dug into his arm as thick ropes of semen poured out, mixing with his load that came seconds after.

silence filled the space between both of you as you tried to catch your breath. your eyelids felt heavy, leaning onto sylus for full support as he rubbed your back. you couldn't quite process what just happened, brain feeling much too fuzzy for any thinking right now.

perhaps it was a mix of exhaustion from your normal workday and your encounter that made you pass out on the older man's shoulder. nonetheless, he was not going to let this opportunity go to waste. pressing onto the comms headpiece in his ear, sylus spoke as quietly as he could not to disturb you.

"luke, kieran, bring one of the cars to my location. i have a little kitten coming home with me today."

[hellinistical]

in which 6 months have passed and caleb has come to collect.

part two to Stamen Cluster tw: implied pregnancy. minor character death. dubious consent/non-con. kidnapping. coercion. wc: 13.2k

The summer sun beats down relentlessly, golden rays drenching the village in warmth. The air hums with life—cicadas drone in the trees, the distant chatter of market-goers echoes through the streets, and the chickens in your yard cluck contentedly as they peck at the plump grains you toss their way. They've grown fat and glossy, their feathers shining in the sunlight like polished gold.

The world around you seems to have flourished. The grass is lush and vibrant, swaying lazily in the soft breeze. Wildflowers bloom in riotous colors, dotting the landscape with splashes of red, yellow, and blue. Even the market has transformed—stalls overflow with fresh produce, their owners smiling and calling out to passersby with cheer you hadn’t seen in years. 

The market boomed in the village square, its stalls overflowing with fresh produce, colorful fabrics, and trinkets brought in by traveling merchants. The air was filled with laughter and the chatter of bartering voices, the scent of baked bread and spiced meat wafting through the streets. Life had seemingly returned to normal, for everyone but you.

The dreams had stopped. Weeks ago, they had ceased entirely, leaving behind a deafening silence. At first, you were relieved, grateful to sleep through the night without the suffocating presence of Caleb haunting your every thought. But relief turned to unease. The absence of dreams didn’t mean the absence of him.

You didn’t forget. Not the bite, not the basket, and certainly not the promise. Every pomegranate you passed at the market brought it all rushing back. Every glance in the mirror reminded you of the scar on your neck, now faded but still there, a ghost of that winter night.

Josephine had noticed your change, of course. She would mutter about how you’d become quieter, more distant. You’d wave her off with excuses of being busy, of chores piling up- because really, how would you go about explaining to your grandmother that some man had bit you and told you that you had to go to him every six months? 

When Josephine had first noticed the bite on your neck, she squinted at you over the rim of her spectacles, her tone sharp with suspicion.

"What's that on your neck?" she asked, gesturing with her knitting needle.

You’d reached up reflexively, your fingers brushing over the faint scar. "A cat bite," you’d replied smoothly, offering her a dismissive shrug. "You know how that stray's been hanging around. Got a little too friendly."

Josephine had frowned, unconvinced, but she didn’t press.

And the pomegranates—oh, she had asked about those too.

"What’s with that basket in my room?" she’d demanded one morning, hands on her hips. "I don’t remember planting any pomegranate trees."

You’d forced a laugh, light and airy, as if her question was absurd. "A gift," you said quickly. "I was meaning to pass them along, but your room has the best sun. Didn’t want them to spoil before I could deliver them."

Her eyes had lingered on you for a beat too long, but eventually, she’d let it go, mumbling about the heat of the season and the wastefulness of letting good fruit sit too long.

The moment she’d shuffled out of the room, you’d wasted no time. Gathering the basket, you’d carried it outside, heart pounding the entire way. The sight of those glossy red fruits had turned your stomach, their weight in your hands far heavier than it should’ve been. You hadn’t even dared to bury them; instead, you hurled them into the thickest part of the woods, where the undergrowth was dense and the sun barely reached.

You’d stayed there for a moment, breathless, staring at where the pomegranates had disappeared into the shadows. Only when the breeze shifted, carrying the faintest scent of earth and fruit back to you, did you turn and walk away, refusing to look back.

But. 

The next day, the damned things were back.

You froze in place the moment you entered Josephine’s room, your pulse hammering against your throat. There they were, sitting on her table as though you’d never thrown them into the woods, the basket perfectly arranged, every pomegranate still plump and gleaming with an almost unnatural sheen.

For a moment, you just stared, your breath caught somewhere between disbelief and dread. How? How could they possibly be here? You’d thrown them far—far enough that even wild animals wouldn’t have dragged them back.

"What’s wrong with you?" Josephine’s voice snapped you out of your frozen state. She was knitting by the window, her gaze flicking between you and the basket. "Don’t tell me you’ve lost your mind over a few pieces of fruit."

You shook your head quickly, forcing a shaky laugh. "No, no. Just... surprised they’re still looking so fresh in this heat."

"Hmph. They do look odd, don’t they?" she mused, squinting at them. "Almost like they’ve just been picked. I thought you said they were a gift from someone?"

"Y-Yeah," you stammered, taking a cautious step closer. "Guess they’re hardier than I thought."

She waved a hand dismissively. "Well, they’re wasting space in my room. You’d better do something with them before they rot. Lord knows I don’t want that smell in here."

You nodded, swallowing hard as you grabbed the basket again, its weight unnerving in your hands. They felt heavier than before, almost as if the fruits were mocking you with their persistence.

This time, you carried them even farther, past the woods and into the rocky streams beyond. You hurled them into the water one by one, watching as the current carried them away.

And the next day, they were on your bed.

You froze in the doorway, staring at the basket sitting squarely in the middle of your quilt, pristine and accusing. It was impossible—completely, utterly impossible—but there they were, the pomegranates gleaming as if they had just been plucked.

Your heart thundered in your chest as you stepped inside, the wooden floor creaking beneath your boots. You slammed the door shut behind you and leaned against it, your hands trembling.

You paced your room, back and forth, back and forth, the floorboards groaning under your restless movement.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," you whispered under your breath, running your hands through your hair. The pomegranates sat there, unbothered by your panic, their bright crimson skin a taunting contrast to the faded, dusty hues of your little room.

"Why won’t you leave me alone!" you hissed, throwing your hands in the air. "It hasn’t been six months! Leave me be!"

Your words echoed in the room, falling flat against the oppressive silence. The only sound was your own ragged breathing and the faint chirping of cicadas outside the window.

You glanced at the basket again, your frustration bubbling over. You stomped over to it, gripping the edge of the woven handle so tightly your knuckles turned white. "What do you want from me?!"

The basket didn’t answer.

But of course, they didn’t answer; they were pomegranates.

You let out a short, bitter laugh, rubbing your temples. "I’m going crazy. I’m actually going crazy," you muttered to yourself, pacing again.

The fruit sat there in perfect silence, unbothered by your spiraling. Their ruby-red skin seemed almost alive in the golden summer light filtering through the window, as though mocking you with their unnatural vibrance.

Bingo. The solution hit you like a lightning bolt—if they wouldn’t leave you alone, then fine. You’d just give them to someone else. Someone could eat them, and that’d be the end of it.

You turned on your heel, marched back to the underbrush, and snatched up the basket. Dirt clung to the edge of one of the fruits, but the rest were still as pristine as ever. You wiped the sweat from your brow, muttering to yourself.

"Granny thought they were a gift for someone, didn’t she? Well, might as well make them a gift. Problem solved."

You held the basket at arm’s length, like it might sprout legs and attack you, and trudged back toward the house. The sun beat down, making you squint as your boots kicked up little clouds of dust.

The market. Yes, the market would be perfect. Someone there would take them off your hands, no questions asked. You just needed to make it quick—drop them, smile, and leave. Nothing to it.

***

The market, alive with the hum of summer prosperity, bustled far busier than usual. Vendors shouted over each other, the mingling scents of fresh bread, herbs, and livestock mingling in the thick, warm air.

Luckily, Tara's stall didn’t have too long of a line. You weaved your way through the crowd, sidestepping an overzealous butcher swinging a cleaver a little too close for comfort.

By the time you reached the wooden counter, Jenna was already sorting through an armful of herbs, her hands swift and precise. She glanced up as you approached, her brows lifting.

"Well, don’t you look like you’ve been running from something," she quipped, tying a neat bundle of rosemary. "What’s in the basket?"

You hesitated, clutching the cursed thing a little tighter. "Pomegranates."

Jenna tilted her head, her curiosity piqued. "Pomegranates? In the middle of summer?"

"Yeah." You glanced down, trying not to sound as uncomfortable as you felt. "Thought Tara might want them. For...you know, preserves or something."

Jenna wiped her hands on her apron, eyeing the fruit. "Bit unusual for you to bring gifts."

"They're not—" You stopped yourself, forcing a smile. "Just...trying to get rid of them before they go bad."

She smirked but didn’t press further. "Tara’s packing up some jams right now, just give her a sec. I’ll let her know you’ve got a little surprise for her."

"Great," you said, setting the basket down on the counter. “Great, great, great.”

Not great. 

Definitely not great when Tara finishes up and comes up, all happy and excited that you’ve come to visit her, with a gift no less. She wipes a streak of flour off her cheek. “Oh, hey! What’s this?”

"A gift," you replied, forcing a smile. "Thought you might like some pomegranates. Fresh. Perfectly ripe."

Her eyes lit up as she peeked inside. "Wow, really? These are so expensive in the market right now. Where’d you get them?"

"Friend of a friend," you said quickly, waving a hand as if to dismiss the question. "Figured I’d share the luck."

Tara reached out to pick one up, her fingers grazing the smooth skin of the fruit. For a moment, you almost snatched it back- almost. Instead, you took a deep breath and said, “They’re all yours, enjoy.”

And of course, she didn’t just let you leave. “Why don’t you sit? I can take a break!” “Oh, uh, no, I shouldn’t. You know, Granny is-” “Oh come on, Y/n, we need to catch up!”

You hesitated at the edge of the stall, hands suddenly feeling too warm in the heat of the market. Tara's energy was contagious, and her smile only made it harder to say no.

"No, really, I should get back. Granny's waiting—"

"Granny can wait!" Tara interrupted, her hands on her hips, playful but firm. "We haven't had a proper chat in ages. Come on, just a few minutes, I insist!"

Her insistence was like a gentle pull, urging you to sit, and before you knew it, you found yourself taking the seat she’d pulled out for you.

"Fine," you muttered, crossing your arms as if that might stop the inevitable catching-up that was coming. "Just a few minutes."

Tara beamed, pulling her apron off and hanging it over the edge of the stall. "Great! Now, tell me everything. How's Granny? You? Any guys in your life yet?" 

You couldn’t help but chuckle at her eagerness, but it didn’t stop the uncomfortable flutter in your stomach. It was one thing to lie about the pomegranates, but talking about that?

You hesitated, trying to maintain a casual tone. “Granny’s good, really. She’s getting old, but tough as always,” you started, trying to keep it light.

"And me? Well, you know how it is. Just busy with things around the house, the farm..." You shrugged, brushing past the question of you.

Tara's eyes narrowed slightly, sensing the deflection. “Busy with farm stuff? You don’t even look like you’ve got your hands full these days.” She smirked, and for a moment, you could see the playful challenge in her eyes.

"You're dodging the question, Y/n," she teased. "Any guys? Any... interesting ones, maybe?"

You froze for a moment, the question hanging in the air like an unspoken weight.

“Really?” You forced a laugh, trying to ease the tension. "I'm busy with Granny. You know how it is."

But Tara wasn’t letting it slide that easily. She leaned in, a sly smile creeping onto her lips. “Come on, now. You’ve got to at least be talking to someone. There’s gotta be someone who's caught your eye, yeah?”

The words stung a little too much. You barely even remembered the last time someone caught your eye.

But you couldn’t let her see that. You smiled, shaking your head. “Nope, not really. No time for any of that.”

Tara didn’t seem entirely convinced, but she let it drop, leaning back in her seat. “Alright, alright. I’m just saying, you deserve someone who gets you.”

And you would laugh. Really, you would- if not for the hand that suddenly rested on your shoulder,

Tara's voice is bright, almost musical as she greets him, completely oblivious to the cold sweat running down your back. “Well, well, someone knows how to make an entrance!” She beams, her usual warmth easily shifting toward Caleb as if he’s some kind of long-lost acquaintance.

You fight the urge to panic, to back away, but something in the pit of your stomach stops you. His presence is like a shadow draped across the market, and you can feel it weighing down on you even as he greets Tara with smooth, practiced charm.

“Caleb,” he introduces himself with a slight bow, a grin curling at the corner of his lips. “Pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard much about you.” His tone is warm, almost too warm. But what catches you most is the look in his eyes—like he didn’t like that Tara was even talking to you, or someone who’s discovered something interesting. Tara laughs, clearly enamored. “Oh, you have? I hope only good things, then!” She waves it off with a playful flourish, completely buying into his act.

And there you are, standing frozen in the middle of it all, your heart pounding. Caleb looks at you, his eyes briefly meeting yours, and you can feel the pressure building in your chest. It’s not the same as before—not the overwhelming, suffocating grip, but something colder, sharper.

“I see you’ve made yourself at home,” you manage to say, your voice coming out more steady than you feel.

Caleb’s grin widens, an eerie sort of satisfaction curling through his expression. “I couldn’t resist,” he says smoothly, his gaze lingering on you for a fraction too long.

Caleb takes your hand, kissing it. His lips brush against your skin, a shiver runs up your spine, and for a moment, the world feels distant. His touch is deliberate, slow, as if marking his claim. You want to pull your hand away, but his grip is gentle yet firm enough to hold you in place.

Tara’s voice pierces through the tension, her teasing tone rising as she watches the two of you. “Y/n, you sneaky thing! You said you weren’t seeing anyone!” She laughs.

Caleb looks at you, a playful smirk tugging at his lips, as if he’s enjoying this little game. His eyes lock with yours for a moment before he speaks, his voice smooth, seductive, and confident.

“Oh, Tara, you know how it is,” he says, the tone of his voice dripping with something almost dangerous. “Sometimes, it’s best to keep things  private.” He glances at you again, his gaze holding a silent promise of something unspoken.

Tara giggles excitedly, taking your free hand in hers, and grasping it tightly. “Wow, how did you guys meet? He’s so…wow, Y/n.” Your stomach churns at her excitement. 

“Oh, it’s quite the story,” Caleb says smoothly, his voice laced with charm that immediately captures Tara’s attention. He steps a little closer to you, his hand still firmly holding yours, as if to ensure you don’t slip away. “We met during one of her trips to the market. I was passing through, and, well... she caught my eye.”

Tara gasps, her eyes lighting up with excitement. “No way! That’s so romantic! Love at first sight?” She looks between the two of you, her face brimming with enthusiasm.

Caleb chuckles, the sound low and warm. “Something like that,” he replies, glancing at you with a look that feels far too intense. “She was buying pomegranates. Couldn’t take her eyes off them. I joked about how picky she was being, and she told me—well, you know how sharp she can be.” His grin widens as if he’s remembering something fond, though you know better.

Tara bursts into laughter. “That sounds just like her! She’s got quite the bite sometimes, doesn’t she?” She squeezes your free hand in a playful, affectionate way.

You manage a weak smile, your stomach twisting tighter with each passing second. Caleb’s fabricated story wraps around you like a net, trapping you in the role of a lovestruck partner. “Yeah, it was... memorable,” you mumble, hoping Tara doesn’t pick up on the strain in your voice.

“But the funny part,” Caleb continues, his tone light but his words precise, “was how she refused to accept my help carrying her things. Stubborn, determined—exactly what drew me to her.”

Tara sighs dreamily. “That’s so sweet. Y/n, why didn’t you tell me? I mean, look at him!” She gestures toward Caleb with a grin. “If I were you, I’d be showing him off.”

Your forced smile doesn’t falter, though your nails dig into your palm. You glance at Caleb, silently pleading for him to stop, but his expression is unreadable—pleased, perhaps even smug, as he tightens his grip on your hand just slightly.

Tara’s excitement is palpable, her joy genuine, and it makes you feel even worse.

"Anyway, one thing led to another, and then, as it turns out, I knew her grandmother. Josephine is lovely."

Tara’s eyes widen, her jaw dropping in surprise. “Wait, you know Josephine? Small world! How do you know her?”

Caleb’s smile doesn’t falter, his chin still resting lightly on your shoulder. “Oh, from years ago. She helped me out during a difficult time, and I never forgot her kindness. When I realized the connection…” He trails off, his voice softening. “Well, it felt like fate, you know?”  He rests his chin on your shoulder before linking his hand with your other hand. His skin was like cold, calloused.  You shiver involuntarily as his icy hand grazes the back of yours. The contrast to the summer heat makes it all the more unsettling. You glance sideways at Caleb, his smile perfectly crafted, as though he were born to charm.

Tara giggles again.  She leans in slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "You better watch out, Y/n. If Granny likes him, then this one’s a keeper."

God, was Tara stupid or something?

You try to laugh, but it comes out more like a strangled cough. "Yeah, Granny... she, uh, she keeps her opinions to herself these days," you manage, your voice tight.

Caleb turns his head slightly, his lips brushing dangerously close to your ear. "You’ve gone quiet, darling," he murmurs softly, just for you. His breath sends a chill down your spine despite the blazing summer sun.

Tara, oblivious to the tension radiating from you, clasps her hands together. “That’s so sweet! It’s like something out of a storybook!” She laughs, nudging your arm. “Y/n, why didn’t you tell me about this? It’s so romantic!”

Your throat feels dry, and your words stick, but Caleb, of course, fills the silence effortlessly. “She’s modest. I think that’s part of her charm.” His hand tightens slightly on your shoulder, the pressure subtle but firm, a silent warning.

Tara beams, completely enchanted. “I love this for you, Y/n. I mean, not just that you’ve found someone, but that he’s clearly so thoughtful and caring.”

You force out a small laugh, the sound strained. “Yeah, it’s… something.”

Caleb’s smile grows as his icy fingers trace idle patterns along your shoulder, sending chills through you. “Something, indeed,” he echoes, his tone smooth yet loaded with a weight only you can feel.

Tara leans in conspiratorially, her excitement barely contained. “So, are there any big plans? I mean, you’ve clearly got a story worth celebrating!” She winks, completely unaware of the storm brewing behind Caleb’s pleasant facade.

Tara’s eyes light up, her smile widening as Caleb speaks, his tone casual but carrying an undercurrent that only you can decipher.

“Yeah, we’ve got a big trip coming up soon,” Caleb says smoothly, his icy hand still resting possessively on your shoulder. “She’ll be staying with me for a while, just to test the waters, you know?”

Your stomach drops, and you whip your head around to glare at him, but Caleb’s expression remains calm, even charming, as if he hasn’t just dropped a bombshell. Tara’s jaw drops, her excitement bubbling over.

“Oh my gods, Y/n! That’s huge! Where are you going? How long are you staying? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!” She bounces slightly on her feet, her hands clasped together.

You open your mouth to speak, your heart racing, but Caleb answers before you can get a word out.

“It’s still a surprise,” he says with a soft laugh, leaning closer to you, his voice low and intimate. “But I’ll make sure she writes to you.”

Tara practically squeals, completely charmed. “A surprise? That’s so romantic! Y/n, you lucky thing!” She beams at you, clearly convinced that this is the most wonderful news.

You try to force a smile, but it falters under Caleb’s steady gaze, the grip on your shoulder tightening ever so slightly. There’s no escaping the unspoken message in his words: This isn’t up for discussion.

***

The sun hangs high, casting golden light through the trees as the two of you walk the path home. The market’s noise is far behind you now, replaced by the gentle rustle of leaves and the cheerful chirping of birds. But the air feels thick, heavy, as though the world itself can sense the tension simmering just beneath the surface. And the walk home? Suffocating. Caleb’s presence looms over you, his steps too close, too deliberate.

“That Tara,” he says casually, his tone light, as if discussing the weather. “Sweet girl, hmm?”

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, his figure far too at ease for the storm brewing in your chest. “Please, no—”

“Relax.” His voice sharpens slightly, though the smile doesn’t leave his lips. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you take me for a bad guy.” He chuckles, a sound that doesn’t quite match the amusement he pretends to feel.

You clench your fists at your sides, swallowing the sharp retort on the tip of your tongue. The birds chirp on, oblivious, their melody at odds with the undercurrent of dread knotting in your stomach. Instead, you put your focus fixed on the dirt path ahead. Caleb seems to notice your silence, tilting his head slightly to glance at you. “You wound me, truly. After everything I’ve done for you?”

"You said six months," you snap, your voice trembling as you glance at him.

"Six months before I collect you," he corrects, his tone as smooth and unbothered as ever. He steps closer, his presence suffocating. "And I said we have a big trip coming up. I never said I wouldn't visit, dollface."

Your heart pounds in your chest as his words sink in, the casual way he speaks of your future like it’s already set in stone. Like you don’t have a choice.

You stop walking, your fists clenching at your sides. "Stop calling me that," you grit out, the words slipping through your teeth before you can think better of it.

Caleb raises an eyebrow, his lips curling into a lazy smirk. "What, dollface? It suits you."

"It doesn’t," you spit back, turning your glare on him.

His smirk deepens, his eyes gleaming with something you can’t quite place—amusement, or maybe warning. "Feisty today, aren’t we? I like it."

Your stomach twists, but you force yourself to hold his gaze. "You don’t get to just... show up and act like you own my life."

"But I do," he says, his voice dropping into something softer, more dangerous. He takes a deliberate step toward you, and instinctively, you step back. "You signed the contract the moment you took the seeds. Six months, six seeds, till death. We’re bound, sweetheart. Whether you like it or not."

You stop walking. Turning to look at him, you jab a finger into his chest. "What even are you?" you spit, your voice shaking with anger.

"A god, maybe?" he says with a lazy shrug, like the answer doesn’t matter.

"You're no god of mine," you snap back, your fists trembling at your sides.

"And that," he says, his smirk widening, "is just as fine."

It’s disgusting how sure of himself he is, how he carries himself like the world bends to his whim, like even the sun would stop in its path if he commanded it. He watches you with those unnervingly calm eyes, his head tilted like he’s amused by your defiance.

You gasp as he spins you, the sudden motion leaving you breathless and disoriented. His grip is firm as he pulls you against him, his body too close, too strong.

"You gave her the basket," he murmurs, his voice low and dangerous, as his hand slides smoothly to rest against your neck. A cold shiver runs down your spine, a feeling of dread creeping over you as you fear he'll squeeze again, cut off your air like before. But he doesn’t. Instead, his fingers brush against the scar on your neck—the bite, the mark of what you never wanted to remember.

Your pulse quickens, thumping beneath his touch. You feel trapped, helpless under his gaze. His thumb traces the scar, and your body tenses, as if the very memory of that moment will come rushing back. You swallow hard, but your throat feels tight, constricted.

"Of course, I could just take your right hand," he continues, his lips curling slightly in a smirk that sends another spike of terror through you. "But, oh, you didn't seem to like that option. Or taking Josephine. So really, you're stuck with me."

The words sting, sharper than they have any right to be, and you struggle against his hold, the feeling of being caged growing stronger by the second. You try to step back, to pull away, but his grip doesn’t loosen; it only tightens, holding you in place.

"You don't own me," you force out, though your voice trembles more than you'd like to admit.

He tilts his head, as if genuinely amused by your words. "Oh, sweetheart. You gave me a choice. You decided this, not me."

His words pierce through you like a cold dagger, sharp and unrelenting. The memory of what you've done—the seeds, the promise you made, the trap you unknowingly walked into—plays over and over again in your mind. His grip on your face is firm, forcing you to look at him, to meet his gaze.

"You chose this," he repeats, his voice low and sinister. "And it was your fault for stealing the seeds." The way he says it makes your skin crawl, as if he's savoring your guilt, your helplessness.

You try to resist the urge to recoil, but you're trapped. His touch on your face is cold, like the ice of winter, but it's also familiar—too familiar, in a way that makes you want to escape, to break free from the suffocating weight of everything he's saying and doing.

His thumb brushes across your cheek, a mocking tenderness that doesn't match the malice in his eyes. "Luckily for you, I'm already familiar with this. Wouldn't you agree?"

The question hangs in the air, suffocating, and you can't help but feel like there's no way out. No way to undo what you've done, no way to take back the seeds, no way to escape this twisted cycle. The worst part is that you do agree, in a way. He knows you. He knows your weakness, your fear. He’s always been there, watching, waiting for this moment.

You force yourself to breathe, to try to steady your nerves. "You don’t control me," you say through gritted teeth, though your words sound weaker than you intend.

His lips twitch upward, and for a moment, the smile he gives you is almost... fond. "Oh, darling," he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin. "You have no idea how much control I have over you."

Your stomach drops as he leans in closer, his face inches from yours. The air between you feels charged, electric, and you can't tell whether it's fear or something else that makes your heart race.

His kiss lands on your lips with an eerie gentleness, like the touch of a predator feigning affection. It's soft, almost too soft, as if he's savoring the moment—savoring the control he has over you. The cold of his lips contrasts with the heat in your chest, a confusing, disorienting sensation that makes your skin prickle with discomfort.

For a second, you almost want to pull away, to slap him, to scream—anything—but his presence is suffocating. His hand still cups your face, keeping you locked in place, and the pressure of his lips, though gentle, is impossible to ignore.

You don’t respond to it. You refuse to. It feels wrong—so wrong, like he's trying to erase your will with every soft, calculated press of his mouth. But somehow, you can’t break free. It’s like a force you can’t fight, and you hate yourself for not being able to.

When he finally pulls away, it’s not with a sense of victory, but something far more disturbing: a quiet satisfaction, as though this kiss, this small victory over you, is simply one piece of a much larger, more intricate plan. His eyes meet yours, those unsettling, dark eyes that never seem to leave you.

"You're mine, whether you want it or not," he says, his voice a low murmur, lips still close enough that you can feel the brush of his breath. "You always were, Y/n."

You blink again, your heart racing in your chest, trying to make sense of what just happened. One moment, Caleb's lips were on yours, his hand cradling your face, and the next... you're standing in the familiar confines of your own home. The walls, the creaking floors, the smell of old wood and herbs—everything is just as you left it.

But the air feels different. Heavier. The shadows in the corners seem deeper, and your breath feels sharp in your lungs as you slowly process the shift. Caleb is gone, and you have no idea how or when he left. It feels like time skipped ahead, like something changed, but you don’t know how.

Your fingers touch your lips reflexively, still tingling from his kiss. The bite on your neck pulses, a quiet reminder of what he's done, what he's taken from you. You want to scream, to rip the memories out of your mind, but they cling to you like a dark cloud.

You glance around the room. Josephine's door is still shut, the house is eerily quiet, yet you feel... watched. But he’s gone. For now. You have no idea when he’ll return—or what he'll want next.

For now, all you can do is breathe, steady yourself, and pray the walls hold up against the darkness he's brought into your life.

But at least that basket was gone. 

***

The dreams returned, but they weren't the same. Not like before, when they had been fragmented, hazy, and fleeting. No, now they were sharp, clear, as if the night itself had become a canvas, and every stroke of it was painted with purpose, with intent.

In the first dream, you were back in the field. The pomegranates stood tall and ripe, their red skin gleaming under the moonlight. The soil beneath your feet was soft, too soft, as if the earth itself had swallowed up everything you once knew. You walked through the rows, reaching out, your fingers grazing the dark fruits, feeling their weight like a burden. And then, you saw him—Caleb. He was standing at the far end, his silhouette stark against the sky, his eyes glinting as if he could see straight through you.

“You’ll learn to love them,” his voice echoed, though his lips never moved. The fruit was delicious. So utterly, maddeningly delicious. Its stain tainted your lips, the color matching his fingertips, bloody. 

You tried to turn, to run, but your feet were rooted in place. The pomegranates were all around you now, their roots tangled like vines, pulling you down, pulling you into the earth.

Another dream followed. This time, you stood before a mirror, but it wasn’t your reflection that stared back at you. It was something... wrong. A version of you with darker eyes, wilder hair, a version that had been changed, warped by the seeds, by the bargain you had made. You reached out to touch the mirror, but the reflection didn’t move in sync with you, it was always a moment ahead, always watching, always waiting.

The bite on your neck burned as if it had never healed, the scar still angry and red beneath your skin, even in the dream. And Caleb’s laughter, soft and mocking, rang out in the background, swirling around you like smoke.

The dreams weren’t dreams anymore. They were memories, and they felt like warnings.

And when you woke, your heart hammered in your chest, your breath coming in frantic gasps. For a brief, terrifying moment, you wondered if the line between sleep and reality had blurred completely.

You clutched the covers tightly, as if trying to hold yourself together. 

The chickens clucked outside. It was…comforting. 

***

The tension in the air was palpable, thick with a sense of desperation, of something dangerous stirring. Lips pressed together in a fierce, bruising kiss—teeth clashing, not out of passion, but out of something more primal. Something almost violent. There was no tenderness here, no softness. Just a raw, chaotic hunger that neither of you could control.

Your hands were everywhere, grasping, pulling, pushing. His fingers dug into your skin, scratching and clawing like they were trying to leave a mark, trying to stake some claim on you, on your very essence. You didn’t know if you wanted to break free or if you wanted to pull him closer, as if the intensity of the moment could somehow swallow both of you whole.

His hands were on your body, your neck, your waist, burning through your clothes as if they weren’t even there. The sharpness of his grip, the way he maneuvered you against him, felt almost like a punishment. He was everywhere, his scent, his touch, his voice. You couldn’t escape him. No matter how much you struggled, you were trapped in this moment.

Your pulse raced in your throat, and his lips trailed down, leaving fire in their wake. But the world around you was blurring, the edges of reality slipping away like water between your fingers. All you knew was him, all you felt was him.

And still, it wasn’t enough.

You didn’t even know how you got here, but it felt like you’d been drowning in this moment for hours, for years—time didn’t seem to matter anymore. All that mattered was the chaos of his presence, the way it shook you, the way it marked you.

When you finally pulled away, gasping for air, your lips swollen and red, your body burning from the heat of it all, Caleb’s eyes were on you—dark, intense, unreadable. His chest heaved as he stared at you, as if trying to decide what to do next. A string of spit connected your lips. He brushed it away with his thumb from the corner of your lips. 

“You’ll learn to crave this,” he whispered, his voice a low murmur that sent shivers down your spine.

And for a moment, he looks almost guilty. 

Your heart races in your chest, your breath shallow as you gasp for air, the remnants of the dream still clinging to your skin. The sheets are tangled around you, your body slick with sweat. You clutch your pillow tight to your face, muffling the scream that rises in your throat.

It felt so real. Too real. His touch, his words—everything about it lingered like a shadow in your mind. You couldn’t shake the sensation of him, the feeling of his hands, his presence, suffocating you.

You sit up, your legs shaky beneath you, fighting the panic that claws at your chest. The sunlight filtering through your window is harsh, but it does little to clear the fog that clouds your thoughts. The world outside feels like a distant memory, too distant from the nightmare that still echoes in your mind.

As you moved, you paused.

Your underwear felt warm. Warm and wet. 

Of course, you rush to the bathroom and tug your waistband and underwear to see. 

 You stare at the crimson stain, your heart pounding in your chest. This isn’t normal. It’s too soon—weeks too soon. You grip the edge of the sink, your legs trembling as you try to make sense of it.

Your reflection in the mirror looks pale, almost ghostly. Panic rises as your mind races. You’ve never been early before. Never like this. You fumble for the calendar on your phone, quickly scrolling through the dates. It confirms what you already knew: this isn’t right.

“Okay, okay,” you mutter to yourself, trying to calm down. Maybe it’s stress. That’s a thing, right? Stress can mess with your cycle. Or maybe it was something you ate.

But deep down, you know this isn’t just stress.

The dreams, the bite, the pomegranates—it all feels like pieces of a puzzle you’re too afraid to put together. You grab a fresh pair of underwear and a pad, trying to shake off the nagging feeling in the pit of your stomach. The bright light of the bathroom feels too harsh, too exposing.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s just a fluke.

Yeah. A fluke. 

***

The crisp air of fall settles over the village, painting the trees in fiery reds and golden yellows. The scent of earth and fallen leaves lingers, grounding you in a way that summer never could. For the first time in months, your life feels...ordinary.

The pomegranates no longer appear on your bed or at your door. The oppressive weight of Caleb’s presence, real or imagined, seems to have lifted. You can breathe again.

The chickens are still assholes, the market bustles with preparations for the harvest festival, and the days bleed into one another in a blur of chores, conversations, and fleeting smiles. It’s not happiness exactly, but it’s close enough that you don’t question it.

Josephine scolds you for tracking mud into the house, Tara chats with you in the market, and for once, you don’t feel like the shadow of someone else lingers behind you. Nights are quieter now. The dreams are gone, leaving you with nothing but the sound of wind brushing against the windows and the occasional hoot of an owl.

You stop keeping track of the days. It doesn’t feel important anymore. Caleb fades like the last vestiges of summer, distant and unreal. 

Josephine hums softly as her fingers work through your hair, weaving seeds and flowers with the kind of care that only she could manage. You sit still, trying not to squirm under her meticulous touch.

"You look lovely," she says, her voice soft, almost reverent. "This shade of pink suits you."

You glance down at the folds of the doric chiton, its fabric catching the golden afternoon light. It feels too delicate, too perfect. A stark contrast to the mud-streaked skirts and work-worn tunics you’ve grown used to.

"Granny really outdid herself," you mutter, trying to muster some semblance of gratitude.

Josephine chuckles. "I just want you to shine at the festival. You know how much this means to me. Besides, it’s not every day you get to dress up for the gods. And the festival only comes once a year. Make sure you give them a proper thanks for all we’ve been given this season.”

Your eyes flicker to the small table by the window, where your offerings sit—a neatly arranged basket of bread, fruit, and herbs, alongside a small clay figure you’d crafted. It feels enough. It has to be enough.

“Do you think they’ll listen?” you ask softly, almost to yourself.

Josephine frowns, her hands coming to rest on your shoulders. “The gods are always listening, child. Whether they answer is another thing entirely. But you must offer with a full heart and trust that they’ll hear.”

You didn’t know if you even believed in the gods after well, that.

It’s been months since...since then. Long enough that you’ve almost convinced yourself it’s behind you. Caleb is gone, the pomegranates stopped appearing, and life has returned to a semblance of normalcy.

But as Josephine ties the final braid and steps back to admire her work, you can’t help but roll your stiff shoulders. The seeds in your hair feel heavier than they should, but maybe that was just the style. 

Shaking off the thought, you stand, smoothing the folds of your dress. “I should go finish preparing,” you say, reaching for the basket.

Josephine nods, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Go, then. And don’t forget to enjoy yourself tonight. The festival isn’t just for the gods, you know- Oh!”

“Hm?”

She goes to your basket, her fingers deftly plucking a single cherry from the offerings. Without hesitation, she bites into it, the juice running faintly down her chin. Then, before you can ask what she’s doing, she takes your face in her hands. “Hold still.”

And you do. You do as she rubs the exposed half of the cherry onto your lips, the sweet, sticky juice staining them a deep red (or as red as they could get). 

“Isn’t this a bit much?” “Nonsense. The gods love beauty, and they care for presentation. Now, I want you to be safe- don’t over-do the wine, but mingle. Don’t stay with Tara the whole time, understand?” “Yes, grandmother.” “And if you get hungry and have lost your coin, there’s seeds in your hair.” “Of course, grandmother.”

A gentle smile plays at your lips. She returns it halfway. 

“Soon, you’ll have to leave me, you know.” “...I know.” “You’ll have a husband, children- but don’t forget about me,” theres a happy lit to her voice now. 

“I’d never!”

“I know.”

It’s quiet for some time. The sun would surely set soon. 

Josephine sighs, clapping her hands together. 

Well… off you go. And don’t smudge it before anyone gets a good look- enjoy yourself! But go before I find something else to start fussing over.”

You laugh, and with that, she gives you a light push toward the door. The warmth of her hands lingers on your cheeks as you step outside, basket in hand. The cherry’s taste stays with you, its sweetness mingling with the crisp autumn air as you make your way toward the heart of the village. It’s a small thing, but as you catch your reflection in a passing window, you can’t help but admit—Josephine might be onto something. 

As you step outside again, the cherry’s sweetness lingers, mingling with the crisp autumn air. You adjust your grip on the basket, glancing down at its carefully arranged contents. The offerings look the same as before, but now, with the touch of Josephine’s flair, they feel... different.

Special.

You shake off the odd sense of unease that creeps up your spine and head toward the square. The distant hum of the festival grows louder with every step, the laughter and music pulling you in like a current.

Let them notice, you think, the faint taste of cherry on your tongue. Let them see.

***

The festival buzzed with life, every sound and sight merging into a symphony of joy. Flutes and lyras trilled high notes, while the deeper, resonant hum of lyres and kitharas anchored the music. The bonfire crackled at the heart of it all, sending sparks spiraling into the night sky like fireflies escaping into freedom.

Your shoes were long forgotten, discarded somewhere along the edge of the square. The cool earth kissed your feet as you spun and swayed, the soft fabric of your chiton billowing with each movement. You held your skirts high, free from the constraints of formality, your laughter blending into the melody of the celebration.

Tara appeared beside you, her cheeks flushed from the heat of the fire and the exhilaration of the dance. She grabbed your hand and twirled you around, both of you stumbling and giggling like children. “Look at you!” Tara shouted over the music, her voice full of laughter. “Who knew you could dance like this?”

“Shut up!” you replied, grinning as you spun her around. “You’re the one showing off!” The two of you laughed, the sound blending with the music and the cheerful chatter of the crowd. Around you, other women joined in, their movements graceful and free, their laughter ringing out like bells. For a moment, the world felt simple, unburdened by the weight of your thoughts or the strange, dark memories that lingered in the back of your mind. The firelight painted everyone in shades of gold and amber, and the music carried you, light as air.

“Come on!” Tara shouted, pulling you closer to the fire. “Let’s see if you can keep up!”

You laughed, following her lead as the music grew faster, your feet moving instinctively to the rhythm. Around the fire, the festival carried on, a celebration of life, of the gods, of the turning seasons.

As the flames illuminated your face even more, more compliments seemed to spill from Tara’s lips. Her cheeks were rosy as if she’d been wined and dined, greedy for more. “You look stunning tonight!” she shouted over the music, her voice brimming with sincerity and joy. “I swear, you’ve outdone yourself!”

“Oh, please,” you replied, laughing as you caught your breath. “It’s the dress! Granny picked it.” She shakes her head, giggling. “Remind me to thank her!” Linking your arms together, the other women link as well, circling and dancing. 

Brightly dressed women clapped their hands and twirled, their skirts fanning out like petals in the firelight. Children darted between the adults, their giggles carrying on the wind. Men cheered and clapped from the sidelines, some joining in to pair off with dancers, while others lingered with mugs of spiced wine.

For a moment, everything else melted away. The tension, the strange unease you’d carried with you for weeks—it was all burned away by the fire, drowned out by the music and the easy joy of the festival.

"Come on!" Tara called, pulling you further into the throng. "No holding back tonight, Y/n!"

And for once, you let yourself go. You danced until your feet ached, until the world spun from more than just twirling. The festival carried on, vibrant and alive, as if nothing else mattered but this night and its revelry. And nothing did. 

***

The hours blurred together in a haze of laughter, music, and the smoky scent of the bonfire. You barely noticed the passage of time, caught up in the festival’s intoxicating energy.

Jenna, Tara, and you had become an inseparable trio for the night, weaving through the crowd and sharing stories between bites of roasted lamb. The juices ran down your fingers as you tore into the leg, the savory richness melting on your tongue. Each bite was perfection, seasoned just right and charred to smoky deliciousness.

Jenna, however, was in her own world, her cheeks flushed from more than just the firelight.

"I swear," she slurred, her words tumbling over each other as she clung to your arm for balance, "if I see that baker again, I’m—I'm gonna marry him! Just—poof! Right then and there."

Tara snorted, nearly choking on her drink. "Jenna, you said that about the butcher last week."

"I changed my mind," Jenna declared dramatically, swaying as she gestured with her cup. "He gave me free bread, Tara! Bread! What more do you need in life?"

"Steady legs, for starters," you teased, catching her just as she stumbled.

Jenna burst out laughing, her head tipping back as she clung to you tighter. "Oh, Y/n, you’re the best. If this baker thing doesn’t work out, maybe I’ll just marry you instead!"

Jenna hiccups, a sound so sudden and loud it startles both you and Tara. She blinks, swaying slightly as she grins mischievously.

"Let’s—hic—let’s play a game," she announces, slurring just enough to make you nervous about where this might be headed. "Truth or dare!"

Tara groans, shaking her head as she leans back against the bench. "Oh, no. Jenna, you’re terrible at this game when you’re sober. I can’t imagine how this is going to go right now."

Jenna waves her hand dismissively, nearly whacking you in the face. "Nonsense! I’m great at this game." She hiccups again, giggling. "Come on, Y/n, Tara—hic—it’ll be fun! I’ll go first."

You exchange a glance with Tara, her raised eyebrow mirroring your own apprehension. Still, you can’t help but smile at Jenna’s enthusiasm.

"Fine," you sigh, playing along. "Go ahead, Jenna. I’ll go first- uh, hmm…dare.”

And Jenna gets all into your face, and you swear she was pretending to be drunk with how sober she suddenly seemed. “I dare you to go to the temple- not Kore’s temple. The other one. Take a fruit.”

You blink, momentarily taken aback by the sudden shift in Jenna's demeanor. The air feels heavier, and there's an odd intensity in her gaze that makes you hesitate. You swallow, trying to maintain your casual tone.

"Wait, the temple?" You glance at Tara, hoping for some kind of reassurance, but she looks just as confused as you. "Jenna, what are you talking about?"

Her smile widens, almost predatory in its sharpness, though her eyes are clouded with drunkenness again. "You know," she says slowly, as if speaking to a child, "the temple. The one at the edge of town. There's fruit there.”

"Why would I..." you trail off, not sure if you even want to entertain this idea. The thought of taking fruit from there doesn’t sit right with you, especially given everything that’s happened in the past.

Tara looks between you and Jenna, narrowing her eyes. "You really want her to do that, Jenna?" she asks, her tone cautious.

Jenna's grin widens again, though there's a glimmer of something else behind her eyes. "You don’t have to do it," she says in a sing-song voice. "It’s just a dare.” She makes a sound as if to imitate a chicken.

"I—I can’t," you mutter, shaking your head as you try to laugh it off. "That’s... that’s too much."

But Jenna leans in closer, her eyes boring into yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch. "I dare you," she whispers, like it’s a secret only you need to hear. "Go. Take a fruit."

Tara’s laugh is nervous now, her voice dropping lower. "Jenna, what is this really about? What’s going on with you?"

The tension hangs in the air. You feel the weight of Jenna’s dare pulling at you. The temple... What could go wrong, right? Just grab a fruit. 

Your feet move before your mind catches up, and you feel the heat of the wine still dancing in your veins. With a strange sense of defiance, you rise to your feet, your voice louder than you intended. "Grandmother didn't raise a coward."

Tara looks at you, her expression a mix of concern and confusion, but you don’t give her the chance to voice her concerns. You begin walking toward the temple, the dare fueling your movements.

You tell yourself it’s a joke, a simple dare. You won’t actually take a fruit. You’ll just go in and out. No harm done. What’s the worst that could happen?

The night air feels cool on your skin, a contrast to the warmth of the wine still swirling in your head. The temple stands ahead, its silhouette looming against the starlit sky, its pillars casting long shadows. Something about it feels...wrong. You try to shake off the feeling, but it lingers.

As you approach the entrance, the heavy wooden doors stand slightly ajar, an invitation or a warning? You can’t decide.

With a deep breath, you step inside. The air shifts as you cross the threshold, and a strange silence envelops you. There are no sounds of night creatures, no rustle of wind—just stillness. The faint glow of candles illuminates the altar ahead, and there, piled with offerings, sits an assortment of fruits, their colors deep and vivid in the dim light.

You freeze for a moment, your pulse quickening. The temptation to grab just one, to complete the dare and return before anyone notices, rises within you.

But you hesitate. The air seems to thicken, and you feel eyes on you, though you see no one. The weight of something ancient presses on your chest.

Just take a fruit. Just one.

***

The marble feels slick beneath your feet as you step further into the temple, the coldness biting into your bare soles. You hadn't expected it to be this cold, this quiet. The usual sounds of the night outside, the rustle of leaves or the calls of distant animals, were replaced by an eerie stillness, as though the air itself had frozen in time.

You glance around, the space stretching before you, each stone gleaming under the faint light of flickering candles placed carefully on the altar. The faint scent of incense lingers in the air, sharp and intoxicating. It's a strange place, a place of both reverence and... something else.

You bow low, instinctively following the rituals your grandmother drilled into you. Your lips whisper the necessary prayers, your fingers curling around the edges of the hem of your chiton, your heart pounding in your chest. You can almost hear your own heartbeat echoing in the silence.

And then you hear it.

Footsteps behind you. Jenna. She had followed you, hadn't she? She didn’t trust you to do it alone, didn’t trust you to carry through with the dare. You don't have to look to know she’s there, watching, waiting.

But you're here now. You’ve come this far. The fruit sits before you, gleaming temptingly in the dim light. You were supposed to take one, weren’t you? It felt like part of some unspoken pact, an offering, a symbol of submission. You glance back briefly and catch the gleam of Jenna’s eyes, expectant and a little too eager.

Should you? Should you take it, just like the dare demanded?

The weight of the moment presses heavily on you.

His voice cuts through the silence, smooth and teasing, and you freeze, your heart skipping a beat. The words, the tone—it's all too familiar. It's Caleb, standing there, his presence like a shadow you can never quite shake off.

You didn't even hear him approach. How long had he been watching? The cold air grows heavier, the weight of his gaze pressing on your back. His footsteps echo as he moves closer, and you can feel the tension building in the space between you.

You don't turn to face him. You can't. But you hear him step forward, his boots clicking softly on the marble floor.

"Don't act so surprised," Caleb continues, his voice low and almost intimate, "I’ve been watching, you know. You think you can just sneak away to the temple and pretend I won’t notice?"

The way he says it makes your skin prickle, like he's always one step ahead, always aware of what you're doing. You grip the hem of your chiton tighter, your pulse quickening.

"Perfect timing," he repeats, almost as if savoring the moment, "And look at you, all dressed up. For me? You shouldn't have."

You try to keep your composure, but the unease crawling along your skin betrays you. It’s the last thing you expected — no, it’s the last thing you wanted. Of course, it’s no coincidence that he’s here now. You shouldn’t have come, shouldn’t have even considered it. His presence, his- Jenna.

That motherfucker. 

You swallow, your throat dry, and force yourself to face him. He’s not even hiding now, stepping fully into the dim light, his figure outlined against the shadows. The flickering candlelight casts a soft glow on his features, but his eyes — those eyes — they’re colder than the stone beneath your feet.

You glance down at the fruit on the altar, the one Jenna dared you to take. For a fleeting moment, you wonder if that would make a difference, if taking it would somehow tie you closer to him.

But you know better. You know there’s no way out.

“So,” he continues, his voice lowering, his footsteps slow and deliberate as he approaches, “which fruit will you choose, hmm?”

He waits for an answer for a good 5 minutes before saying anything. “Come on, Kore. Don’t keep me waiting, yeah? After midnight, well- it’s been six months, love. So come on. Pick a fruit.”

The nickname makes your blood run cold. Kore. The name slips from his lips like a promise, laced with meanings you can’t fully grasp but feel all too keenly. It’s mocking and intimate all at once, and it burrows under your skin like a splinter.

“Stop calling me that,” you snap, but your voice wavers.

Caleb only smirks, his head tilting ever so slightly as if amused by your defiance. “Oh, but it suits you so well. Don’t you think?” He gestures to the altar, the fruits glistening under the faint candlelight. “Now, let’s not waste time. Pick one.”

You glance at the altar, then back at him, your chest tightening. The air feels too thick, the weight of his gaze pinning you in place.

“I’m not playing your game,” you say, taking a step back.

His smile doesn’t falter, but there’s something sharper in his eyes now, a warning hidden behind his otherwise relaxed demeanor. “It’s not a game, love. It’s a choice. Your choice. But let me remind you,” he steps closer, the click of his shoes echoing off the temple walls, “I’ve been patient. Six months, patient. And patience, well… it has its limits.”

You shake your head, backing up until the altar presses against your lower back. The cold stone is a stark reminder that you’re cornered. “You said—”

“I said I’d give you six months before I collected you,” Caleb interrupts smoothly, his voice dangerously soft now. “And here I am. But you… you’re still making this difficult. Always so stubborn, aren’t you, Kore?”

Your heart pounds against your ribs as his fingers trail along the edge of the altar, dangerously close to the fruit. “Why are you doing this?” you whisper.

His laugh is low, dark, and it curls around you like smoke. “Because I can,” he says simply, his hand finally stopping above a ripe pomegranate. He picks it up, rolling it in his hand as he inspects it. “Because you invited me in when you took the seeds. And because…”

He leans in, his lips brushing your ear as he finishes, “You’re mine, and you always will be.”

You want to scream, to run, to fight, but your body won’t move. Instead, you stare at the pomegranate in his hand, its dark red skin gleaming like blood.

“Pick a fruit, Y/n,” Caleb murmurs again, his voice a silken command. “Or I’ll pick one for you.”

His breath brushes your neck, and you can feel his gaze on the back of your head, lingering in a way that feels like a predator eyeing its prey. His hand in your hair sends shivers down your spine, an unsettling mix of warmth and danger. The sweetness of his scent is thick now, almost overpowering, making it hard to think clearly.

“Beautiful work,” he repeats, his voice soft and almost teasing as his fingers gently tug at the strands of your hair, weaving through the braids. “Compliments to Josephine.” There’s a bite of something else in his tone, something that makes the compliment feel less genuine and more like a warning.

Your heart races, but it’s not from fear alone—it’s the confusion, the fury, and the helplessness all blending together. You don’t know what you want more: to break free from his grip or to slap the smirk off his face.

You’re so close to him now, his body just a breath away from yours. His warmth spreads across your skin, and it makes you dizzy. You struggle to pull yourself together, your mind desperately searching for something, anything to do.

"You're not playing fair," you manage to choke out, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. "I won't—"

“Won’t what?” His lips brush your ear again, and this time, his words are like poison. “Won’t take the fruit? Won’t accept what you’ve already given me?”

He reaches over to a basket, pucking a fruit. The pomegranate he holds glistens in the dim light, its bright red skin a cruel reminder of the price you’re about to pay. His fingers slide through your hair one last time, his hand holding your head just firmly enough to make sure you don’t look away from the fruit.

"All this time, and you still don’t see the inevitable, do you, Kore?” He chuckles low in his throat. “Six months ago, you ate the seeds. And now… it’s time to collect what’s due."

Your breath catches in your throat. You feel trapped. Stuck. There’s nowhere to run. No way to fight this. And worse, part of you… part of you wants to give in, just to make it stop.

His words hang heavy in the air, the mockery laced with something far darker. The way his gaze roams over you makes your skin crawl, even as heat rises to your cheeks against your will.

"Oh, would you look at that," he says, tilting his head as though examining a prized possession. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you got all dolled up for someone else. But that couldn't be, could it?"

His smirk widens, sharp and cutting, as his hand trails down to brush the fabric of your chiton, lingering just enough to make your stomach twist in disgust. “No, this was for me, wasn’t it, Y/n? Everything you do always circles back to me.”

You grit your teeth, your pulse pounding so hard it’s a roar in your ears. “I dressed for the gods. Not you.”

He laughs, low and rich, the sound vibrating through the marble halls. "Sweetheart, I am your god now. Whether you like it or not."

You recoil from his touch, jerking away enough to put a sliver of distance between you. His grin doesn't falter; if anything, it grows wider, as though your resistance only amuses him further.

“You don’t have to keep fighting it,” he says, stepping closer, erasing the space you just created. “The sooner you stop pretending, the easier it’ll be. For both of us.”

Your jaw clenches, the fire in your chest sparking again. “I’m not pretending,” you snap. “You don’t own me.”

“Don’t I?” His voice drops, the teasing edge sharpening into something far more menacing. He leans in, his lips so close to your ear that you can feel the chill of his breath. “You gave me your soul the moment you swallowed those seeds. Whether you meant to or not.”

His words send a cold dread creeping through your veins, but you refuse to show it. Instead, you glare at him, your voice trembling but steady. “I didn’t know. That wasn’t a choice.”

“And yet, here we are,” he says smoothly, straightening and gesturing to the temple around you. “All roads lead to me, love. Always have, always will.”

His confidence, his dominance—it’s suffocating, and yet, somewhere deep inside, something stirs. A spark of defiance that refuses to die, no matter how much he tries to smother it.

You take a deep breath, forcing steel into your spine. “You don’t scare me,” you lie, the words falling from your lips like a challenge.

His smirk turns predatory, his eyes glinting with dark amusement. “Oh, Kore,” he murmurs, stepping so close that your breaths mingle. “You should be scared. But that’s what makes this fun.”

His finger presses lightly against your temple, the touch cold and electric. A shiver runs through you, but before you can pull away, the world slips out from under you.

The marble of the temple dissolves, the flickering torches extinguish, and the air grows heavy and still. Darkness consumes everything, as thick and impenetrable as ink.

You try to speak, to move, but your limbs feel weighted, your voice trapped in your throat. Panic flares in your chest, and you struggle against the void, your thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind.

“Shh,” Caleb’s voice whispers, soft and velvety, reverberating all around you. It feels as though it’s coming from inside your head. “Don’t fight it, love. You’ll only make it worse.”

His laughter echoes, sharp and cruel, slicing through the oppressive silence. “Relax. It’s just a little... adjustment.”

You want to scream, to demand what he’s done, but all you can do is drift, weightless and disoriented. 

And then, just as abruptly as it began, the darkness recedes.

You’re standing in a field bathed in golden sunlight. The sky above is impossibly blue, the air sweet with the scent of wildflowers. Everything is vivid, dreamlike in its perfection.

But something feels off.

You look down and realize you’re still in the pink chiton, its fabric shimmering unnaturally in the sunlight. A crown of flowers rests on your head, their petals vibrant and freshly bloomed.

And then you hear it—a low hum, melodic and haunting, carrying on the breeze. It sends a chill down your spine despite the warmth of the sun.

Turning, you see him standing at the edge of the field, his figure dark against the brightness. Caleb, watching you with that ever-present smirk, his eyes gleaming with triumph.

“Welcome home,” he says, his voice carrying effortlessly across the distance. “Do you like what I’ve made for you?”

The pomegranates were alive again. Alive and thriving. But just as soon as you saw them you were back, Back in that bed- the one from before, where he had choked you- nearly killed you0 and left that horrible, horrible bite. 

Caleb leaned against the door frame as you sat up. There was no smirk on his face, no smile, no frown. His voice is surprisingly gentle and…wanting?

“It’s midnight, You’ve had your wine and dance. Just…just 6 months of your time. Not a year, not forever. I just want you back K-Y/n.”

His steps are soft, and it seems he’s done a 180 in his manners. 

His touch is a contradiction—gentle enough to soothe, yet possessive enough to remind you of the control he wields. His fingers trace the curve of your arm, light as a feather, but it sends a jolt down your spine. You hate how your body responds, how his touch lingers like a ghost long after he moves away.

The bed beneath you is a trap, its plush surface too soft, too inviting, pulling you in as though it has a will of its own. You shift uncomfortably, trying to push back against the suffocating comfort, but it only seems to draw you in deeper.

Caleb’s hands slide down to your waist, his grip tightening just enough to make you notice. There’s an aching sort of yearning in the way he touches you, as though he’s memorizing the shape of you, mapping out every curve, every hollow. It’s suffocating, intoxicating, infuriating.

“Relax,” he murmurs, his voice low, a whisper of honeyed command. “I’m not going to hurt you... not unless you make me.”

The threat is veiled in sweetness, his tone so soft it almost feels like a caress in itself. You clench your fists, nails digging into your palms as you fight the overwhelming sensation of helplessness.

And you ask what seems like for the millionth time: “What do you want from me?” you ask, voice trembling despite your effort to sound strong.

His lips curve into a slow, soft smile. “Everything.”

It’s a single word, but it feels like the ground shifting beneath your feet, the air being sucked from your lungs. His hands remain on you, warm and firm, a reminder of the weight of his presence, the inevitability of his claim.

***

His lips are molten against your skin, every kiss igniting a trail of fire that seems to seep straight into your veins. He’s deliberate, moving with the confidence of someone who knows exactly what effect he has on you, and you hate how your body betrays you, arching instinctively to grant him more access.

His hands, strong and unyielding, pin yours on either side of your head, fingers interlocked as if he’s binding you to him. There’s a dangerous intimacy in the way he holds you—gentle, yet unrelenting, as though he’s savoring the moment of your surrender.

You’re disgusted with yourself, with the way your breath hitches when his mouth finds that sensitive spot below your jaw. You can feel his smirk against your skin, a silent acknowledgment of your weakness.

“See?” he murmurs, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction. “Your body knows what it wants, even if you don’t.”

Your teeth clench, and you glare up at him, but your defiance feels hollow when your pulse betrays you, pounding under his touch. “Get off me,” you hiss, though your voice wavers, lacking the strength you want it to have.

He chuckles softly, his breath warm against your ear. “Oh, sweet girl,” he says, his tone both teasing and reverent, “we both know that’s the last thing you want.”

Your heart races, your thoughts a chaotic storm of anger, fear, and something else you refuse to name. You hate how easily he unravels you, how effortlessly he reduces you to this trembling, conflicted mess.

And yet, even as you fight against him, a part of you wonders if he’s right.

A part of you winders if he’s right as he cups your face, kissing your eyes, your cheeks, your nose, your lips. 

A part of you winders if he’s right when his lashes brush across your skin, butterfly kisses soft as he promises devotion. 

And a part of you winder if he’s right as his hands are so, so genlte that it makes you cry. 

The tears come without warning, hot and unbidden, slipping down your cheeks even as his hands continue their soft ministrations, brushing tenderly across your skin. His touch feels like silk, each movement almost reverent, as if he’s cherishing you in a way that feels far too intimate, far too real for you to grasp.

His lips continue everywhere.

Your cheeks, your nose, your lips. Each kiss is so light, so gentle, that it feels like a confession in itself, as if he’s offering something more than just a physical connection.

The soft brush of his lashes against your skin feels like a whisper from some dark, hidden part of yourself, and for a moment, you almost want to believe him. You almost want to surrender to the devotion he promises, even though every fiber of your being screams that it’s a lie, a manipulation, a trap. His kisses, tender and patient, ghosting over your cheeks and lips, seem to slow time, stretching the moment into something agonizingly beautiful. His hands, impossibly gentle, caress your face with such reverence that it stirs something deep inside of you. Something raw and fragile.

You hate how vulnerable you’ve become in his presence, how his careful tenderness is unraveling the walls you’ve spent so long building.

“You don’t have to fight,” he murmurs, his voice like silk, soothing, coaxing. “I can give you what you need. All you have to do is let go.”

Your chest tightens with emotion you can’t name, a surge of dread and longing so tangled together you can't separate them. You want to pull away, to tear yourself from his embrace, but your body betrays you, sinking deeper into the warmth he offers, yearning for something you can’t understand. The contradictions inside you churn.

“Stop it,” you whisper, your voice cracked, but even the words feel weak as they leave your lips. You’re terrified of what might happen if you give in, terrified of what part of yourself you might lose in the process. But you’re equally terrified of what’s left—this part of you, so full of confusion and tears.

He just smiles, a slow, knowing smile. “No, love. You’re too precious to let go now.”

"Such a beautiful, perfect creature," he murmurs, his voice so sweet it feels like honey dripping into your ears. It’s intoxicating. His breath is warm against your skin, and for a moment, you feel like you’re drowning in him, in the sweetness of his devotion, in the promise of something you can’t name but long for anyway.

But the tears—why are there tears? You’re angry, confused, terrified, and yet his gentleness makes you break, makes you lose control in the most vulnerable way possible. Your body is betraying you, responding to him in a way that makes you hate yourself for giving him even the smallest hint of satisfaction.

"Don’t cry," he whispers softly, brushing away the tears with his thumb, as if the mere touch of him could erase your fear, your resistance. "You’re safe here. You’re mine."

The words send a chill down your spine, and part of you wants to push him away, to reject everything he says, every soft caress, every whisper of devotion. But another part, a treacherous, aching part of you, wonders if there’s truth in his words.

If you are his.

***

Clothes had been forgotten long ago. Only the sounds of your gasps for air, moans, and whimpers fill the room, save for the blasphemous squelch of his fingres dragging inside you, curling at that spongey spot that makes your eyes close, the darkness swimming with floating lights. 

One calloused hand is working through your sobbing cunt, the other pressing two fingers down on your tongue. His teeth dig into your shoulder as he works you through another orgasm. 

Spit pools in your mouth, and you find yourself twitching, shaking drooling when he adds a third finger, working you open. 

“Like I said, this is only the beginning. Let’s do good, yeah?”

And Caleb is so sure- so incredibly sure that you’re his that there is simply no room for doubt in his mind. Why would there be, when he takes his fingers out and watches your cunt glisten, connected to his fingers by the strings of your juices. He licks them clean, save for his index. That, he removes his fingers from your mouth, replacing it with that so you taste yourself. 

“See? See what I can do for you?”

He’s greedy. He doesn’t wait for any answer- he doesn’t need to hear one. Because he knows. He knows as he lays you on your back, his lips finding your tits, worshipping them for some time, his tongue swirling around the erected, hard nipple, relishing in how your thighs twitch again, as if you’re just not going to get used to this. 

He lets them go with a lewd pop before he gets between your legs. You don’t dare look, lest your face burn hotter than it was already, as his cock leaks, a pearl of divinity seeping at its pink tip, just waiting to be of use. The vien is big, and he’s thick- you’re sure that it’s not going to fit. 

You try to close your thighs but he just doesn’t let you, kissing away your worries as he lines himself up. 

Your breathing quickens, and he pushes himself in. 

If you screamed, you didn’t hear it. 

Not when you feel yourself being torn open so carelessly, when there’s a wild look in his eyes as he’s finally, finally inside you, finally splitting you open. 

When you open a pomegranate carelessly, it’s so messy. You hardly have time to enjoy it. The pomegranate bursts open in your hands, the seeds spilling out with reckless abandon. Juice splatters across your fingers, dripping down your wrists, staining the fabric of your dress. It's sticky and messy, and it leaves behind a trail of crimson marks wherever it touches. The sweet-sour scent fills the air, but it's no longer the delightful fragrance you once associated with the fruit. 

You try to clean it up, but the more you do, the messier it becomes. The juice smears across your hands and lips, irreversible.

You don’t miss the gasp he takes as he spills inside, nor the smile of finality. 

***

The ring slips on your finger unnoticed, a subtle weight you don’t even feel at first, not when his touch is so consuming, so overwhelming. His presence fills every inch of the space around you, and everything else, every shred of reality, fades into the background.

The soft gleam of the ring feels like an afterthought, an inconsequential detail, as your focus is entirely on him—his voice, his breath, his touch. His promises. His devotion. It’s intoxicating, and for that fleeting moment, you almost forget the consequences of what you’re allowing, the choices you’ve made without truly thinking.

But then your mind snaps back, and the weight of the ring finally registers—your gaze falling to it with a sharp, sinking realization. How did it get there? Was it his doing, was it the culmination of everything he had whispered, everything he had touched you with?

You look up to meet his gaze, and in the depths of his eyes, you see something—too familiar, too sure. His smile is soft, but there’s something possessive, something triumphant in it. He knows. He knows the ring is on your finger, and he doesn’t have to say it out loud to make it clear.

You are his.

And that realization, that truth, sits heavy in your chest.

***

The next morning, as you woke up, you noticed the sunlight streaming in from a window you didn't see yesterday. And beside you, on the nightstand, was a bulbous figure.

A scream tore through your throat.

Jenna's head, with her skin peeled back like the arils of a pomegranate.

[gladiatefm]

he can't help but smile ; apollo has always looked up to finnick , a gleaming example of what winning the games can do to a person . what a difference he can make — their paths have wound more closely together than he had ever imagined , from the work they both do behind the scenes to their unexpected love interests , the softness beneath the image presented to the capitol post - games . these people apollo had idolised are like surrogate parents to him now , kinder to him than his own family once he escaped that arena , a golden prince for all of panem to put their hands on . " i'm flattered , " he teases , a twinkle in his eye which never dims , no matter how hard their boots flatten his resolve .

he's learned his way around annie's nerves , how best to avoid threading over them and making all of this worse for her . a victor's life is a tough one , but what she was put through could traumatise even apollo , so disconnected from reality that he passes each day as optimistically as he can . " then let me worry about you too , huh ? that's what families are for . " he smiles , squeezes her hand ever so slightly . " i'm not going anywhere until i know you're alright . they'll fix the elevators soon , i'm sure. hang in there ? "

It was strange to see how much Apollo has changed over the years. She was never his mentor, but she remembered seeing that little boy preparing to fight in the arena. Now he stands here a grown man, and she couldn't help but notice how time in the Capitol affected him. It reminded her of the way Finnick felt after his trips to the Capitol. It sometimes amazed her how much Apollo reminded her of him. ❝That sounds like something Finnick would say.❞ She smiled softly, reaching out to brush her thumb along his cheek gently, ❝But thank you, Apollo. Sometimes I need that reminder.❞  

She latched onto Apollo's hand as she fought to avoid the glass remnants she left behind. She felt embarrassed for allowing herself to get so worked up in public, but she fought to keep herself from experiencing another breakdown. The last thing she needed was more eyes on her. ❝I'll always worry about you. Call it my motherly instinct.❞ She teased lightly, feeling his hand wiping away her tears. She glanced around the room, eyes watching as individuals chatted with each other. ❝You should go mingle some more. Maybe we can get some additional sponsors.❞ And by we she meant Apollo and the rest of District 4, for Annie had a feeling she'd just scare off any potential sponsors.   

[lynbels]

ONLY WHEN HE WANTS ME ୨ৎ 이희승

pairing 이희승 x reader

୨ৎ synopsis: you navigate the emotional wreckage of a toxic relationship, where fleeting tenderness masks control, and survival means staying quiet. ✉️ 7265 - tw. manipulate, toxic, abusive relationship, reader is stubborn, unprotected sex, hair pulling, praising, dirty talk, kissing, skin-ship, abuse, manipulation, gaslighting, violence, body image / weight related comments, self-worth issues, physical intimidation, implied sexual coercion, toxic relationship dynamics, emotional abuse, burnout/emotional exhaust, verbal abuse

📝 is this supposed to be a Drabble account? Yes. Did I just write a whole ass story? Yes. ‼️ i do NOT think of heeseung like this at all. I’m just really angry today and wrote this.

Dont like it? Dont read it. mdni

The apartment was supposed to be a fresh start.

You’d been together for a year — long enough to know his rhythms, to crave his presence, to think moving in was the natural next step. When Heeseung had smiled at you over takeout containers and said, “Let’s get a place together,” it felt like everything you’d wanted was finally aligning.

You didn’t expect it to fall apart so fast.

It started with the little things. The way he’d stop answering your texts when he was out. The way his tone would shift when you asked simple questions, like you were interrogating him. He used to call you babe every time he walked through the door — now you’d be lucky if he looked up from his phone.

The boxes were barely unpacked before the silences started stretching longer. His moods changed like weather — some mornings, he’d kiss your shoulder and whisper how lucky he was; other nights, he’d barely speak to you at all. But when he touched you, it was like he flipped a switch. He knew exactly how to make your body react — and maybe that’s why you let him.

Because when you questioned him — even gently — it never went well.

“You’re overthinking,” he said once, brushing you off with a hand on your thigh and a smirk that made your chest tighten instead of flutter. “You know I’m busy. Don’t be clingy.”

You hated that word. Clingy.

But you started believing it. Heeseung had a way of making everything feel like your fault. If he was distant, it was because you were too much. If he pulled away, it was because you were “suffocating him.” And when you tried to talk about how you felt, he’d laugh and say, “Don’t ruin what we have with your insecurities.”

Some nights, he didn’t come home. Said he fell asleep at a friend’s, or stayed late at the studio — even though there were no messages, no missed calls, no proof. And when you asked why he didn’t tell you, he shrugged like it didn’t matter.

“Why are you so obsessed with keeping tabs on me?”

“I live here too, you know. This isn’t your place to control.”

“Are you seriously crying right now?”

You started sleeping on the far edge of the bed.

You stopped bringing up how cold he’d gotten, how he only seemed to show affection when he wanted something — when he wanted you. You didn’t know how to explain the feeling in your gut, the sick twist that came every time he touched you with lips that felt too familiar, too practiced.

Because the truth was sinking in slowly, like water through cracks in the floor.

You were in love with someone who only loved you when it was convenient.

Heeseung never touched you the way he used to—not in the soft, reverent way that made you feel adored. Not anymore.

Now, it was late at night when he suddenly needed you. When he’d come home hours after midnight, smelling faintly of liquor and something else you didn’t want to name, and find you lying in bed, half-asleep, still waiting. Always waiting.

His voice would be low, rough. “Take this off,” he’d mutter, tugging at your shirt like it offended him just by existing.

And you’d let him.

Because it was the only time he really looked at you. The only time he saw you—eyes heavy, hands urgent, whispering things against your skin that made you feel wanted, even if just for a moment. Even if it wasn’t real.

When he was inside you, his hands gripping your waist like you were something he owned, it was the closest thing to love he ever gave you anymore.

He’d say your name like a curse, like a prayer, like he needed you to breathe.

And you’d believe him, just for a second.

Because in that moment—underneath him, beneath the weight of his body and his lies—you could almost pretend you meant something to him.

His hands are on you before you can speak, tugging your shorts down roughly, not caring where they land. He kisses you like he’s punishing you for something, all teeth and desperation, his fingers digging into your skin as if he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

You arch into him automatically, your body trained to respond to his touch no matter how hollow it feels now. His palm slides between your legs, and you’re already wet—because this is the only version of him that feels like he wants you. The only time he pulls you close instead of pushing you away.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your neck, his voice low and wrecked. “Always so ready for me.”

You don’t answer. You just spread your legs wider when he pushes two fingers inside you, curling them in that way he knows drives you insane. Your hips move without thinking, chasing friction, chasing anything.

He watches you with a smug glint in his eyes, but there’s hunger underneath it—something darker, something hollow.

“Is this what you want?” he breathes, pulling his fingers out and replacing them with the thick press of his cock. “This is all you ever want from me, right?”

You bite your lip as he thrusts into you in one hard stroke, making the mattress creak beneath you. You want to tell him no, that it’s not all you want. But your body betrays you, moaning before your mouth can form words.

He fucks you hard, fast, like he’s trying to erase every fight, every silence, every cold shoulder. His grip bruises, his pace relentless, and when you come around him, shaking and breathless, he groans like you’re his salvation.

But when it’s over, he rolls off without a word.

And just like that—you’re back to feeling like nothing.

The next morning, it was like nothing had happened. Like you hadn’t let him use your body as a way to feel needed. Like you hadn’t clung to his touch just to feel something real for once.

He didn’t kiss you. Didn’t say good morning. He just rolled out of bed, scratching the back of his neck, yawning as if your body wasn’t still sore from the night before. He didn’t even glance at you as he pulled a hoodie over his head.

“You gonna make coffee or what?” he mumbled, already halfway out the room.

You pushed yourself up slowly, skin still warm from where he’d held you, still aching in the places he’d gripped too tight. You didn’t say anything. You never really did. Just pulled on a shirt and padded into the kitchen, filling the kettle, grinding the beans. Hoping that maybe, maybe, today would be different.

But when you handed him his mug, he barely looked at you before taking a sip and grimacing.

“Did you forget how to make coffee?” he scoffed, setting it down hard on the table. “Tastes like shit.”

You swallowed hard, staring at the steam curling off the surface. “Sorry. I’ll make another—”

“Forget it,” he cut in, already unlocking his phone, thumbs scrolling. “You’re not even good at simple shit.”

It was always like that. A good night followed by a cruel morning.

He’d leave his laundry in a pile by the door and when you didn’t wash it fast enough, he’d say, “What do you even do all day?”

He’d ask you to grab his charger, his keys, his jacket, and then scoff if you didn’t move fast enough—“Useless,” under his breath like it was your name.

He’d call you clingy when you asked for his attention and cold when you didn’t. No answer was ever right. No version of you ever enough.

Some days, he’d come home and act like nothing was wrong, ruffle your hair, tell you to sit on his lap like things were normal. He’d bury his face in your neck, call you his girl, tell you he missed you. You’d want so badly to believe it—but the next day, you’d be back to chasing after his warmth like it was something you had to earn.

Like the love he gave you came with terms and conditions.

“Hey, clean up your mess before you leave,” he’d call when you were already late, pointing at the dishes he left on the table. “And don’t forget to call my dry cleaner. You said you’d do that yesterday, but like always…”

He didn’t even finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

Because by now, the silence said everything.

Because by now, you already believed it.

It started small.

A shove when you stood in front of the door during an argument. Not hard—just enough to move you, to make you stumble back a little. He didn’t apologize. Just glared at you like you had pushed him, like your presence alone was an offense.

You told yourself it was the heat of the moment. That he didn’t mean it. That it wasn’t that bad.

But it didn’t stop there.

The second time, it was your wrist. You’d touched his arm when he tried to walk away mid-fight, desperate to make him stay, to make him hear you. He turned so fast you barely saw it coming—his fingers wrapped tight around your wrist, squeezing hard enough to make you cry out.

“Don’t touch me when I’m fucking pissed,” he spat, shoving your arm away like it disgusted him.

You cradled your wrist for hours afterward, hiding the red marks from yourself. From him. From the mirror.

And the next morning, he acted like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t left bruises on your skin. Like your silence wasn’t screaming.

Eventually, it became routine.

A slap to your thigh when you said something he didn’t like. A harsh grip on your chin when you looked away during another lecture about how “you don’t listen.” Sometimes he’d grab your arms too tightly, slam a door too close to your face, throw your phone across the room so hard it cracked the screen. You flinched so often it became muscle memory.

But he never hit you in the face.

He knew better.

After every time, he’d either pretend it hadn’t happened, or twist it in his favor.

“You made me do that.”

“Why do you push me like this?”

“You know how I get when you don’t shut up.”

And sometimes—sometimes—he’d hold you after, breathing hard like he was the one who had been hurt. Like you had made him fall apart.

“I don’t wanna be like this,” he’d whisper into your hair. “But you make me crazy, baby. You make it so fucking hard to be good.”

And you’d cry quietly in his arms, because for a moment, it felt like he cared.

Even if he only held you after he broke you.

Sometimes, when you were standing at the stove—barefoot, hair tied up, mind somewhere between recipes and the silence he left in his wake—he’d come up behind you without a sound.

His hands would slide around your waist, chest pressed to your back like he belonged there, like he hadn’t just ignored you all morning.

You’d barely have time to react before one of his hands slipped under your shirt, fingers cold and greedy as they cupped your breast.

“Missed these,” he’d murmur against your neck, voice low and lazy, like he was complimenting something he owned.

You’d stiffen for a second, spatula still in your hand, heat rising from the pan in front of you—but then his thumb would brush over your nipple, slow and deliberate, and your body would betray you all over again.

He’d groan when you arched into him, one hand squeezing possessively as his other dragged your shirt up just enough to expose your skin.

“You’re always so warm,” he’d whisper, mouth trailing over your shoulder, voice coated in that honeyed filth that made your knees weak. “Can’t even let you cook in peace, huh?”

You never said anything. You didn’t trust your voice. Not when part of you ached for it—ached to be touched, to be wanted, even if only for a few seconds.

Even if he’d walk away a minute later, without tasting a bite of what you’d made. Even if he’d leave you flustered and alone in the kitchen again—like he only ever came close to remind you he could.

You barely had time to flip the stove off before he turned you around, lips crashing onto yours with a hunger that felt more like control than affection. He kissed you like he was starving, like claiming your mouth would make up for all the ways he ignored you, belittled you, pushed you away.

Then he spun you again, pressing you forward until your hips met the cool edge of the kitchen counter. His hands were already tugging your shorts down, rough and impatient, knuckles brushing against your thighs as he exposed you piece by piece.

“You knew what you were doing,” he muttered, yanking your shirt up and bunching it at your waist. “Walking around like this, teasing me.”

You opened your mouth to protest—to remind him that you hadn’t done anything—but then he was pressing against you, hard and ready, lining himself up behind you with a low groan.

His hand slid around to your chest again, squeezing your breast harshly, fingers pinching your nipple as he thrust into you in one deep, brutal stroke.

The counter dug into your stomach, but you barely felt it over the stretch of him inside you, the obscene sound of skin on skin echoing in the quiet kitchen.

“This is what you’re good for,” he grunted, thrusts sharp and punishing. “Bending over like this—letting me take you however I want.”

You whimpered, fists clenched on the cold counter as he fucked you harder, faster, one hand gripping your waist while the other stayed under your shirt, still groping your chest like he owned every inch of you.

And maybe he did.

Because no matter how cold he was, how cruel his words felt—your body still responded. Still melted under his touch. Still craved this. Craved him.

Even when you hated yourself for it.

Even when the only time he held you like you mattered… was when he was breaking you in half.

You flinched when he reached for the remote. When he stood up too fast from the couch. When he walked into the room and his footsteps were just a little too heavy.

It wasn’t always dramatic. Sometimes it was barely noticeable—a twitch of your shoulders, a quick breath caught in your throat, a subtle step back like you needed space even when he wasn’t touching you. But your body reacted before your mind could reason with it. Like it was protecting you before you had the chance to lie to yourself again.

He noticed.

“You always act like I’m gonna hit you,” he said one night, annoyed, tossing his phone on the bed like you were the one ruining the mood. “You’re so fucking dramatic.”

But he didn’t say it like he cared. He said it like it was inconvenient for him. Like your fear was an insult.

And maybe it was—to the version of himself he pretended to be. The sweet-talking boyfriend who made people laugh in public. The one who said “I love you” with the same mouth that spit venom in private. The one who told you to stop crying because it made him feel guilty—not because it hurt him to see you in pain, but because he didn’t want to feel like the bad guy.

You started moving differently around him. Quieter. Smaller. You’d stay in the kitchen a little longer so you wouldn’t have to pass by him in the hallway. You folded laundry in the bathroom with the door locked, even when he wasn’t home.

Sometimes, when he walked behind you, your body would tense without you meaning to. And when his hand brushed your arm or your lower back, you’d suck in a breath before you could stop it.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he’d snap. “You’re acting like I’m a monster.”

But the worst part wasn’t what he said.

The worst part was that you started to believe maybe it really was you. Maybe you were overreacting. Too sensitive. Too much. Maybe you were the problem after all.

So you said nothing.

And your silence became just another thing he used against you.

When he wanted something, he’d change—like flipping a switch.

His voice would soften, just a little. He’d smile at you like he used to, the curve of his lips so familiar it made your chest ache. He’d touch you gently, like he hadn’t been cold for days, like he hadn’t made you flinch just yesterday.

“Babe,” he’d say, dragging out the word like a melody, like it still meant something. “You’re so good to me, you know that?”

Sometimes he’d kiss your cheek, fingers brushing your waist as he leaned in. Ask you to cook something he liked. Grab him something from the store. Pick up his clothes. Cover for him when someone called. Always followed by a “thank you, baby” that sounded sweet enough to make you forget.

And for a moment, you’d feel warm. Needed. Like maybe things were getting better. Like maybe he was trying.

So you’d do what he asked. Even if it hurt. Even if you knew better.

But as soon as it was done—food on the table, his plans covered, favor finished—he’d pull away again. No more soft voice. No more hands on your waist. No more babe.

Just silence. Or worse, indifference.

He’d barely look up from his phone when you spoke. Would answer you in clipped, flat words. You could ask him something and wait two minutes for a response, only for him to say, “What? I wasn’t listening.”

And it would hit you again—hard, cold, cruel.

The warmth had only been a tactic. A tool. A way to get what he wanted.

Because Heeseung only ever touched you, smiled at you, softened for you… when he needed something. And the rest of the time, you were just there. Convenient. Quiet. Useful.

Until you weren’t.

You were exhausted—mentally, emotionally, physically. The kind of tired that clung to your bones and made your limbs feel too heavy to move. You hadn’t slept properly in days, hadn’t had a full meal that wasn’t made for someone else, hadn’t taken a breath that didn’t feel like it belonged to him.

The apartment was quiet. Heavy. You were sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing, mind blank, heart numb. You didn’t even hear him come in until the mattress dipped beside you.

His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you toward him, and you froze.

“Don’t,” you said quietly, voice thin and cracked. “Not right now.”

But he didn’t let go.

He leaned in, lips brushing your shoulder, your neck, your jaw. “You’re always tired lately,” he murmured, like it was a joke. Like he hadn’t made you this way.

“I said stop,” you whispered, a little firmer this time, your hand coming up to push at his chest—but his mouth was already on yours, kissing you like he needed something, like he was desperate to feel in control again.

You pulled away, shaking your head. “Heeseung, I’m serious. I can’t. I’m tired.”

But he kissed you again.

And again.

Soft at first. Then deeper. More insistent. Like if he kissed you hard enough, you’d forget how empty you felt. How hollowed out you were. How much you wanted to scream.

You kept saying no, kept pushing at his chest, but his hands were on your thighs now, slipping beneath your clothes like your exhaustion didn’t matter. Like your boundaries were just noise.

“Baby,” he breathed against your skin. “I need you. Just let me, okay? Just… let me feel you.”

And you hated it—hated how your body still reacted, how your breath still hitched, how even now, a part of you wanted to be wanted. Even like this. Even when it hurt.

But you were tired. So, so tired.

And when his mouth trailed lower and his hands gripped tighter, all you could do was close your eyes and disappear.

It was supposed to be a calm afternoon. You had cleaned the apartment twice over, made tea, even laid out the snacks Heeseung liked—trying, always trying, to make everything perfect when his parents came by.

His mom was sweet, warm, always polite. His dad quieter, reserved but kind enough. They sat on the couch, talking casually about nothing, the kind of conversation you didn’t need to force. And for a moment, things felt almost normal.

Until Heeseung couldn’t find his watch.

He walked into the living room, jaw already clenched, tone sharp like glass. “Where the fuck did you put it?”

You blinked, confused. “I—I didn’t touch it. I think you left it in the bathroom last night.”

“No,” he snapped, cutting you off before you could finish. “You always move my shit and never put it back. Is it that hard to just leave things alone?”

Your heart dropped. Heat rushed to your face—his parents were right there. Watching. His mom’s smile faltered instantly, her brow furrowing, her eyes darting between the two of you.

“Heeseung,” she said quietly, firmly, “don’t talk to her like that.”

He paused, lips parted, clearly not expecting to be corrected—especially not by his mother.

“She didn’t do anything wrong,” she continued, voice gentle but edged with something protective. “I’m sure the watch will turn up. But don’t raise your voice like that, not in front of us—and not to her.”

Heeseung didn’t say anything for a moment. Just looked away, jaw flexing like he wanted to argue but knew better. He muttered something under his breath and walked off, footsteps heavy down the hall.

You stood there, frozen. Embarrassed. Small.

His mom turned to you, her expression softening as she reached for your hand.

“I don’t know what’s going on between you two,” she said quietly, “but you don’t deserve that, sweetheart. Don’t ever let anyone make you feel like you do.”

And you smiled back, weakly.

Because what were you supposed to say?

She didn’t know this was just a glimpse. That what she saw today was nothing compared to what happened when no one else was watching.

You were in the kitchen, hands submerged in warm, soapy water, rinsing off plates from the visit—silent, focused, trying to steady your breathing. The sound of the faucet running helped drown out the quiet tension still hanging in the air from earlier. You scrubbed a plate harder than necessary, the ceramic squeaking under your grip.

Behind you, out in the hallway, you heard footsteps. Soft. Measured.

It was Heeseung’s dad.

He approached his son cautiously, hands in his pockets, glancing over his shoulder toward you, his voice low so you wouldn’t hear. But the apartment was small. And everything felt loud when the rest of your world was quiet.

“Is she okay?” he asked gently.

Heeseung didn’t answer right away.

“I mean it, son. She looks… thin. Too thin. She’s lost weight, hasn’t she?”

You froze for just a second, the dish slipping slightly in your grip. But you kept your eyes down, kept scrubbing. You didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want to feel it. Not when your ribs had started to show in the mirror. Not when your favorite jeans hung off your hips now. Not when you only ate when you remembered, which wasn’t often.

Heeseung just sighed. “She’s fine. She’s just been tired. Busy or whatever.”

“Busy with what?” his dad asked, voice more serious now. “She barely talks. She doesn’t look like she’s sleeping. You snap at her like she’s not even—”

“She’s sensitive,” Heeseung cut in, brushing it off. “She takes everything personally. I can’t say anything without her acting like I hate her.”

Your chest tightened. You blinked back the sting in your eyes and scrubbed harder.

Because it was easier to blame yourself than to admit the truth. That maybe you were too sensitive. That maybe if you just smiled more, talked less, didn’t overthink things, he wouldn’t get so angry. Wouldn’t lose his patience. Wouldn’t look at you like you were a burden instead of a person.

You rinsed the plate off, stacked it carefully with the others, and started on the next.

You told yourself it was your fault.

Because if it wasn’t, then what was left?

Just the ugly truth you weren’t ready to face.

As soon as the door closed behind his parents, the apartment fell into silence again. That heavy, thick kind that made it hard to breathe. You were still in the kitchen, wiping down the counter for the third time, just to have something to do with your hands. Something to make you feel useful.

Heeseung walked in slowly, hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes dragging over you in that way that always made your stomach turn.

“You made it weird,” he said flatly. “You couldn’t just act normal for a few hours?”

You swallowed hard. “I didn’t do anything…”

He scoffed. “Yeah? Then why did my dad pull me aside asking if you were okay? Saying you looked sick? That you’ve lost too much weight?”

You didn’t answer.

He stepped closer. “Are you trying to make me look bad? Is that it?”

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.

“Look at you,” he sneered, eyes scanning you like you were something broken. “You’re barely eating anymore. Your face is sunken in. You think that’s attractive? You think people don’t notice?”

You shrank back instinctively, pressing your back to the counter, but he was already moving toward the fridge.

“Sit,” he ordered, yanking it open and grabbing whatever he could reach—leftovers, a carton of juice, snacks you’d forgotten were even in there. “Sit down and eat something. Right now.”

You hesitated.

He dropped the food on the table with a loud clatter. “I said sit.”

So you did.

And he sat across from you, arms folded, eyes locked on your every move like you were some kind of test he was determined to pass. Or punish.

You took a bite. Then another. Chewed slowly. Swallowed. You weren’t even hungry—but he didn’t care. He just kept watching, tapping his fingers against the table, jaw clenched.

“Keep going,” he said coldly. “All of it.”

By the time you were done, your stomach was cramping. You felt sick, too full, like your body was rejecting every bite. But you didn’t complain. You couldn’t.

Because deep down, you knew it wasn’t about food. It was never about food.

It was about control. About proving that he still had it. That you were still his to shape, to break, to rebuild however he pleased.

It was almost midnight when you heard the front door slam.

You froze on the couch, phone still in your hand, heart already picking up speed. You knew that sound—the stagger in his steps, the keys dropping to the floor, the heavy exhale as he stumbled into the apartment reeking of alcohol and bad decisions.

Heeseung was drunk. Again.

You stood up slowly, cautiously, peeking down the hallway just as he turned the corner, bottle still in his hand, eyes hazy but sharp. Mean.

“There you are,” he slurred, a twisted smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Sitting around like some bored little housewife. You waiting up for me or just keeping the couch warm?”

“I was just watching something,” you said quietly, trying to keep your voice steady. “You’re late.”

He scoffed. “Oh, so now you care where I go?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No, but you meant it,” he snapped, taking a few stumbling steps forward. “You always mean something with your quiet little attitude. Always so fucking passive. So fake.”

Your mouth opened to defend yourself, but he didn’t give you the chance.

In one sudden motion, he hurled the half-empty bottle across the room.

It hit the wall two inches beside your head—shattering, spraying glass and cheap liquor across the floor. You jumped back with a scream, hands flying up to cover your face, body instinctively curling in on itself.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Heeseung just stood there, breathing hard, staring at the wall like it was your fault it didn’t hit you.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

Your hands were shaking, your chest tight with fear that you were trying so hard to hide. You looked at the broken glass, then at him.

He didn’t apologize.

Didn’t move toward you.

Didn’t even look sorry.

He just wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, muttered something you couldn’t catch, and walked past you like nothing had happened.

Like nearly hurting you was a passing inconvenience.

Like you were a ghost in your own home.

You stood frozen for a moment, the sound of the bottle shattering still ringing in your ears. It wasn’t until you shifted your weight—just slightly—that you felt it. A sharp sting, sudden and deep, biting into your calf like fire.

You gasped, instinctively lifting your leg, only to see a thin sliver of red trailing down your skin, glinting glass buried in the cut. Tiny shards were scattered across the floor, catching the light in jagged reflections. One of them had found its way to you.

You reached down with trembling hands, trying to brush the smaller pieces away, but the pain pulsed harder with every touch. Blood smeared under your fingers as you hissed through your teeth, blinking fast to keep from crying.

Heeseung didn’t turn around.

Didn’t look back.

You could hear him in the bathroom, the sink running, cabinet doors slamming. Like it hadn’t happened. Like he didn’t care. Like the sight of you bleeding was beneath his attention.

You limped toward the hallway, teeth clenched, heart hammering. The cut wasn’t deep, but it hurt. And worse—it reminded you of how close it had been. Of how easily it could’ve hit your face, your head. Of how this wasn’t the first time something had been thrown at you… just the first time it actually landed.

And still, you said nothing.

Because somehow, it always turned into your fault. Somehow, you always ended up cleaning the mess—both the blood on your skin and the damage he left behind.

Alone.

The next morning, sunlight crept through the thin curtains, soft and quiet—too gentle for a space that had been filled with so much violence just hours before.

You were still curled on the edge of the bed, facing the wall, your leg wrapped in gauze from the sparse first-aid kit in the bathroom. Sleep had come in waves—light, broken, haunted by the sound of glass shattering and the sharp pain that came with it.

Heeseung stirred beside you.

You felt it before you heard anything—his weight shifting on the mattress, the faint rustle of sheets. Then a long exhale. Then stillness.

A moment passed before his hand reached for your shoulder.

“Hey,” he said softly, voice hoarse from the night before. “…You awake?”

You didn’t answer.

He moved closer, his arm brushing yours, his touch hesitant—careful, like he knew he’d gone too far.

“About last night,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was drunk. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You stared at the wall.

“I—I didn’t know the bottle was gonna…” He trailed off, jaw tight. “I didn’t mean to throw it at you.”

You finally turned your head, slowly, meeting his eyes for the first time since it happened.

“There’s glass in my leg,” you said flatly.

His face crumpled, like guilt only just started to reach him. “Fuck,” he breathed, reaching for your hand, but you pulled away.

“I cleaned it myself,” you added.

“I know,” he whispered. “I saw. I was—I was going to help, I just—” He cut himself off again, frustration flashing briefly in his eyes before guilt took its place.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he said, softer now. “I was drunk, but that’s not an excuse. I know that.”

You didn’t respond. Because you’d heard this version of him before—the remorseful morning-after version. The soft voice, the reaching hands, the guilt that never lasted longer than it took for you to forgive him.

He leaned in closer. “Let me make it up to you. I’ll take care of you today, yeah? You don’t have to do anything. Just rest.”

You turned back toward the wall, slowly.

And said nothing.

He stayed quiet for a while after that, like he was waiting—for you to nod, to speak, to accept the apology and let him slip back into the rhythm he always did. Sweet words, gentle hands, just enough softness to make you question everything that had happened before.

But you didn’t give him that this time.

You lay there, unmoving, eyes fixed on a crack in the wall you hadn’t noticed until now. Small. Thin. But deep.

Eventually, he got up, shuffling out of the room. You heard the sound of cabinets opening in the kitchen. The soft clink of a glass, the fridge door. The hum of the kettle heating up water.

He was trying.

Or pretending.

You finally pulled yourself out of bed an hour later, body stiff and sore. The gauze on your leg was already stained a dull pink. You winced as you moved, but you didn’t say a word when you found him in the kitchen, setting out a mug of tea and a plate of toast like he could erase what happened with breakfast.

He glanced up at you, eyes searching your face. “I made your favorite.”

You nodded once, mechanically. “Thanks.”

You sat. Ate a bite out of obligation, not hunger.

Heeseung watched you the whole time, barely touching his own food.

“I’m gonna fix this,” he said suddenly, like he meant it. “I don’t want to be that guy. I just—things get too much sometimes, and I don’t know how to deal with it. But I’m gonna change. I swear.”

You nodded again. Just a little.

Because you wanted to believe him.

But deep down, something in you had already gone quiet. Detached.

Like that crack in the wall.

Small, at first.

But deep That night, the apartment was dim and still

That night, he left the bedroom door open.

That alone felt like something. After a week of making you sleep on the couch—no matter how cold it got, no matter how much your leg ached, no matter how small your voice had gotten when you asked if you could come back in—he finally said, “You can sleep here tonight.”

Not I want you to.

Not I miss you.

Just you can.

You stood at the edge of the bed for a moment, unsure. You could still hear the echo of his voice from nights before—Go. Sleep on the couch. I don’t wanna see your face. The way he’d slammed the door in your face, the way he didn’t even flinch when he heard you crying through the walls.

But your body was tired. And your leg still throbbed.

So you climbed in slowly, careful not to take up too much space, careful not to brush against him. You lay on your side, back to him, the sheets feeling unfamiliar even though this had once been your place, too.

After a few minutes, the bed shifted. You felt his arm slide across your waist, tentative, like he was checking how far you’d let him go.

“You’re warm,” he mumbled against your neck. Like it was a compliment. Like it meant something.

You didn’t answer. Just closed your eyes and tried not to tense up under his touch.

He pulled you closer.

And for a second, it felt like you were his again.

But not because he loved you.

Because he let you.

You woke up before him.

The room was dim, soft grey light filtering through the curtains. His arm was still draped over your waist, heavy, like a reminder. Your body ached—not just from the weight of him beside you, but from everything you’d been carrying alone.

You lay still, afraid to move. Not because he was asleep, but because you didn’t know which version of him you’d wake.

The one who whispered apologies and kissed your shoulder like he couldn’t bear to lose you?

Or the one who threw bottles and made you clean up your own blood?

You shifted gently, trying to slide out from under his arm. But the moment you moved, he stirred.

“Where you going?” he murmured, voice thick with sleep.

“I was just gonna go wash up,” you whispered.

He tightened his grip for a second, pulling you back in without opening his eyes. “Stay.”

You hesitated. “I’ll come back.”

He sighed, lips brushing your neck. “You always say that.”

And then he let go.

In the bathroom, you looked at yourself in the mirror. There was a faint bruise on your collarbone—fingers, probably. Your leg was stiff, the cut angry and red, the gauze already needing to be changed. You looked pale. Smaller. Like someone you barely recognized.

But you cleaned yourself up anyway.

Made breakfast.

Waited.

Heeseung came out an hour later, yawning, shirtless, acting like everything was fine. Like last night hadn’t happened. Like the week on the couch didn’t matter.

He kissed your temple.

“You sleep okay?”

You nodded.

Because it was easier.

Because fighting never fixed anything.

Because even when he hurt you, you still wanted to be something he didn’t throw away.

That day passed slowly, thick with silence that neither of you tried to fill.

Heeseung left for a few hours—said he was meeting a friend, but didn’t say who, and you didn’t ask. You just nodded, gave a faint smile, and watched the door close behind him. The apartment felt heavier once he was gone, like his absence still left pressure in the air.

You wandered from room to room. Picked things up just to put them back down. Cleaned the same spot on the counter twice. Folded clothes you’d already folded.

When he finally came home, it was almost dark.

He didn’t say much—just tossed his jacket on the couch and walked past you, muttering a low “hey” that didn’t land like a greeting. You stayed in the kitchen, pretending to scroll through your phone.

Later, when the lights were off and the sheets pulled up, he reached for you again. Just like the night before.

Familiar hands on your hips, pulling you close. His breath warm against your neck.

“Missed this,” he murmured, voice low, like it meant something. Like it erased the couch. The glass. The blood.

You didn’t say anything.

Because saying no never worked.

Because saying yes didn’t feel right either.

So you just stayed still and let him take what he needed, waiting for it to be over. Waiting for morning. Waiting for a version of him that might not come back.

And afterward, when he fell asleep with his arm around your waist like nothing was broken, you stared at the ceiling.

Eyes wide open.

Still waiting.

Heeseung came home later than usual.

The door clicked open with that familiar rattle of his keys, and you glanced up from where you were sitting on the couch, legs pulled to your chest. You didn’t say anything—just watched him toe off his shoes, shrug off his jacket, and drop his bag on the floor like always.

He looked tired. Or maybe just bored.

“Hey,” he said, not really looking at you. “You eat?”

You shook your head. “Not yet.”

He walked past you, heading straight to the kitchen. You heard the fridge open, then close. A few seconds passed before his voice floated back toward you.

“There’s nothing made?”

You hesitated. “I was waiting for you.”

He sighed loud enough for you to hear it. “You were home all day and couldn’t throw something together?”

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the blanket. “I wasn’t feeling great.”

He walked back in, his expression unreadable. Not angry. Just blank.

“You’re always tired lately,” he said. “Always saying you don’t feel good, but you still expect me to come home and cook for both of us?”

“I didn’t say that.”

He raised a brow. “Well, you sure didn’t offer.”

You pushed the blanket aside and stood, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’ll make something now.”

He didn’t say thank you. Just dropped onto the couch where you’d been sitting and turned on the TV, like that was the end of it.

In the kitchen, you moved on autopilot—pulling out rice, eggs, vegetables. Something fast. Something he liked. The ache in your leg from the healing cut flared up every time you shifted your weight, but you didn’t let it slow you down.

Not tonight.

You stirred quietly, keeping an ear on the volume of the TV, on the way he shifted behind you. Part of you still flinched at loud sounds. At movement. But tonight was calm. Tense, but calm.

And that was good enough.

Because sometimes, good enough meant surviving.

The sound of the pan sizzling filled the small kitchen, and you focused on it—on the rhythm of chopping, the smell of garlic in the air, the steady motion of stirring. It was something to do. Something simple. Something safe.

Heeseung didn’t say much from the living room. Occasionally he’d laugh at something on the TV or scroll through his phone, but otherwise, it was quiet. You weren’t sure if that was better or worse.

By the time you plated the food, your hands were a little shaky, not from effort, but from the weight of everything else—his mood, the tension, the lingering bruise just below your collarbone that you’d had to cover up earlier.

You set the plate in front of him on the coffee table. He didn’t look up.

“Thanks,” he muttered, already reaching for a fork.

You made your own plate and sat at the far end of the couch, knees drawn up, eyes flicking between the food and the screen. You weren’t hungry. Not really. But eating made it feel more normal.

Halfway through, he looked over at you.

“Why’d you put so much salt in this?” he asked.

Your stomach dropped a little. “I didn’t mean to. Sorry.”

He took another bite, chewing slowly, and shrugged. “Whatever. It’s fine.”

You nodded, forcing yourself to eat more.

A few minutes passed in silence before he spoke again.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “Maybe we should get out of the apartment this weekend. Do something.”

You blinked. That was… unexpected.

“Like what?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Just go somewhere. You’ve been off lately. Kinda checked out.”

Your mouth felt dry. “I’ve just been tired.”

“Yeah, well. Maybe you need to shake it off. You don’t talk to me anymore, you barely look at me unless I touch you—” He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re not… mad at me or something, are you?”

You looked down at your plate. “No.”

“Good,” he said, nodding like that settled it. “’Cause I hate when you do that silent treatment shit. It’s manipulative.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat and nodded again.

You wanted to say I’m not trying to be silent. I’m just scared to say the wrong thing.

But instead, you just finished eating. Quietly.

Because the last thing you wanted was to give him a reason to be anything but calm tonight.

want longer fanfics like these? Check out @shy9-29

[dark-konohagakure2]

Madara taking advantage of Hashirama's sheltered younger sister? Like so sheltered that she doesn't even really know anything about sex

tw: dubcon, corruption, size difference, gentle to rough sex, manipulation, coercion, degradation, implied hashimada, sadism, dacryphillia, threats

All characters depicted are 18+

Madara isn't very close with Hashirama's siblings, him and Tobirama have been on bad terms since they were children, and Hashirama's little sister is a shy thing even in adulthood, always hiding behind her brothers and rarely leaving the house, but lately Madara has been finding himself more and more drawn to this meek little mouse.

Hashirama and Tobirama haven't been around their sister as much lately due to their duties as Hokage and Hokage's advisor respectively, so the poor little Senju princess has been lonely lately. Usually Madara wouldn't care about some girl's silly problems, but now he feels obligated to provide some company and comfort for his dear little friend.

He can't help but notice what a lovely and well endowed young woman she's grown up into, Madara isn't usually one to give into lust, he's a scary looking man, not to mention he has more important things to worry about than his primal base desires, but he's only a man, so it's not like he'd be opposed to shoving his cock into a hole with a cute face and body attached to it.

Initially Madara just decides to pin her down and ravage her right then and there, but when she starts asking a million questions about what he's doing, seemingly oblivious to what he's doing even as his cock is out and fully erect. Madara would be charmed by her innocence if it wasn't so irritating, he knew she was naive but this is just ridiculous. While not known for his patience, Madara opts to take a more gentle, albeit manipulative approach.

"Are you daft, girl? This is called fu- ahem... It's called 'making love'... It's something you do with your dear friends, and we are friends aren't we, little one?"

He'll be uncharacteristically gentle with her... initially. He doesn't want to break then illusion of lovemaking just yet, at least not until he gets his cock adjusted to her impossibly tight cunt, she's so tight around him that it almost hurts, and she certainly squeezes him harder than her eldest brother does.

But unfortunately for her, Madara being Madara can't stay gentle for very long, he's a warrior who aims for dominance, not equality, or gods forbid submission to her silly little pleas for 'gentle' and 'slower'. He'll abruptly switch from shallow and gentle thrusts to a savage and brutal pounding to her unprotected cunt, not caring if it hurts her, this isn't about making her feel good, it's about getting his rocks off.

The sudden change of pace will startle and confuse the poor girl, and she'll start blubbering like a sniveling child, asking what he's doing and what she did wrong to deserve him being so mean to her. Normally Madara would simply shut her and her insolent whining up, but he'd be lying if he said that watching her cry and whine beneath him didn't make him go absolutely feral.

In the end he'll leave her battered and leaking with his essence, her ass and thighs covered in large red handprints and her pussy stretched from his cock and gushing with his cum. Madara doesn't have time to appreciate his handiwork however, those imbecile big brothers of hers are going to be home soon after all, and he doesn't need yet another deathmatch with the Senju.

"Congratulations. You were a halfway decent cum dumpster. Now, not a word about this to those idiot brothers of yours if you value your life. Understand?"

Hashirama is none the wiser, thanking his old friend for watching over his beloved sister while he was away. Madara will accept the thanks without hesitation, he did do a good job, at giving her a reality check that is.

[slutoru1207]

Sinister!Mark x reader part 2

TW: Stockholm Syndrome Elements – Sinister!Mark is manipulating the reader into questioning their own emotions.Psychological & Emotional Manipulation – Gaslighting, coercion, and possessive behavior.Forced Confinement & Kidnapping – The reader is being held against their will.Threatening & Implied Violence – Sinister!Mark’s reaction to the tracker shows his capacity for dangerous escalation.Loss of Hope / Isolation – The destruction of the tracker removes the reader’s last known chance of rescue.

His breath was still warm against your lips, his forehead pressing against yours like he was grounding himself in you—like he had finally found the missing piece of his shattered world. But you?

You were drowning.

Your chest rose and fell in shallow, trembling breaths, your body locked in place, trapped between his grip and the unrelenting weight of his obsession. Sinister!Mark’s hands stayed firm on you, his thumbs brushing slow, affectionate circles against your skin, a stark contrast to the violence barely restrained in his golden eyes.

“I can feel you shaking,” he murmured, voice drenched in sickening amusement, his lips ghosting over your cheek. “It’s cute.”

You tried to move back, to put any amount of space between you, but his grip only tightened. “Why are you doing this?” you whispered, barely able to hear your own voice over the rush of blood in your ears.

His expression softened—almost heartbreakingly so. Like you had just asked him the saddest question in the world. “Because I love you,” he whispered, as if the answer was the simplest thing in the world. “I need you.”

You flinched when his fingers traced down your arm, slow, possessive. “I know you’re scared,” he continued, his voice laced with false sympathy. “But it’s okay. You don’t have to be. I’m here. I’ll take care of you.”

His fingers reached your wrist, curling around it, not squeezing, not hurting—just holding. Like he was making sure you wouldn’t disappear on him.

“You are happy, right?” His voice was barely above a whisper, but there was an undeniable warning beneath it.

Your throat was dry. You swallowed hard, forcing down the nausea building in your stomach. “Mark…”

A flicker of irritation crossed his face at the name—the wrong Mark.

His grip tightened, and before you could react, he yanked you forward, forcing you against his chest. His heartbeat was steady, eerily calm. His breath fanned against your ear as he spoke, every syllable dripping with dangerous devotion.

“I don’t want to hear his name from your lips,” he murmured, voice low, quiet, but laced with something lethal. “I’m the one who loves you. I’m the one who came for you. He doesn’t deserve you. He never did.”

You tried to step back, but his arms locked around you, caging you in. His fingers trailed up your spine, slow and deliberate, making every nerve in your body scream.

“I know you think you love him,” he whispered. “I know you think he’s the one you belong with.” He exhaled, pressing a lingering kiss against your hair before resting his chin on top of your head. “But that’s just because you forgot what we were. What we are.”

Your stomach churned.

“You’ll remember,” he assured, voice soothing, like he was comforting a frightened animal. “You’ll see. You just need time.”

Your pulse pounded in your ears.

Time.

He wasn’t letting you go.

Before you could speak, a sharp beep cut through the air.

Sinister!Mark tensed.

You barely had time to register what was happening before a small device—a tracker—rolled out from the hem of your sleeve and landed in the grass at your feet, flashing red.

The realization hit you all at once.

Mark—your Mark—had put it there.

And Sinister!Mark knew it.

His entire body went rigid. You could feel his heartbeat pick up, his fingers twitching where they held you, his breath hitching just slightly.

Then, slowly, achingly slow, he reached down and picked up the tiny device, rolling it between his fingers.

His golden eyes lifted to yours, and for the first time, there was no mask of sweetness, no twisted gentleness.

Just rage.

And beneath it, something far, far worse.

A smile.

A small, knowing, cruel smile.

“Oh,” he murmured, turning the tracker between his fingers. “He’s already looking for you, isn’t he?”

Your stomach dropped.

His eyes burned with something dark—something excited.

“Good.”

Then, before you could scream, before you could move, he crushed the device in his palm, the metal and circuits crumbling like dust in his grip.

And just like that—

Your only hope of being found disappeared.

part 3?