#tw.captivity

“Be good, love,” Malcolm murmured, voice low and smooth, velvet laced with iron. There was a sweetness in it. But also, a quiet command, like the smile that never quite reached his eyes.

“I will. I always am, darling,” you replied, automatic and soft. The words tasted familiar, worn from use, yet strange on your tongue. You loved him. At least… you believed you did. You had to. There was no reason not to. Not really.

He chuckled—a quiet, amused sound that always pulled a smile from you. You were trained to respond to it, like muscle memory. “I know. But still. Behave, alright?”

You nodded. “Of course. I’ll see you tonight.”

And just like that, he was gone. The silence that followed felt deeper than usual. The house swallowed him whole, leaving only you behind.

You wandered through the quiet halls, trying to shake the feeling that had started to gnaw at the back of your mind. You were often like this lately—adrift, grasping at something you couldn’t quite name. He told you it was nothing. That it was normal, considering the accident. That your memory would return in time.

Except… it hadn’t.

You couldn’t remember the day you married him. Or the way you’d met. Or why you sometimes woke up gasping in the dark, drenched in sweat, your throat raw like you’d screamed your voice away. You’d asked him once. He had smiled and kissed your forehead, whispering, “Some memories are best left buried.”

That day, the weight in your chest didn’t go away.

It was there again now, heavy and suffocating, like invisible fingers tightening around your lungs.

You wandered to the bedroom—your bedroom. Or so he said. You barely remembered how to navigate the house without thinking. But your body moved on its own. Habit. Routine. Familiarity programmed into your bones, even when your mind resisted.

The drawer in the corner of the room called to you. You didn’t mean to open it. Not at first. But your hands were already reaching for it before your thoughts caught up. The compulsion was too strong. Something inside you needed to know.

And when the drawer opened, you froze.

Photographs. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. All carefully arranged. All tucked neatly between delicate tissue paper, as if they were precious artifacts. At first, the faces didn’t register. Different hairstyles. Different expressions. Different clothes.

But the same eyes.

Your eyes.

They were all you.

Laughter frozen mid-breath. Smiles that never reached your eyes. Dresses you didn’t remember owning. Bruises you couldn’t place.

Some photos were newer. Others older. You recognized none of them, and yet they were undeniably you. A collage of versions—happy, scared, serene, desperate. But all of them shared one common trait: they were being watched. In each frame, subtly blurred in the background, a shadow lingered.

Him.

Sometimes only his hands were visible, placed possessively around your waist or brushing your hair. Other times, he was fully in frame—close, always too close—smiling with a calm, calculated gaze. The kind of smile that made your skin crawl now that you saw it from the outside.

A ribbon. A perfume bottle. A dried rose, still tied with a bow. A necklace—broken at the clasp. A fingernail. You didn’t know whether it was yours, and that uncertainty was the worst part.

And then, the flash drive. Sleek. Unmarked. Black as night.

Your hands moved like they weren’t your own. You crossed the room, plugged it in, and opened the file. A single video.

The screen flickered. Static.

And when it played, you saw a familiar face.

You.

You were strapped to a chair. No… a bed. Bare shoulders trembling, your mouth gagged, eyes wild with terror. You writhed against the restraints, muffled cries choking in your throat. You didn’t remember this. You didn’t remember this. But it was you.

Then came the voice. Soft. Steady.

His.

“You always try to leave, my love. But you never make it far.”

The camera panned slowly, almost lovingly, to reveal him sitting beside the frame. Calm. Smiling. Watching you.

“I’m not angry,” he continued. “You don’t need to remember. You don’t need to understand. You just need to stay.”

He leaned closer to the lens, his eyes dark and glinting with something sharp beneath the surface.

“I’ve loved every version of you. Every time you run, I find you. And I bring you home.”

Your blood ran cold.

“I know you don’t remember. That’s alright. I’ll remind you. Over and over, if I have to.”

The screen flickered again. Another scene. Another you. This time crying. Another version screaming. Another begging. Another… smiling.

Each version more twisted than the last. You watched as he carefully recreated scenarios—like a director obsessed with a single actress. A thousand variations of the same obsession. A thousand attempts to preserve the perfect you.

You yanked the flash drive from the port, heart hammering. Your stomach churned, bile rising in your throat. You stumbled backward—

Knock knock.

A soft, deliberate sound.

You froze.

Another knock. Louder. Measured.

Your heart leapt into your throat. You turned to close the laptop, to hide everything—but you were too slow. The door creaked open.

And there he stood.

Framed in the hallway light, still in his work clothes, tie loosened, his smile too pleasant to be real.

“Love?” he called gently. “What are you doing?”

You swallowed hard, pulse racing. “I-I was just… cleaning.”

He took a step in. Then another. The door shut behind him with a quiet click.

“You never clean in here.”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.

He stopped behind you, his presence a wall of heat and silence. You felt his breath on your neck. Then his hand on your shoulder, light as a feather.

“You opened the drawer, didn’t you?”

You said nothing. But the tremble in your body gave you away.

He leaned in, lips grazing your ear.

“You always open the drawer eventually.”

Your blood turned to ice.

“How many times has it been, hmm?” he whispered. “Seven? Eight? I lose count. Each time you forget, and each time you find your way back. And I… I get to fall in love with you all over again.”

You whimpered, the sound dying in your throat. His hand stroked your hair with practiced gentleness.

“It’s okay,” he said sweetly. “We’ll start over. Again. Just like before. I’ll fix everything.”

You tried to move, but he tightened his grip. That same voice, that same gentle cadence, coiled around you like barbed wire.

“You’re mine, love. You’ve always been mine.”

And this time, you weren’t sure you’d ever escape.

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

You start cooing when he slots his lips against yours, running your tongue against his without a fight. You start to enjoy the taste of him without a coppery tang. 

He rewards you by shackling your ankle next to his bed rather than the damp dojo basement. 

“You promised…” you murmur with your hands cupped toward him, heavy chainlinks rattling as you peer up at him with a gorgeous mixture of hatred and affection in your eyes. 

“ ‘Suppose I did, didn’t I?” 

Suguru crouches to your level on the floor, keen eyes watching how you sit up straighter, back against his mattress and feet tucked under yourself. Every night he offers to let you curl in his sheets, yet you never take the bait. He supposes you know as well as he does that once he gets his hands on you, in you, you’ll be his for the taking.

“You’ll be a good girl, hm?” He’s so close he can hear your heart beating, a strangled drum in the depths of your chest. Blood pounding for him. 

He wraps his big hands around your wrists, taking careful note of how your thumb searches for him, smoothing over his knuckles.

“And you’ll touch me when you’re free.” A simple command, yet chum in the water.

It takes a fraction of a second for the cursed tool shackles to clink and disappear from your wrists. Suguru eyes the lesions on your delicate flesh and steels himself for retaliation. 

In spite of your simmering ire, you listen to him. Your fingers hesitantly reach for his face, skimming over skin before cupping his cheek.

A most sinister triumph coils in his stomach, making his cock twitch in anticipation.

He smiles at you fully, falsely, nudging his face into your palm. “Not so bad, am I?”

“I’d kill you if I could,” you lament so softly. How cute. 

Leaning forward, he steals a kiss from your mouth, smirking as you let him. “Too bad you can’t, sweet girl.” 

The long chain that dangles from your ankle hisses against the floor as he lifts you easily, plopping you onto his bed. You haven’t felt something so soft in weeks. If only you’d given in sooner. 

He shrugs out of the shell of his yukata and his eyes are quick to notice how you watch his every move. You don’t even blink when he pumps his dick in his hand, the aching thing already leaking over his fingers. The pink of your tongue appears for only a flash, licking the corner of your lip like you’re hungry.

Perhaps you are, you’ve been touch starved since he purposely began to ignore you a few nights ago in an effort to shatter your resolve.

Your hands explore their freedom eagerly, tugging at his long hair like you want to hurt him and pull him closer all the same. He likes the way you tug on dark strands and moan into his mouth when he pins your body beneath his. Your fingers cling to the nape of his neck. There’s a slight desperation in the way you dig in, holding him tighter.

You still smell as sweet as you did the first day. He ensured you stayed clean, fed. 

“I take care of my favorite pets,” he peels clothes from your body slowly, delighting in how you arch and preen for him like his poor little flower is finally feeling rain.

He kisses the abrasions on your wrists like he’s sorry. He’s not.

You practically purr for him when he gets his hands on your tits, thumbs rolling over your nipples. The fat fills his fingers perfectly as he squeezes. 

“Use those hands of yours and slide your panties aside. Show me your cunt.” 

You obey, running your hands down the length of his body until you drop them to your hips. Your nails curl under the soft edge of your panties, slow like you’re teasing him. He picked black lace for you because he won’t have you in anything but his favorite color.

Rough hands press your knees as wide as they will go. The spread is obscene, glints of slick already shimmering on your thighs. You pull the material to one side like he asked.

“Look at you, already swollen and messy.” Suguru dips his fingers to your pussy to feel it for himself.  “I think I’ll keep you naked from now on.”

“Pervert.” 

“Really? That’s the best you’ve got?”

“Then what else would you like me to call you, hm?”

“I don’t know,” he pushes a thick finger into your heat, “Master has a good ring to it, don’t you think?”

“No.” 

But you whine anyway when his knuckle bottoms out, finger curling against a soft spot. Your thighs twitch and you squirm, the chain on your ankle shaking.

He doesn’t spend long teasing you, you’ve had enough torture. He pumps in two fingers and spreads them in your tightness, marveling at how your sweet body pants and trembles. 

Suguru wonders if anyone has played with you before him. Surely they have, you’re too pretty not to. Perhaps he’ll find out when he convinces you to suck his cock one day. 

Pride overtakes him when he replaces his fingers with the tip of his cock and you beg.

“Please, yes.”

Suguru sits back on his knees and tugs you to him, driving forward until his thick cock slips all the way to the back of your cunt. He doesn’t let you settle, he fucks into you so quickly he can hear your chain bouncing against the floor.

He rolls your hips back to accommodate him, curling your knees to your chest so he can bully deep into your hole with ease. 

“Oh, fuck, oh god. Right there.”

You’re more vocal than he expected, much to his satisfaction. He likes praise. 

The suck and squelch of your pussy makes him dizzy, makes him lose himself for god knows how long as he forces his way into your most sensitive places. You coo for him over and over, fingers knotting into the black curtain of hair that envelops you.

Suguru repositions, taking your tethered leg into his hand, easily tugging it over his shoulder. The cursed chain now dangles close to his ear, slaps against his side as he continues to push into your cunt.

“Do you want this free?” He runs his hot tongue along your skin at the edge of the shackle. “Then you better tell me, ah, who owns your cunt.”

You eat his words for a few thrusts, tits bouncing heavier than before with breath.

He puts his palm to your tummy to make a point, pressing hard until you feel him in your guts. He keeps the pressure, grunting at the slide of his cock against the heel of his hand.

“Y-you do.” 

“Do better.” 

His thumb dips low and brushes your clit, making you mewl and hiss. That pretty head of yours shakes in defiance.

“Don’t you want to feel this good forever, sweet girl? Want me to fuck you every day?” 

Oh he knows you do, can tell by the way your nails scrape against his thigh, strong little fingers pulling him closer, urging him to go deeper into your cunt. He obliges, canting his hips just right so his dick can slide farther into your gooey mess. Your pussy sucks him like she’s hungry, slurping around his thickness. 

“Suguru Geto,” his ears perk at his name, nearly missing the soft sound as you’ve buried your face to his crumbled sheets, “Su-Suguru Geto owns me.”

He already considered you his property, but your admission swirls around him like a vice, grips his ego and strokes it.

You’re a semi-first grade sorcerer. He snatched you before you were able to obtain the full title. Not that it matters anymore, you’ll be his darling little curse user when he’s finished with you.

His thumb swirls over your puffy clit and you start to bubble over, “ ‘S good, so good, oh, Suguru, make me feel so good, please.” “Don’t stop, god, don’t stop.”

He could get used to the way you say his name. He’s not sure he’s heard you say it until now. He’ll make you scream it.

His fingers trail up the back of your thigh, gripping your ankle and in an instant the cursed chain disappears. 

His teeth hurt from his smirk because you don’t even notice. 

You’re too lost to bliss, hands pulling and clawing until he leans over your body, curling your leg with him. You can’t get enough of him, kissing his neck, sucking at his pulse point to smother your moans when he pinches your clit. 

“Gonna let me cum in you?” 

He will no matter what. He just wants to hear you say it. 

“Mhhmm,” you nod your head, brushing your nose against his cheek until he gives in and kisses you, “Cum in me, please.”

“You sure?” He chides, sliding his arm behind your back so he can arch you, keep you pressed to him as he works his way inside of you. Your nipples get hard against his chest, sweat drips from his skin to yours. “Haven’t let you take your pills in weeks.”

“Don’t care. Don’t. Care.” 

Now you’re getting needy, rolling your hips down, down, down into his, engulfing his cock until he’s balls deep with nowhere to go. Your nails rake across his back, blood welling to the surface of his skin.

Hm. Give a girl a little slack and she’ll hang herself with it, he supposes. 

Suguru focuses attention to your clit, rubbing in such tight circles that your cunt starts to flutter. His cock throbs at the sensation, at the begging of your own body.

“Please, please,” you whine, brushing hair from his face as your eyes find his, “I’ve been good.”

“Yes you have, little pet.”

He watches how the name makes you hot, cheeks glistening from tears gathering at the edge of your lashes. How pretty, how sweet. You want to be kept, don’t you? 

“Go on,” Suguru groans as he leans down to kiss you, making a mess of your mouth and stealing every ounce of your breath. He licks behind your teeth, shoves himself down your throat. And you let him. “Cum for me, go on.” His breath is hot against your sloppy lips. 

Your thighs squeeze around his thick waist as you boil over, trapping his hips to yours and stilling him as you get rocked with pleasure. His hand is still pressed to your tummy; he feels every spasm under his palm, grits his teeth at the way you convulse around his cock. 

The suction of you makes him lose his mind, finally releasing spurts of cum into your cunt.

He’s nothing but a bright spark, and you’re the center of his world now.

He fills you until you can’t take anymore, cum dripping from where your tight pussy grips his thick shaft. He throbs for you, like he’s the toy being squeezed and wrung for pleasure.

He lets you take his cum, lets you milk him dry as he pants into the column of your throat. Your ticking heartbeat is all he can focus on—on how your blood still pumps just for him, just because of him.

Some sickening desire to devour overtakes him, makes him latch his lips to your neck and suck until delicate blood vessels burst and bloom under your skin. 

“Suguru,” your voice waivers between a whine and a scold, all high-pitched and fucked out.

“All mine.” 

He laves his tongue over where he marked you. 

After a few moments, you stir, finally realizing you’re free in the cage of his arms. You mumble some kind of thanks into his shoulder. 

Suguru lifts his weight onto his arms, grinning at the mess he’s made between your legs before slowly dragging his cock. He relishes the gumminess of your walls as you still cling to him, like your body isn’t yet willing to let him go. 

You gasp when the tip of his cock springs free, slapping against your swollen clit before he rolls onto his back. 

He trails his fingers down your panting body, mind finally unfogging from the afterglow of sex. 

He pulls your leg into his grip, fingers mean as he latches them around your newly freed flesh. 

“Don’t,” you hiss like an alley cat, kicking your ankle from his hand so you can curl your thigh around his. You tug his leg between yours, squeezing like you’re trying to capture him instead. 

it was a sunny day when he saw you, he would never forget it.

you must’ve been taking suppressants at the time since he could only notice your true smell once your paths crossed on the sidewalk. he found it odd how you seemed to be in a rush, sweat dripping down your hairline and the baby hairs sticking to your face. but as a skilled alpha, he immediately caught onto the hormones exuding from your warm body and the humidity in the air as you ran past him.

his instincts kicked in and he moved before realizing what he was doing, his strong grip on your elbow causing a shocked look to take over your face.

“e-excuse me,” he saw you gulp nervously and something in him began to wake up, “could you let go of me?”

perhaps it was the intensity of your gaze—the fright, looking like a scared little prey ready for him to devour—or maybe just your scent. it had been months since he had last encountered an omega and you just happened to be on your heat.

no wonder the suppressants weren’t working.

he knew you weren’t ready, so with pain tugging at his soul, he let you go. however, that didn’t stop him from following you for the next two weeks. memorizing each route you took, even your schedule, all in the span of a fortnight where he saw you in pain while you nested in a sea of clothes and cried yourself to sleep. it was clear that you were going through a rough heat, the tears that rolled down your cheeks and the heart-wrenching sobs making his own chest ache since he could do nothing but watch.

i'll be with you soon and make you feel better little one, he thought. his dark gaze set on your form while he looked through your window.

it was the night before he would make his presence known to you when he almost lost his mind. he couldn't sleep, your scent, touch, and voice already haunting him in his dreams. dreams filled with your whimpers, getting him hard as he pictured himself buried into your pussy with his knot keeping you together as he finally got to breed a beautiful and helpless omega.

with sweat dripping down his face and transpiring from his body, he fucked his fist and came thanks to those visions of you. he could almost feel the real thing, the warmth of your cunt wrapped tightly around his girth and your needy moans begging him to breed you while you raked your nails down his back.

the following day he showed up knowing you never locked your front door when you were home, and since it was your free day he could surely approach you without fearing being turned down. unfortunately, it all went downhill once you recognized him. choso didn't plan to force his way through your door, you were supposed to greet him with a smile—you knew him. why were you being so hostile? couldn't you see he wanted to help you alleviate the pain and loneliness you two shared? he thought that you would understand where he was coming from, but as soon as he heard you scream he realized how selfish you were being.

“ungrateful bitch,” he yanked you from your hair as he dragged you around the place, “can’t you see this is for your own good?!”

he continued his assault but soon got tired of your resistance. so after banging your head against the countertop, he carried your limp body over his shoulder and took you to your new home.

it took you around an hour to wake up, and when you finally did you were met with his face close to yours as he caressed your cheek and held you in his arms.

“that was very rude,” he started, murmuring the words against your neck as he began to plant small kisses along the side of it. his nose brushed against your glands and a shiver ran down his spine.

you might have fought back and screamed when he broke into your home, but right now you were a compliant little doll and let him do as he wished with you. hot tears welled up in your eyes and your lips trembled as the anguish consumed you, but when he tore your clothes away from you and covered you with his own body heat you didn't even lift a finger.

“i know it hurts, that’s why i had to intervene. you need help, don’t you?” his finger grazed your cheek, a crazed yet loving look in his eyes, “i will protect you. i’m your alpha and only i can make you feel better. got it?”

and he fulfilled his word.

in the beginning, it was painful. you could feel your insides ripping apart as he made his way into your tight pussy, cursing and biting your chest as he pounded relentlessly until he filled it with his cum. but when he began to give you his clothes —especially during your heats— his scent turned into one of comfort and soon you were itching to have him lying next to you.

“are you still in pain?” he asked and your only reply was curling up closer to him.

that day he fucked you until your poor cunt couldn’t take more of his cum.

the heats became more frequent, he wondered if it was because your body could tell that there was an alpha close or because of the several hours he spent fucking his cum into you. the outcome was the same nonetheless, your belly round and full while you babbled nonsense against his neck.

months passed and the pliant prey began to grow an appetite, he smiled when he felt you rub yourself against his thigh, your bare cunt sliding over his clothed dick as you pushed your breasts closer to his chest.

choso felt his heart throb once it dawned on him he was needed. his sweet little omega needed him to get through her cycles and he felt that sense of purpose he had lost months ago.

A small, bouncy nod lets him know that yes, you would like some cocoa. You didn’t even know there was cocoa in the cabin, already the taste of the warm chocolate is ghosting across your tongue.

“Use your words-”

It’s a warning, but the softest one you’ve ever received from him. There’s no tightening of the hand around your neck, no harsh glare or angry rumble from his chest that convinces you to obey.

“Could I... Could I have some cocoa please?”

“Hm, good job baby, stay here while I go get it.”

The uncharacteristic mildness of his mood almost makes you nervous. Is this the calm before the metaphorical storm? 

Bakugou hefts himself out of his chair with a grunt, taking his steaming coffee along as the screen door creaks shut behind him. You draw your feet up onto your chair, wrapping your flannel closer as the rain poured down.

It smells so good here, out in the wild. Nothing but fresh air and pine trees, soft earth and clear water running through streams. Such a perfect place. If you were here under different circumstances...

Staring out blankly, you shivered as a gust of wind blew rain under the porch and onto your face. There was nothing in front of your gaze except for the little clearing that Katsuki called the front yard, a stack of wood off to one side, nothing but miles and miles of forest beyond that. There was no one but you and him.

A thought dares to enter your mind, but survival instinct immediately rushes to tamp it down, bury it, extinguish the desire before it can take root. 

What if you ran?

Toes skittering across the wood of the porch as you took off, into the rain, into the forest. 

Freedom, at least for a brief moment.

Rain in your face, wetting your hair and making the earth muddy beneath your feet. Air filling your lungs without the smell of Bakugou nearby, body moving, heart pumping with excitement and hope and-

You snap out of your fantasy as you hear the kettle clatter inside, head turning to look through the window, immediately meeting red eyes as they stare out at you.

Katsuki’s leaning against the counter, one arm tucked across his chest as the other brings his coffee to his lips, sipping from the mug. The kettle’s on the stove beside him heating up as he watches you, those sharp eyes of his gleaming over the edge of his mug.

He’s dangerous.

Even in his softness, in these rare moments when he doesn’t swear or yell or hurt you by grabbing you too harshly. There’s a promise of pain if you even tried to run - he’d hunt you down, push you into the mud and make you regret.

You quickly turn back to the rain, unable to take the eye contact, the unwavering focus he has on you. 

When Katsuki comes back. you’re still in the same spot, cuddled in the chair and looking out at the rain. A warm mug is pushed into your hands, chapped lips pressing briefly to your forehead and Katsuki mutters a quiet “Here ya go, made it all sweet for ya.”.

You wish you could throw it right back in his face. 

But you’ve learned, through trial and error and hurt, how to act.

The voices from the screen felt distant, their words barely registering through the ringing in your ears. Your breath came in shallow gasps as you sat curled on the floor, your arms wrapped around your trembling legs. The scent of him clung to your skin, suffocating, inescapable. It was always like this after he touched you. After he took what he believed was his.

“She was always so full of life,” your mother’s voice trembled from the television. “Always smiling. She’d light up a room just by being in it.”

Your stomach twisted. The sound of her broken sobs sent cracks through the fragile walls of your mind, the ones you built to survive. Your father was next, his voice thick with emotion. “We just want her to come home. Please, if anyone knows anything—”

Home. The word felt foreign now. The concept of freedom, of escaping this hell, had become a distant dream. But hearing them plead, seeing their pain, reignited something in you. A fire that had long since dimmed.

The creak of the door snapped you back to reality. You held your breath, your body going rigid as the maid stepped inside, head bowed. She never spoke, never made eye contact. Just did her job, an obedient little servant to the monster who owned you.

She set down the tray of food, but something was different this time. The door. It didn’t close all the way.

Your pulse pounded in your ears. Was this a mistake? A sliver of hope lodged itself in your throat, choking you. You didn’t think. You moved.

Every step was agony. Your legs trembled, weak from nights spent beneath him, from the weight of your misery. But you pushed forward, dragging yourself through the half-open door, into the darkness beyond.

The hallway was empty. No guards. No locked doors.

Run.

You staggered forward, ignoring the sharp pain in your knees as you stumbled. Your bare feet barely made a sound against the cold floor. The air smelled different out here. Less like him. More like possibility.

Then you heard it.

His voice.

It came from the television in the next room.

“Every song I write comes from something deeply personal,” Amos said, his voice smooth, practiced. “Love. Obsession. Devotion.”

You nearly collapsed. It was live. He was far away. This was your chance.

Your hands fumbled against the door leading outside. It was unlocked. A sob of relief bubbled in your throat. You pushed it open, stepping into the cool night air. The wind kissed your damp skin, and for the first time in forever, you felt like you could breathe.

Then a pair of arms wrapped around your waist, yanking you back.

A scream tore from your throat, raw and desperate. You kicked, thrashed, but he was stronger. He always was.

“Going somewhere, darling?” His voice was a whisper against your ear, amused, cruel. The same voice that had just been speaking on national television.

“No,” you whimpered, shaking your head, as if denial could rewrite reality. “No, you’re not—you were just—”

His chuckle sent ice through your veins. “Oh, sweetheart.” He turned you in his grasp, forcing you to look up at him. “Did you really think I’d ever leave you alone?”

The world tilted as he lifted you effortlessly, throwing you over his shoulder like a ragdoll. The house swallowed you whole once more, the door slamming shut behind you.

He carried you through the halls, back to your cage. Back to where you belonged.

“You never learn,” he mused, as if scolding a naughty child. “But that’s okay. We have all the time in the world.”

You sobbed against his back, fists pounding weakly against him. “Please, Amos. Please let me go.”

He set you down inside the bedroom, his hands firm on your shoulders. His eyes gleamed in the dim light, a predator savoring his prey. “Why would I do that,” he murmured, brushing his knuckles against your tear-streaked cheek, “when I’m so close to making sure you never try to leave me again?”

Your stomach dropped.

He smiled.

“Maybe a baby will finally teach you to stay.”

noirscript © 2025

Your siblings stopped letting you leave the house after that. The warm sun, the scent of fresh bread in the marketplace, the laughter of the townsfolk—it all became distant, mere memories behind locked doors. You were forced to watch the world from behind wooden shutters, longing for the life you had barely begun to taste.

Years passed before they finally deemed it safe enough for you to step outside again. And when you did, you threw yourself into rebuilding.

With what little savings you had, you opened a food stall in the marketplace, selling treats that made both children and adults smile. Your business thrived. Customers returned with praises, telling you how much they enjoyed your cooking. It gave you a sense of purpose, a taste of the independence you had long craved.

Then, one night, your stall was stolen

Not just stolen—destroyed. Burned to ashes near the town's tavern.

No one saw anything. No one heard anything. No one even smelled the smoke.

The loss devastated you, snuffing out the fragile hope you had so desperately clung to. When you fell deeper into despair, your mother was the one who lifted you back up. She taught you the skills she had learned from years of working in the palace—how to clean, how to serve, how to navigate the world of nobility without drawing attention to yourself. You listened. You learned. And when she deemed you ready, you followed in her footsteps.

You had thought you were stepping toward a new beginning.

Instead, you walked straight into a gilded cage.

A warm calloused hand rubs slow circles over your bare stomach. Your body is sore, ruined, yet the touch is deceptively gentle—reverent even.

Callixto.

The King.

The man who had stolen you, body and soul, and refused to let go.

His breath is hot against your neck as he presses his lips there, inhaling you like a man intoxicated. He traces his fingers up your stomach, over your ribs, cupping your breast with possessive ease. You squeeze your eyes shut, bile rising in your throat as last night's memories resurface—the way he held you down, the way he filled you over and over until you were too weak to fight him.

“You're perfect,” he murmurs, rolling his hips against your back. “You'll be a wonderful mother to our children. The mother of my heirs… My queen.”

No.

Your breath shudders as you push weakly at his arm, but you might as well be trying to move stone. Your body betrays you—limp exhausted, drained of all strength.

How long has it been?

Days? Weeks?

You can't tell. The chamber windows are tinted, making it impossible to see the sun or the moon. And Callixto… Callixto never leaves your side for long. He lingers, watching you, touching you, whispering sweet, poisonous words into your ear.

The chambermaid is no help, either.

She either glares at you with thinly veiled disdain or ignores you completely, doing only what is required of her. You don't know why she hates you, but it doesn't matter. She's your warden all the same.

There's no one here for you. No mother, no siblings. No bustling marketplace or warm, flickering hearth waiting for you at home.

There's only this prison.

And him.

“Your Majesty,” the chambermaid's voice cuts through the heavy silence. “Lord Soleil awaits you at the gates.”

Callixto tenses, as if irritated by the reminder that the outside world still exists beyond these walls. His fingers dig into your hip as he thrusts forward once more, a sharp, punishing movement that sends a fresh wave of nausea rolling through you.

He finishes deep inside you, groaning against your skin. For a moment, he stays there, reveling in the feeling. Then, with agonizing care, he pulls out—only to press his fingers back inside, pushing his seed deeper.

A shiver wracks your body.

“I suppose I've stolen enough time for myself,” he murmurs, brushing damp hair away from your face.

You force yourself not to flinch.

Callixto cups your chin, tilting your face towards his. His golden eyes burn with something twisted, something sickeningly sweet. Then, he kisses you. A deep, lingering kiss that suffocates you more than any chain ever could.

“Stay here and be good,” he orders, his lips still brushing yours. “Let the chambermaid take care of you until I return.”

As if you have a choice.

As if you ever had a choice.

And when the doors finally close behind him, your body sags into the mattress, silent tears slipping down your cheeks. 

Not just for yourself.

But for the family you may never see again.

For the freedom that may never return.

And for the life that is no longer your own.

The towering walls of the chateau couldn't keep the rumors from reaching you. They were the only thing that kept you sane while you waited for him to return.

You heard whispers about a grand ball the Prime Minister held a few nights ago. It should've been a night of celebration, but instead, it ended in scandal. His wife, a noble woman and the daughter of a count, was caught in bed with a mere footman—nothing more than a commoner.

Lord Soleil, the Prime Minister, himself had walked in on them. The punishment was swift.

The footman was cast out with nothing, and the Prime Minister cut all ties with his wife and her family, erasing them from his life as if they had never existed.

A cruel fate. 

And yet you wondered…

Was it any crueler than yours?

“Perhaps this is why Lord Soleil was so determined to keep His Majesty away from the chateau—away from me. Not just to protect the royal bloodline, but to stop him from making the same mistake his wife did.” You sighed, your breath barely disturbing the still air.

“I can't even blame him. If I were in his position, I wouldn't want a common-born woman anywhere near the throne either. And yet, here I am—trapped in these gilded walls, reduced to nothing more than a vessel, waiting for the day my body finally serves its purpose.”

You leaned against the cool stone wall near the tinted windows, listening to the little birds outside as they carried rumors flitting between the flower beds. Their chatter was a fleeting distraction, a fragile moment of stolen peace—until it was shattered by the sound of heavy boots echoing through the halls.

The doors flew open, and there he stood. The King. Furious.

He called out your name—sharp, urgent, unrelenting—his voice slicing through the chateau hollow corridors like a blade. You didn't move. You barely even breathed. Instead, you pressed yourself against the cold stone wall, your fingers curling into your dress as his footsteps thundered across the marble floors.

He ran upstairs, frantic, taking the steps two at a time. He hadn't even noticed you standing near the windows, so close yet unseen. But you knew it wouldn't last. He always found you in the end.

Outside, the world had fallen eerily silent. The chattering birds had already fled the vicinity, as if sensing the storm brewing within these walls—taking their half-spun whispers with them. The rumor of the king's impending nuptials to a high-ranking noble still lingered in the air, unspoken yet suffocating.

And soon, he would come back down. And this time, he would see you.

Your name tore from his lips again—a furious, desperate plea. Before you could react, his hands found you, his grip ironclad around your arms.

“Where have you been?” His voice was raw, unsteady. His fingers dug in. “Didn't you hear me calling for you?”

“Y-Your Majesty…”

He shook his head. “No—my name.”

Bloodshot, unfocused eyes bore into you. Something was wrong. His gaze sent a slow, creeping dread up your spine.

“Say it.”

“C-Callixto…”

A slow nod. Then, his arms crushed you against him. “You're mine,” he murmured against your hair, his breath searing against your skin. “Forever mine. And I will be forever yours.”

The walls seemed to shrink around you.

“Callixto… Your Majesty… I can't breathe—” you rasped, struggling against his suffocating embrace. 

He didn't let go.

“Please…”

A beat of silence. Then, at last, he loosened his grip—but only slightly.

“Apologies, my queen,” he murmured, lifting your trembling hand to his lips.

Your pulse pounded in your ears. You had to calm him. You had to survive this.

You recalled your mother's old ways—how she soothed your father's anger, how she tamed your brothers’ tempers. Slowly, carefully, you reached for his cheek, brushing your fingers against his skin.

“Tell me your worries…”

“The royal court has been trying to push this woman onto me for as long as I can remember—something about securing the heir to the throne’s bloodline. The nerve of those fools,” he muttered, absently running his fingers through your hair as you lay atop him.

“If I wanted to, I could trace your family's lineage—alter it if necessary— and keep them out of our way.”

Listening to his monologue as you drift in and out of consciousness feels more exhausting than it should. You know you should try to persuade him to accept the will of his people, to yield to their demands—but deep down, you wonder if it would be easier if someone else had his full attention instead. If only he'd let you go.

“Perhaps we should secure an heir to the throne first… then we can look into your lineage…” he whispered, thrusting into you once more. His seed spilled from you as his movements grew more intense with every passing second.

Since then, it had become his ritual to fill you to the brim, keeping you in place—stuffed, trembling, and utterly his— until he was satisfied. Only then would he leave to rule his kingdom, but never without ensuring you remained exactly as he left you, his claim unmistakable. He controlled everything—the meals you ate, the tonics you drank—all carefully chosen to prepare your body for the sole purpose of carrying his heir.

You were his, and soon, you would bear proof of it.

It didn't take long for the signs to show.

The nausea. The exhaustion. The unbearable weight in your lower belly that told you something had taken root inside you.

And yet, luck has not abandoned you entirely.

Your chambermaid—a woman whose disdain for you was only rivaled by her loyalty to the royal court—had noticed. She must have. But instead of betraying your condition, she pressed a cold cloth to your forehead and muttered, “A commoner’s flu. Nothing more.”

A lie. A calculated one.

The King believed her.

But belief was fragile in a mind like his. It splintered easily.

His golden eyes flicked between the chambermaid and the royal physician, narrowed and gleaming, hungry for an answer that neither of them dared to give.

“Her color is pale,” Callixto murmured, pacing your chambers. His fingers twitched—fidgeting, trembling, curling into claws before stretching straight again. “She barely eats, barely moves. And yet you say it is nothing?”

The physician bowed his head. “It is a seasonal illness, Your Majesty. A touch of fever, some exhaustion—nothing that cannot be cured with rest.”

Callixto laughed—a dry, humorless sound. His nails dug into his palms, leaving little crescent moons of pain.

“Rest,” he echoed. His voice was a whisper of rage, of something darker crawling beneath his skin. “You think I have not noticed? She wilts before my very eyes, and you tell me to wait?”

The chambermaid stepped forward then, expression schooled into reluctant sympathy. “Your Majesty, she is weak. He kind does not fare well in the colder months. It is not surprising.”

Callixto stilled. His breathing slowed, deliberate, controlled—but his eyes never left her face.

“Weak?” The word came soft, almost thoughtful. “Is that what you believed?”

The chambermaid hesitated.

Something in the air shifted.

A warning.

Callixto's lips twitched—not in a smile, no. In something sharper. Something that showed his teeth.

“Fine,” he murmured. “If she must rest, then she will do so under your watchful eye. I want no one else near her.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty.”

But as the King turned away, the chambermaid gaze flicked down—her fingers twitching at the pouch hidden beneath her apron. The weight of the promised coin.

The chateau felt emptier than ever one evening. The halls echoed with the distant clatter of preparations from the palace—the banquet, the foreign dignitaries, the noble guests.

A distraction.

And when the chambermaid entered your chambers, her usual sneer was absent. Instead, she carried a bundle of clothing.

“You need to leave tonight.”

Your stomach twisted. “Why?”

“Because I tire of wiping your sweat.” She threw the bundle onto your bed. “Because I want you gone.”

You swallowed hard. “And that's all?”

The chambermaid exhaled sharply. Something in her posture—something tired and worn—hinted at an answer she would never give.

“The palace gates will be open for the banquet. No one will be watching the chateau. Take the back corridors, follow the outer gardens. You are not important enough to be noticed.”

“What do you gain from this?”

A smirk tugged at her lips. “What I was promised.”

You should've asked by whom. But you didn't.

The scream shattered the night.

“WHERE IS SHE?”

The chambermaid barely had time to compose herself before the doors to your chambers slammed open, cracking wood against stone.

Callixto stood in the doorway, his chest rising and falling with each uneven breath. His pupils had swallowed the gold of his irises, leaving only thin rings of amber around black pits. His fingers curled at his sides, nails digging into his own skin, but he did not seem to notice the blood welling beneath them.

His gaze snapped to the bed. Empty.

Something inside him snapped with it.

“Where is she?” he repeated, stepping forward, his voice no longer a demand but a plea.

The chambermaid bowed, but her voice was steady. “Resting, Your Majesty. The fever worsened—”

“Liar.”

The word cut through the room like a blade. The chambermaid flinched.

Callixto's hands trembled. “She would not leave her bed unless someone forced her to,” he whispered. His tongue darted out, wetting his dry lips. “Unless someone… took her from me.”

He turned, suddenly—too suddenly—and grabbed the chambermaid’s wrist.

“You would not betray me, would you?”

The chambermaid swallowed.

“Of course not, Your Majesty.”

His grip tightened. Bones creaked.

“No, of course not,” he echoed, smiling now—serpentine, sharp. His head tilted. “Because if you had…” he leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. “I would tear this palace apart. Brick by brick. And when I found her—oh, when I found her—”

He released her.

“Find her,” he murmured. “Or I will find you instead.”

The chambermaid bowed, stepping backward toward the door. “As you command.”

But she didn't turn fast enough to see his lips curl into something… inhuman.

He turned back to the empty bed, trailing a hand over the sheets as if he could still feel you there. His fingers ghosted over where your head had once rested, then curled into the pillow, dragging it close. He inhaled—deeply, desperately—like a starving man before a feast.

His eyes fluttered shut.

“Oh, my love,” he whispered to no one. “You can run, but you cannot hide.”

The night air was crip—freezing against your cheeks, but blissfully free.

You ran. Through the outer gardens, past the dim lanterns, past the drunken guards too enamored with wine and revelry to notice a shadow slipping past them.

You ran until the scent of the palace faded into the trees. 

Home. You had to go home.

But when you reached the village outskirts, you stopped.

Guards. Stationed outside your family's home.

You shrank into the shadows, heart hammering against your ribs. From where you hid, you could see the single candle in the window—dim, unmoving.

Not flickering.

Not alive.

A silent warning: Do not return.

Tears burned your eyes, but you forced yourself to turn away.

Not toward another village. Not toward a stranger's mercy.

But deeper into the forest.

Through the twisting paths only you knew, past the moss-covered stones and the brook where you once dipped your toes in summer. Past the memories. Past the ghosts.

And there, hidden beneath the tangle of overgrown branches, the shack still stood.

You and your siblings built it once—when you were small, when the world was gentler. A childish hideaway, pieced together from stolen nails and planks too weathered to be missed. A place of whispered secrets and stolen sweets, of giggling beneath a roof that bare kept the rain out.

It was nothing.

But it was enough.

You pushed the warped door open and stepped inside, the scent of damp wood wrapping around you like an old embrace. The cold bit at your skin, but you knew how to survive here. You always had.

With shaking hands, you pressed your back against the wall and slid to the floor.

Outside, the trees whispered.

Somewhere beyond them, the King was hunting.

But you would not be an easy prey.

Not here. Not yet.

—

tbc.

noirscript © 2025

All rights reserved.

—

One moment, you were chasing after the sound of a bell—a clear, delicate chime just beyond the treeline. And now, the familiar voices of your family were gone, replaced by the rustling of unseen creatures in the underbrush. The festival had felt so warm, so full of life. Here, the air was thick, the silence stretched too long between every chirp and whisper.

Then, the sound of running water reached you.

Relief flooded your tiny chest. The villagers always said the river led back to town. If you followed it, surely you’d find your way home. You hurried toward the sound, stepping over gnarled roots and ducking under low branches.

But when you emerged into the clearing, the river was not the first thing you noticed.

A man sat by the water’s edge.

He was beautiful. Even as a child, you understood that much. His hair, darker than the night sky, spilled over his shoulders, and his silver eyes caught the moonlight like trapped stardust. He reclined against the smooth stones, long fingers trailing in the water, as if unbothered by the presence of a small, lost girl staring at him with wide eyes.

And then, he smiled.

“You’re quite far from the festival, little one.” His voice was smooth, rich like the hum of the earth before a storm.

You hesitated, fingers curling into the fabric of your sleeves. "I was… I was following a bell."

His expression didn’t change, but something in his gaze sharpened. "A bell?" He chuckled, low and knowing. "How strange. There are no bells in this forest."

A small frown tugged at your lips. But you had heard it. You knew you had.

The man tilted his head, watching you with quiet amusement. “Tell me, little one, are you afraid?”

You blinked up at him. It was an odd question. Should you be? The village elders always spoke of gods and spirits that dwelled in these woods, warning children never to stray too far. But as you stood before this man—this strange, beautiful man with silver eyes—fear was the furthest thing from your mind.

You shook your head.

He laughed softly. “Good.” Then, he reached out a hand. “Come. Let’s get you home.”

You hesitated for only a moment before slipping your small fingers into his. His touch was warm, his grip firm as he led you along the riverbank. He moved without hesitation, as if the forest itself bent to his will, parting the way before him.

As you walked, he asked you questions. Simple ones. Your name. Your age. If you liked the festival. If you enjoyed sweets. You answered eagerly, the nervous edge in your voice fading as you spoke.

He listened.

No one had ever listened to you like that before. Not the other children, who only wanted to play rough games. Not the adults, who often brush you aside with distracted nods. But he—he made you feel important. As if every word you said mattered.

When the village lights finally flickered through the trees, disappointment stirred in your chest. You didn’t want to say goodbye just yet.

The man knelt before you, his silver gaze holding yours as he brushed a stray leaf from your hair. “I will ask something of you, little one.”

You tilted your head. “What is it?”

His fingers ghosted over your cheek. “Promise me.”

“Promise what?”

“That you’ll always return to me.” His voice was gentle, but something deep beneath it coiled tight. “That you’ll be mine, forever.”

You blinked at him, puzzled but unafraid. It sounded like a game, like when your friends made pinky promises by the river.

So, you nodded. “I promise.”

For the first time, his smile reached his eyes. But the glint in them was something you wouldn’t understand until years later.

“Good girl.”

Then, the festival bells rang, and the world blurred.

When you turned to thank him, he was gone.

The festival was already in full swing when you stepped back into the village. Lanterns swayed gently in the evening breeze, casting flickering patterns across the packed earth. The scent of roasted chestnuts and sweet rice cakes filled the air, and the laughter of children rang out as they ran through the crowded streets. It should have been comforting, familiar.

But something felt… different.

Your hand was still warm from where he had held it.

You glanced back at the darkened forest, half-expecting to see those silver eyes watching from the treeline. But there was nothing—just the rustling of leaves, the whisper of wind through the branches.

“Where have you been?” Your grandmother’s sharp voice snapped you back to reality. She appeared through the throng of people, worry etched deep into her face. “I told you not to wander off. Do you know how dangerous it is to go near the mountains alone?”

You opened your mouth to tell her about the man by the river, about how he had brought you home safely. But the moment you tried to form the words, something stopped you. A strange pressure, a weight on your tongue, as if speaking of him would break something fragile and sacred.

So instead, you shook your head and muttered a quiet apology.

Your grandmother’s fingers gripped your wrist tighter than necessary as she pulled you back toward the festival. “You must never go there again,” she warned. “No matter what.”

But you had already made a promise.

And deep in the woods, under the silver glow of the moon, a god smiled.

The years passed.

The seasons changed, the festivals came and went, and the village continued to thrive. But something about you was… different. The boys in your village avoided you. Not out of cruelty, but something deeper, something instinctual. Even those who once played alongside you as children now hesitated to meet your gaze, their hands twitching with nervous energy whenever you came too close. The few who dared to approach were quickly met with sickness, misfortune, or strange accidents.

The only exception was him.

He was always there, waiting in the woods just beyond the village. You weren’t supposed to go near the mountain, but somehow, your feet always found the path leading back to him.

It started with stolen afternoons. You would slip away after lessons, past the watchful eyes of the elders, and run to the river where he always waited. He never called for you, never beckoned you forward, but he didn’t need to. You always came.

He listened to your stories, his silver eyes never straying from your face. When you laughed, his lips would curl into something unreadable. When you cried, he would touch your cheek, his fingers cool against your warm skin. He never asked for anything in return.

Not yet.

But his presence was intoxicating. Comforting.

Yours.

Until the day they took you away.

It happened quickly. One moment, you were walking home from the woods, your heart still racing from your latest meeting with him. The next, your grandmother was gripping your shoulders, her nails digging into your skin as she whispered hurried prayers under her breath. Your parents were there, too, their faces tight with something you didn’t understand. There were no explanations, no time to argue. Just hurried steps, packed belongings, and a carriage waiting at the village gates.

The other elders stood in the distance, their gazes cast downward, their hands gripping charms and talismans. They wouldn’t look at you.

You struggled. You cried. You begged them to tell you why.

But it wasn’t until you saw the thick paper talismans plastered across the door to your home that realization set in.

They knew.

And they were taking you away from him.

Your screams echoed through the village as they forced you into the carriage, your nails clawing at the wooden frame. You didn’t care about the strange looks from the other villagers, the hushed whispers behind their hands. All you knew was that you had made a promise, and they were breaking it.

The last thing you saw before the doors shut was the treeline. The shadows between the trees shifted, moved, as if something—someone—was watching.

And then, the silver of his eyes, gleaming with something dark and terrible.

And then—nothing.

The city was loud. Too loud.

Even after years of living there, the endless noise of car horns, chatter, and the hum of electricity never settled right in your bones. The air was thick with something artificial, something lifeless. The sky never seemed as wide, the stars never as bright.

At first, you fought against it. You clung to the memories of your village, of the woods, of him. But time had a cruel way of dulling things. The face of the god by the river blurred at the edges, the warmth of his fingers against your skin faded to a ghostly sensation, the sound of his voice—once so clear—became harder to recall.

You moved on.

You made friends, explored the city, built a life that had nothing to do with the mountain. And for a while, it was enough.

Until the letters started coming.

At first, they were harmless. News from your uncle, brief mentions of the village, how things had been difficult but were getting better. You barely paid them any mind, offering polite responses in return.

Then, the tone changed.

The village was suffering. Crops withered before they could be harvested, livestock fell ill, and the number of stillborn children had risen to something unnatural. They needed you back—for the festival, for a ceremony only you could lead.

You ignored it.

But the letters kept coming, each one more desperate than the last. Until finally, your uncle arrived in the city himself, standing on your doorstep with weary eyes and hands that trembled as he held out the final letter.

You read it.

And the moment your fingers brushed against the parchment, something shifted in the air.

The scent of damp earth filled your nose. The faint, almost imperceptible sound of a bell chimed in the distance.

And suddenly, the city didn’t feel so safe anymore.

Returning to the village was like stepping into a memory that had been left out in the rain—warped, faded, wrong.

The streets were quiet, the colors muted. The children who had once been your playmates now peeked at you from behind their mother’s skirts, their eyes wide with something too solemn for their age. The elders barely acknowledged your presence, their hands clutching charms so tightly their knuckles turned white.

Your grandmother’s house was the same, but the moment she saw you standing at her doorstep, her expression twisted into something unreadable.

“You should not have come back.”

But it was too late. You were already here.

That night, you lay awake in your childhood bed, staring at the ceiling as the wind howled through the trees. The house creaked, the wooden beams groaning as if something pressed against them, waiting—watching.

And then, through the open window, a whisper.

"You promised."

Your breath caught in your throat.

You sat up sharply, heart pounding as you turned to the window. The forest loomed in the distance, dark and endless.

You told yourself it was your imagination.

But you knew better.

The next morning, before the sun had fully risen, you found yourself walking the familiar path to the mountain. The villagers didn’t stop you. They didn’t even look at you.

The forest welcomed you back like you had never left.

The trees were the same, the river still carved its path through the land, the scent of moss and damp earth filled your lungs. And at the heart of it all, standing just beyond the threshold of his temple, he was waiting.

He was different. The softness of his features had sharpened, the playful glint in his silver eyes replaced with something unreadable. His presence felt heavier, denser, as if the very air bent to accommodate him.

You hesitated.

And then, he spoke.

"Come back tomorrow morning."

You swallowed.

You should have refused. Should have turned back, should have walked away.

But you didn’t.

Because despite everything—despite the years, despite the distance, despite the way your stomach twisted in something dangerously close to anticipation—your feet remained planted in place.

And deep down, you already knew.

You would come back.

You returned the next morning.

And the morning after that.

It became a routine—waking before the village stirred, slipping away before anyone could stop you. Each day, you climbed the path to his temple, and each day, he was waiting.

At first, he only watched. Silent. Unmoving. His silver eyes followed your every step, his presence weighing on your skin like a second layer. You talked, filling the quiet with idle conversation—about the city, your life there, the people you met, the things you learned. He listened, never interrupting, never reacting.

Then, slowly, something shifted.

His silence gave way to words. He asked questions—about your time away, about the world beyond the village, about why you had taken so long to return. His voice, rich and low, wrapped around you like silk, threading through your thoughts, lingering long after you left.

And then, he touched you.

It was subtle at first. A brush of his fingers against yours when you handed him something, a fleeting touch against the small of your back when guiding you up the temple steps. But his hands were warm—too warm—and each time he touched you, something inside you tightened, curled, craved.

The forest changed, too.

The trees stood taller, their leaves greener. The river ran clearer, its waters shimmering under the sunlight. Even the village below seemed to breathe easier, as if your presence had soothed the unseen rage that had gripped it for so long.

But the biggest change was him.

He smiled more, spoke more, let his gaze linger too long. He was indulgent, affectionate in a way that made your skin flush. Yet beneath it all, beneath the warmth, the softness, was something else. Something hungry.

You should have been afraid.

But you weren’t.

You should have left.

But you didn’t.

Because each time you stood to go, his fingers would catch your wrist, his touch firm but unyielding. And though he never outright asked you to stay, his silver eyes always whispered the same thing.

"Don’t go."

The night before the festival, the storm came.

The winds howled through the village, rattling windows and tearing through rooftops. Rain poured in heavy sheets, drenching the earth, turning the roads into rivers of mud.

And when morning came, the mountain path was gone.

A landslide had blocked the only way out, cutting you off from the world beyond the village.

You barely heard your uncle’s reassurances. He claimed the roads would be cleared soon, that it was only a temporary delay. But you knew better.

This was no accident.

He wasn’t letting you leave.

And deep down, a part of you wasn’t sure you wanted to.

The festival began at sundown.

The village gathered at the foot of the mountain, their voices rising in an eerie, rhythmic chant. The firelight cast flickering shadows against their faces, turning them into something unfamiliar, something devout.

You stood at the center of it all, dressed in the traditional red attire they had prepared for you. The fabric clung to your skin, the intricate embroidery swirling around your body like flames. Your fingers tightened around the offering in your hands—the best produce the village could gather, though it paled in comparison to the ones you had tasted in the city.

None of it mattered.

Because as you climbed the mountain, as the torches lining the path flared brighter with every step you took, as the air thickened with something electric, something expectant—you knew.

This had never been about the village.

It had never been about the crops, or the prosperity, or the suffering they had endured.

This was about you.

And him.

The temple was waiting.

The offerings from dawn still sat upon the great stone table, untouched, pristine. But the only thing your eyes focused on was him.

He stood at the entrance, dressed in godly white, his ink-dark hair cascading over his shoulders like a river of night. The contrast was striking—too perfect—the divine purity of his robes only emphasizing the darkness in his gaze.

He was watching you.

Waiting.

You stepped forward, one foot in front of the other, your pulse hammering against your ribs. Every part of you screamed to stop, to turn back, to run.

But you didn’t.

Because the moment you met his gaze, a heat bloomed low in your stomach, spreading like wildfire through your veins. It was intoxicating, overwhelming—an ache so deep, so consuming, it left you trembling.

Your breath hitched.

And he knew.

The eerie smile that curved his lips was slow, knowing, filled with a satisfaction so deep it made your knees weak. He reached for you, his fingers brushing against your cheek, your jaw, tilting your face up toward him.

And then he whispered, voice rich with something dark and unshakable—

"You are mine."

The torches flared.

The wind howled.

And as his arms wrapped around you, pulling you into the depths of his temple, into the depths of him, you knew—

There was no escaping this.

There never had been.

The doors of the temple shut behind you, sealing out the world beyond. The air inside was thick—humid, charged with something unseen, something alive. The torches lining the walls flickered, their golden glow casting restless shadows against the stone.

His fingers trailed down your arm, slow, deliberate. His touch burned—not painfully, but with an intensity that made your breath come quicker, your skin hypersensitive to the smallest movement.

"You hesitated," he murmured, his voice impossibly smooth, impossibly deep. He stood close, too close, his presence consuming every inch of space around you.

Your lips parted, but no words came out. You had hesitated. For a single, fleeting moment, you had thought about turning back. But what use was hesitation now? What use was resistance when his very presence unraveled you, thread by thread?

He didn't need an answer. His silver eyes gleamed with something dark, something possessive, and you knew he had already decided your fate long before you ever stepped into his temple.

"You promised me." His thumb brushed against your lower lip, a touch so light it sent a shiver down your spine. "You belonged to me the moment those words left your lips."

You remembered it—the promise made in childish innocence, spoken in a voice too young to understand the weight of such words. And yet, even then, even in those fleeting moments, hadn't you felt it? That strange pull toward him, the way his presence had made the world feel smaller, as if nothing outside the forest had ever truly mattered?

"I waited." His voice was steady, but there was something dangerous beneath it, a tension so sharp it could cut. "I waited as you forgot me. As you let your thoughts be filled with others. As you tried to build a life that did not include me."

His fingers slid beneath your chin, tilting your head back, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"Did you truly think I would let you go?"

The air felt thinner, your knees weak. The answer was already clear. You had known it the moment you stepped foot back in the village. Perhaps, deep down, you had known it all along.

His lips curved into a slow, cruel smile.

"You will never leave again."

His arms encircled you, his warmth engulfing you completely, and the last threads of resistance inside you snapped.

And as his power wrapped around you, seeping into your very bones, your thoughts blurred, twisted—desire intertwining with surrender, need overtaking reason.

The festival chants echoed in the distance, voices raised in worship, in offering.

But the only thing that mattered was him.

And the inescapable truth that you were his.

Now and forever.

—

The temple was silent, but the silence breathed.

It coiled around you, heavy and cloying, pressing against your skin like unseen hands. The torches along the walls dimmed, their flames shrinking as if bowing to his presence. The air itself felt thicker, charged with something oppressive—something hungry.

His arms were still wrapped around you, his grip firm but unyielding. You had always known he was strong, but now you felt it—the raw, unnatural power that lurked beneath his touch.

"You’re trembling." His voice was smooth, indulgent, but there was something dark beneath it, something that made your breath catch. "Is it fear?"

Your lips parted, but you had no answer. Because it wasn't fear, not exactly. It was something deeper, something more primal. A shudder ran through you as his fingers traced a slow path down your spine, and you swayed without meaning to—drawn in by the heat radiating from him, by the way his presence filled every empty space inside you.

He laughed.

A quiet, satisfied sound, as if he already knew.

"You still don’t understand, do you?" His fingers ghosted over your pulse, lingering at the delicate skin of your throat. "What it means to be mine?"

His grip tightened—not painful, but firm enough to remind you.

"Your body recognizes it before your mind does," he mused, tilting his head. "That pull. That ache. The way you want even when you don’t know why."

His lips brushed your temple, a mockery of tenderness, and a rush of warmth spread through your veins—too much, too fast, leaving you lightheaded.

"That’s my influence," he murmured. "My power inside you, working its way through every part of you. You can feel it, can’t you?"

You could. It was in the way your thoughts blurred, in the way your body burned, in the way your knees threatened to give out the longer he touched you. It was wrong—too much, too unnatural—and yet, you needed it.

The realization sent a ripple of dread through you.

He noticed.

His smile widened, his silver eyes gleaming with something almost fond. "Good. I want you to feel it."

His hand drifted lower, brushing against the curve of your waist, his touch featherlight but all-consuming. "I want you to understand."

The temple doors rattled, as if some unseen force was pressing against them. The air thickened further, the walls seeming to close in, and a strange, distant hum filled your ears—low and rhythmic, almost like a heartbeat.

No, not yours.

His.

"You are changing," he said, almost lazily, as if he had all the time in the world to watch it happen. "Every moment you spend here, every second you breathe this air—it binds you to me. More and more, until there’s nothing left of the person who thought she could leave."

Your stomach twisted. The weight of his words settled deep, and yet—you couldn’t move away.

Didn’t want to.

Your fingers curled against his chest, and he sighed, pleased.

"See?" His voice was almost gentle now, almost affectionate. "You’re already learning."

You should have fought.

But his warmth was sinking deeper, crawling beneath your skin, settling into the very core of you. His hands on you weren’t just touch—they were commands.

And you were listening.

"You think I will be merciful," he mused, running a hand through your hair. "That's because I have waited, I will take my time, let you adjust, let you resist just a little longer."

His fingers tightened in your hair, forcing your head back, and your breath hitched as you met his gaze.

He wasn’t smiling anymore.

"I won’t."

The temple groaned around you, the very foundations trembling beneath his will. A gust of wind rushed through the chamber, snuffing out the torches all at once, plunging the room into near darkness.

Only his eyes remained, gleaming silver in the dim light—predatory, absolute.

"You are mine," he whispered, his voice laced with something ancient, something terrifying.

And for the first time, you realized—

You had never truly been given a choice.

The ritual, the offering, the village’s desperate prayers—none of it had ever been for them.

It had always been for him.

To bring you back.

To keep you.

Forever.

And as the last of your resistance crumbled, as the god before you claimed what was his, the final thread of your past life snapped.

The girl who had left this village all those years ago was no more.

There was only you.

And him.

And the inescapable, cursed covenant that bound you together.

—

tbc.

—

noirscript © 2025

You had kissed his forehead with trembling lips and pressed a poorly made bracelet into his palm, whispering that it would protect him. He didn’t understand then—how could he? The dome was the only world he knew. A place where everyone smiled with locked jaws, where the sound of weeping was politely ignored through paper-thin walls. Where fathers were gods and mothers were machines programmed to endure.

But even as a child, he had seen you break. Not with screams, but with silence. Your quiet pleas. The tremble in your body as you shielded him. The way you would tuck him under thin sheets and place your back between him and the door, whispering promises you didn’t believe. “Just a little longer. Just until you’re bigger. Just until I figure it out.”

At six, your mother-in-law took him in. Not Anselm’s idea, of course—Anselm Faer didn’t like his children forming alliances beyond his control. But she had insisted. “He’s too clever,” she had said to you, the night she smuggled him out with forged paperwork and cold fury. “He’ll end up like him if we leave him here.” You had only nodded, eyes hollow from childbirth and sleep deprivation.

Your first son—Elias—was raised in the city, in an estate too pristine to feel like home. The subdivision was for Altas—those who lived far above consequence. It had white walls, quiet streets, and surveillance so complete it gave the illusion of safety. It was there that he first understood who his father truly was, not just in title, but in reach. Anselm was revered. A doctor who saved lives. A man whose name carried weight heavier than justice.

At thirteen, Elias began to notice changes. One by one, infants arrived at the estate—his siblings. They were brought there after being weaned, as quietly as he had been taken out. He didn’t go near the dome. He wasn’t allowed. But they came to him, all of them, delivered like sealed letters with no return address.

He remembered the first—Isla—just a baby, eyes squinting at the light. Then Theo, then Eren. Mira. Baby Luan. All brought to the estate with little more than your scent lingering on their skin. All too young to understand why their mother didn’t follow.

He raised them.

He held Isla through her night terrors, the ones that began before she could speak. He distracted Theo with books and puzzles when the boy began pulling at his own hair. He shielded Eren’s gentleness, told Mira it was okay to cry, and promised Luan that he’d never let anyone hurt them. He kept them normal. Human. Not like Anselm. Not like the other men of their blood.

He became their parent in your stead. Not by choice, but by duty. By guilt. By the memory of you—your bruised arms, your trembling voice, your fading presence.

And when he was old enough to marry, when his fiancée asked about his parents and he could only speak of silence and distance, he decided to return once more. Not alone—this time with your children in tow. He needed them to see. To know. To remember, even if it hurt.

The facility was hidden within the dome. Sanitized. Fortified. His cousin met them at the checkpoint, eyes darting to the cameras.

“Don’t take too long,” she said. Her name was Ivelle—older by a few years, sharp in every way that mattered. “He’s here. He doesn’t let anyone near her for long. Not even staff. Not even me.”

Elias stiffened. “She’s still alone with him?”

Ivelle nodded. “No visitors. No advocates. Not even a nurse unless he permits it. The last woman who tried to get reassigned to your mother’s wing was let go within twenty-four hours.”

Mira looked confused. “Why would he keep her like that?”

But Elias didn’t answer.

Ivelle sighed, voice softening. “She never wanted you to see her like this. She tried to keep him calm, to keep him happy, just so you kids wouldn’t get dragged back into that place.”

Theo muttered, “He’s obsessed. I can feel it. The way he talks about her like she’s some... relic.”

“She was his,” Elias said hollowly. “In his mind, she was never supposed to be anything else.”

The facility’s hallways were cold, all soft lights and hushed white floors. And when the reinforced door opened, Elias could feel his heart stutter.

Inside, there was only you.

And Anselm.

No guards. No staff. Just you sitting in a plain chair, eyes unfocused, your fingers curling into the folds of your clothing as though to hide the skin he used to caress like a trophy.

He stood beside you, one hand ghosting above your shoulder, like a crown without weight. His eyes lifted the moment Elias entered.

They were sharp. Possessive.

“Why are they here?” Anselm asked, his voice like polished metal.

You looked up at the sound. And in that flicker—barely a second—Elias saw the memory in your eyes. Recognition. Fear. Hope, barely breathing.

Mira clutched Eren’s arm. “Is that... her?”

Theo whispered, “She looks like a ghost.”

Isla didn’t speak at all.

Luan, always soft-spoken, murmured, “Dad doesn’t look happy.”

Elias couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe.

Because the sight of Anselm hovering beside you was too familiar.

The way he had looked at you back then—not with love, not with hatred, but with hunger. The sick kind that devours without teeth. The possessiveness of a man who believed that love meant control. That devotion meant isolation.

And suddenly Elias remembered it all. The sound of your cries muffled by his pillow. The way you held him behind your back when Anselm’s voice rose. Not to strike, no. Anselm never bruised what he claimed. But he threatened. He cornered. He made you choose again and again—him or the children.

And you always chose them.

He looked at your wrist. The bracelet was gone. But the tan line remained, faint and barely there. Like the echo of a promise.

He wanted to run to you. To pull you away.

But Anselm’s stare made him stop. Because that stare said: "She’s mine. She was always mine. Not even you can have her."

And it was then Elias knew that you had never been freed. Not truly. Not even when you sent your children away.

He stepped forward anyway. Even if it hurt.

He raised his hand.

You watched it with a tremble in your chest.

And softly, Elias spoke.

“Hi.”

It cracked something open in the room.

And in both of you.

TBC.

noirscript © 2025