he's so cute. i just want to bite him. and bite him. bite him again. bite him. bite him. bite him. let me sink my teeth on him.
Dark Young Mentor! Haymitch x Weak! Reader
You are going to die.
Haymitch Abernathy knows this with the same certainty he knows the sun will rise over the slag heaps back home, that the Capitol will keep taking children, that the nightmares will never stop.
He has known it since the moment you stumbled off the train, small, sickly, coughing from the coal dust that seems permanently lodged in your lungs. Seam through and through, with that underfed look that marks your people like a brand.
You are seventeen. Same age he was, two years ago, when he crawled out of that arena covered in other children's blood.
"Stop," he says flatly, watching you attempt to throw a knife at the training dummy for the fifteenth time. It clatters to the ground three feet short of the target.
You flinch at his voice. You always flinch. That's the problem. You flinch at everything. The loud noises, the Career tributes' laughter, the Avoxes who move too quietly.
You will flinch yourself right into an early grave the moment that gong sounds.
"I'm trying," you say, and your voice comes out thin, reedy. Pathetic.
"You're failing." Haymitch pushes off the wall where he's been leaning, crossing the training room floor with the kind of deliberate stride he learned to affect in the Capitol. Confidence. Predator, not prey.
"Pick it up."
You bend to retrieve the knife, and he watches you. Really watches you, the way he's been watching you for three days now, the way your hands tremble, the way you catalogue every exit, and the way you make yourself small, invisible, a nothing-girl that no one will remember.
There.
That's it. That's the thing he's been looking for.
"You're not going to win by fighting," he says.
You look up at him with those dark Seam eyes, and something flickers there. Not hope, you're not stupid enough for hope, but attention.
"Then how?"
Haymitch crouches down to your level, close enough that you can't look away. This near, he can see the shadows under your eyes, the way your collarbones jut too sharply beneath your training shirt.
You smell like the soap they give tributes, artificial flowers trying to cover the scent of fear.
"You're going to win by not being worth killing."
➶𓅪➶
The interview is a disaster.
You sit beside him in the elevator afterward, silent, your ridiculous Capitol dress pooling around your feet like spilled blood.
Caesar Flickerman had tried. He always tries. But you gave him nothing. Monosyllables. Downcast eyes. The audience has already forgotten you by the time you walked offstage.
"That was the point," Haymitch says, when the doors close.
You look at him. "What?"
"They don't remember you. Good." He jabs the button for the twelfth floor harder than necessary.
"The Careers are already making lists. Deciding who to hunt first, who's a threat, who'll make good entertainment for the sponsors. You know where you are on that list?"
"Nowhere," you whisper.
"Nowhere." He turns to face you fully. "You're nothing to them. A footnote. Someone who'll probably die in the bloodbath without anyone having to lift a finger. They're not going to waste time tracking you through the arena when there are bigger targets."
The elevator hums around you both, while you're quiet for a long moment.
"You think I can't win."
It isn't a question. Haymitch studies your face, searching for the crack in your composure, the moment you'll break.
But you just stand there, small and trembling and so goddamn fragile, looking at him like you're already dead and just waiting for your body to catch up.
"I think you can't win the way they expect," he says finally. "So we're not going to play their game."
➶𓅪➶
He spends every night of the remaining prep time in your quarters.
Not like that. He isn't that kind of monster, despite what the Capitol has tried to make him. But he sits in the chair by your window and talks. Strategy. Survival.
Every dirty trick he learned in his own Games, a sponsor manipulation tactic, and a way to find water and every plant that will kill instead of cure.
You absorb it all with a quiet intensity that surprises him. You don't complain, and don't cry, you just listen, those eyes fixed on his face like he's the only solid thing in a world gone liquid.
"You're not sleeping," you say, on the third night.
Haymitch pauses mid-sentence. "Neither are you."
"I asked first."
Something twitches at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. He doesn't smile anymore, not really. But close. "Dreams," he says shortly. "Comes with the territory. You'll understand, if you make it out."
When, he thinks, and the fierceness of it surprises him. When you make it out.
You're quiet for a moment. Then speak.
"Will you be there? When I come back?"
The question hits him somewhere soft, somewhere he thought the arena had burned out of him entirely. He looks at you, this small, weak, impossibly stubborn girl, and feels something shift in his chest.
"Yeah," he says roughly. "I'll be there."
➶𓅪➶
The morning of the Games, Marcus finds you in the launch room.
Your boy. The other tribute from Twelve. He's tall and broad-shouldered, with the kind of quiet strength that comes from years in the mines. You've loved him since you were fourteen, sneaking kisses behind the slag heaps, dreaming about a future you'll never have.
He pulls you into his arms, and Haymitch watches from the doorway, something ugly twisting in his gut.
"Stay hidden," Marcus murmurs against your hair. "Promise me. No matter what happens, you stay hidden."
"I promise," you whisper back.
"I will find you. When it's safe, I will find you, and we'll figure it out together."
Haymitch clears his throat. "It's time."
Marcus pulls back, cups your face in his hands, and kisses you. Soft and desperate and full of everything he can't say. Then he's gone, escorted to his own launch room, and you're left standing there with tears streaming down your face.
You don't see the way Haymitch's hands clench at his sides, and you don't see the calculation behind his eyes, the cold arithmetic of survival already spinning in his mind.
Two tributes. One mentor. Not enough sponsor money for both.
He's already made his choice.
➶𓅪➶
The arena that year is a flooded cityscape. Crumbling buildings rising from black water, bridges that collapse without warning, things moving beneath the surface that the Gamemakers have engineered to ensure the entertainment never stops.
Haymitch watches from the mentor's booth, hands white-knuckled on the edge of his console, as the countdown begins.
You run. Not toward the Cornucopia, where the Careers are already converging in a clash of steel and screams, but away. Into the maze of half-drowned streets, disappearing into the shadows like you've been doing it your whole life.
Marcus runs too, but toward the Cornucopia. Toward the weapons.
He snags a knife and a pack before the Careers notice him, then vanishes into the ruins on the opposite side of the arena.
Smart, Haymitch thinks. Both of you.
The bloodbath claims nine tributes in the first hour. Neither of you are among them.
He finds you on the screens, a small figure huddled in the upper floors of a tilting apartment building, shivering in your wet clothes, and something in his chest loosens just slightly.
➶𓅪➶
Day three.
A sponsor approaches Haymitch at the viewing party. One of the wealthy Capitol elite, dripping in jewels and synthetic skin, eager to play patron to a tribute who might actually survive.
"The boy from Twelve," she purrs. "He's quite impressive. That fight with the tribute from Nine was brutal. I would like to send him something. A weapon, perhaps. Good steel."
Haymitch's mind races. A weapon for Marcus would give him a real chance against the Careers. He's strong, capable, knows how to fight. With proper equipment, he could make it to the finale.
But the sponsor money is limited. Every gift is a choice. Every choice means someone else doesn't get one.
He thinks of you, shivering in your hiding spot, rationing your water, flinching at every sound. He thinks of the thermal blanket you need, the water purification tablets that could save your life when the Gamemakers inevitably poison the supply.
He thinks of the way you looked at him in the elevator. The way you asked if he would be there when you came back.
"The girl," Haymitch says. "Put your money on the girl."
The sponsor frowns. "The girl? She hasn't done anything. She just hides."
"Exactly." He leans in, letting his voice drop to a conspiratorial murmur. "The Careers aren't hunting her. They don't even remember she exists. And when they've finished killing each other, she'll still be there. Waiting."
It takes an hour of charm and manipulation. Skills he learned at Snow's parties, bought with pieces of his soul. But he walks away with enough sponsor money for three gifts.
All for you.
➶𓅪➶
Day four.
You're watching from your hiding spot when the Careers find Marcus.
Haymitch watches you watching, sees the moment your hand flies to your mouth, the moment your whole body goes rigid with horror.
On another screen, Marcus is fighting. Three against one, hopeless odds, but he doesn't give up. He takes one of them down before the girl from One opens his throat with her sword.
The cannon fires.
You just sit there, frozen, while the light fades from his eyes on the screen a hundred feet away.
Haymitch closes his eyes and tells himself it was necessary.
And the days blur together.
You don't fight, because you hide as you creep through the ruins like a ghost, drinking rainwater collected in broken gutters, surviving on the gifts Haymitch sends you. The thermal blanket. The water purification tablets. The burn cream when you barely escape a fire.
Each gift is a message: I'm watching. I'm here. Keep going.
You receive each one with hollow eyes, going through the motions of survival without any of the spark you'd had before. Marcus's death has gutted you.
Meanwhile you move like a sleepwalker, like someone who's already decided they're going to die and is just waiting for the formality.
As you mentor watches, and worries, and waits.
➶𓅪➶
On day nine, you kill someone.
The boy from Seven tracks you to your hiding spot. He's bigger than you. Stronger. You don't stand a chance.
But when his hands close around your throat, something shifts in your eyes. Some spark of desperate, animal survival that refuses to go quietly.
You drive the fish hook into his eye.
The cannon fires, and you collapse beside his body, sobbing. But you're alive.
Haymitch sits on the floor of the mentor's booth, shaking, and listens to you cry a hundred miles away. He tells himself it was worth it. That this is what survival costs.
He almost believes it.
➶𓅪➶
By day twelve, only four tributes remain.
You, the boy from Two, the girl from One, and the boy from Four. The Careers have fractured, turning on each other as the finale approaches, but they're all still deadlier than you could ever hope to be.
The Gamemakers drive everyone toward the center. The half-collapsed stadium rising from the water like a broken crown.
Haymitch watches you limp toward it, one hand pressed to your side where you took a knife wound two days before. The sponsors have gone silent. Everyone knows how this will end.
Everyone except Haymitch.
➶𓅪➶
The finale is a mess of blood and steel and screaming.
The Careers fight each other first. You hide in the shadows, and for one wild moment, Haymitch thinks you might make it.
Then the boy from Four sees you.
He's massive, wielding a trident like an extension of his arm. You have a knife and a fish hook and a body that's failing you.
You don't run.
For the first time in the entire Games, you don't run. You stand there, swaying, and wait.
The boy from Four lunges.
You drop.
Not a flinch. A deliberate, calculated fall. The trident passes through empty air. You drive the fish hook into his neck before he can recover.
The cannon fires.
Behind you, the boy from Two finishes off the girl from One and turns, ready to claim his victory.
You look at the camera. Directly at Haymitch. And smile.
The building collapses.
➶𓅪➶
They pull you out of the rubble three hours later, more dead than alive.
Haymitch is there when they bring you in, shoving past Peacekeepers and Capitol officials. You're so small on the stretcher, so pale.
"She's alive," a medic says.
Haymitch's knees buckle.
He sits beside your bed for six days while they put you back together. When you wake, the first thing you say is his name.
"Haymitch."
"I told you," he says roughly. "I would be there."
You reach for his hand. Your grip is weak, but certain.
"Don't leave."
"I'm not going anywhere.
Six months later.
The Victory Tour is over, and the cameras are gone. District Twelve has settled back into its gray routine, and two victors rattle around in houses that stood empty for so long.
You find him on his porch at three in the morning, a bottle in his hand. The first you've seen him touch in weeks.
"Haymitch."
He doesn't look up. "Go back to bed."
"No." You lower yourself onto the step beside him. "What happened?"
For a long moment, silence. Then he lifts the bottle, drinks, and laughs. Hollow, broken.
"Anniversary," he says. "Two years ago today."
You wait.
"My mother. My brother. My girl." The words come out flat, rehearsed. "Snow killed them. Two weeks after my Games. Because I used that forcefield trick. Made him look like a fool. So he took everyone I loved."
The cold seeps into your bones. You had heard rumors. But hearing him say it.
"Haymitch, I'm so sorry."
"Don't." He turns to look at you, eyes red-rimmed. "Don't be sorry. Be smart. Because that's what happens when you win. When you matter to someone."
You reach for his hand. He pulls away.
"I told myself I wouldn't do this. Wouldn't let anyone get close again." He stops, jaw working. "But I couldn't help it. Not with you."
"What are you saying?"
"I love you." He says it like a confession. Like a curse.
"I've loved you since you looked at that camera and smiled at me like you trusted me to understand. I know it's wrong that I was your mentor, I'm supposed to protect you. But I can't stop."
Your breath catches.
"And I know I shouldn't feel this way. Every day I tell myself to pull back, and every day you're the first thing I think about when I wake up."
"Stop."
The word comes out sharper than you intend. You see him flinch, see the hope in his eyes die.
"I can't," you say, and your voice breaks. "Haymitch, I can't."
"Because of what I am?"
"Because of Marcus."
The name hangs between you. Your boyfriend. Dead on day four while you hid and listened to him scream.
"I watched him die," you whisper. "I couldn't do anything. I just hid there and I didn't do anything."
"Stop." He uses the same word you used but with a tight voice.
"And I can't love anyone else when I'm the reason he's dead."
"You're not."
Something in his tone makes you pause. You look at him. Really look. And see something unfamiliar in his face. Something like guilt.
"What?"
"You're not the reason he's dead." Haymitch sets the bottle down carefully. His hands are shaking. "I am."
The world goes quiet.
"What are you talking about?"
"The sponsors. Day three." He won't meet your eyes. "Someone wanted to send him a weapon. Good steel. Enough to give him a fighting chance. I talked them out of it."
You can't breathe.
"I redirected the funds to you instead. The thermal blanket. The tablets." His voice is steady now, horribly steady. "Every gift you got, I bought with his life."
"No."
"I made a choice. Him or you." He finally looks at you. "I chose you."
"No!"
You're on your feet, backing away. Marcus. Your Marcus. Who had promised you would figure it out together, yet died screaming while you hid.
"You killed him."
"I let him die. There's a difference."
"There's no difference! He trusted you! I trusted you!"
"And that trust kept you alive!" He stands, and there's something terrible in his face.
"You think I wanted this? I made an impossible choice, and I chose the person I could save!"
"You don't get to decide that!"
"That's exactly what a mentor does!" His voice cracks. "We decide who gets the medicine and who bleeds out. Every gift is a choice, and every choice means someone else doesn't get one."
Tears stream down your face. "Why him? Why not me?"
Haymitch stops. The anger drains out of him.
"Because I saw you," he says quietly. "That first day. You flinched at everything, couldn't hold a knife, had no chance. And I thought she's going to die. Like all the others."
He takes a step closer. You don't move.
"But then I kept watching, I saw you practice with that fish hook until your fingers bled. Not because you thought you'd win, but because you refused to go down easy."
His hand hovers near your face, not quite touching.
"Marcus was strong. But he would've fought fair, and fair fighters die. You." His voice drops. "You were a survivor. And I couldn't let that go to waste."
"So you sacrificed him. For me."
"Yes."
"And you never told me. You let me blame myself."
"Because you needed to grieve. And because." He hesitates. "Because I knew you would never forgive me. And I couldn't lose you too."
You stare at him. This broken young man who murdered your first love to save your life. Who kept the secret while you drowned in guilt. Who stands before you now with his sins laid bare.
You should hate him. You want to hate him.
"You're a monster," you whisper.
"Yes."
"You killed the boy I loved."
"Yes."
"And you think I will just forgive you? Fall into your arms?"
Haymitch shakes his head. "No. I think you'll hate me forever, and I'll deserve it." He meets your eyes.
"But I would do it again. A thousand times. Because you're alive. That's the only equation that matters to me."
You hit him.
Your fist connects with his chest. You hit him again, and again, and he just stands there.
Then you're crying, great heaving sobs, and somehow his arms are around you and you're clinging to him like he's the only solid thing left.
"I hate you," you gasp.
"I know."
"I'll never forgive you."
"I know."
"Don't ever leave me."
His arms tighten. "I won't."
Matching pfps, matching tattoos, matching wallpapers, matching outfits, matching hairstyles, matching hairstrand color, matching nails, matching scars, matching bracelets, matching necklaces, matching accessories, matching drawings, matching paintings, matching makeup, matching arm drawings, matching playlists, matching blogs, matching profiles, matching plushies, matching legos, matching nicknames, matching EVERYTHING.
Unhealthy Obsession meme with my lovely’s .. This took forever bro I’m gods sleepiest soldier
YANDERE BUSINESSMAN X F! READER
︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵
‿︵‿︵୨♡୧︵‿︵‿
Your billionaire husband, Alex, has been acting kind of strange lately, persistently ignoring you all day and brushing off your affection despite being married for four years. Recently he’s been having intrusive thoughts about the idea that you're cheating on him for a better looking man, and eventually one night when he returns, all his anger and insecurity bubbles over into something more…
WORD COUNT: Around 1.3k
CW: Suggestive wording, mild cursing, mentions of a bad childhood, let me know if I should add more
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Yandere Businessman Husband Who is NOT happy when he comes home and finds you talking to a man around your age. You two chat and laugh so seamlessly as if filling in the ghost of what your relationship once was, and the way he smiles at you just ticks him off, like he’s undressing you with his eyes. With a clenched jaw he slams his suitcase down, making you flinch and turn his way under the fluorescent lights.
“Are you cheating on me?” Alex questions angrily, his voice reverberating around the room and closing back in with a suffocating hold.
“What? No! He's just a friend, honey, where is this coming from?” You shoot back in surprise, with a racing heart, trying not to cry as old memories dance around your head. To say you grew up in a nice household would be an overstatement, and the feeling of your guest’s eyes burning into your back felt like being subjected to the shameful judgement all over again.
"I see how hard you're trying,” Your husband’s eyes narrow as he steps closer, his voice dropping to a low growl. “The sweet notes, the quiet dinners... it's guilt, isn't it? You're overcompensating because you can't stand looking at my face anymore, so you found someone else to look at!"
His accusation hangs in the room long after the words leave his mouth. Your mouth parts, but nothing comes out.
“And don’t raise your voice at me Y/N, I’m not stupid. These scars… they disgust you, that’s why you avoid touching my face now. Don’t try to change the subject.”
Your friend beside you shifts awkwardly, looking between the two of you. "Maybe I should—"
"No." Alex doesn't even spare him a glance. "You're not leaving until I know exactly who you are."
Silence settles over the apartment, broken only by the low hum of the refrigerator as your husband straightens the cuffs of his dress shirt with unsettling precision. His practiced composure clashing against the fury simmering beneath it.
"So." His gaze finally lands on the other man. "Name."
“Liam.”
"How long have you known my spouse?"
“College.”
Each response only seems to tighten the invisible knot in your husband's chest. "College?" he repeats with a humorless laugh. "Funny. I don't remember hearing much about you."
"You've been busy with work," you say quietly. "I just ran into him today."
"Ran into him." He rolls the words around as though testing for poison. "And somehow he ends up inside my home."
You sigh, trying to calm down during a conversation that seems no better than an interrogation. “Honey I love you, but you’ve been pulling away so much that I’ve been trying to give you room,” Your hands gently cup his face as tears well up in your eyes from the thick tension suffocating the room. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, but it really hurt…”
Alex’s expression falters slightly at your tears but his insecurity remains. He doesn’t melt into your touch anymore, but rather sits stiff and rigid as if touching your skin might burn him. “You’re lying. You haven’t even kissed me properly in weeks, and I caught you laughing with him today in the cafe.”
The friend raises both hands in surrender. "Sir, I really wasn't trying to—"
"Don't." Your husband's voice is calm now, too calm. His eyes never leave Liam’s face as a brittle smile pulls across his lips. "I know men. I negotiate with them. Fire them, buy their companies, listen to them lie through polished smiles every single day… And I know that look."
The room falls silent again before your friend exhales uncomfortably. As if trying to fit words into a space that wouldn’t accept them. "Look... if my being here is causing problems, I'll head out."
He walks past you and reaches for his jacket as your husband steps aside without another word, allowing him to pass. For a single moment, it almost seems like that's the end of it. Then—
"I'll have my driver take you."
The friend blinks.
"You don't need to—"
"I insist."
But this time you’re the one that interrupts. You’ve had it up to here with him, the man he thinks he can fucking walk in and take control of everything just because he poses your friend as a threat to him.
“You know what,” You step back angrily, your tone slicing so sharply through the house that both men stop moving. “If you’re going to treat me like this, I’m not going to take it. You can cool off and come find me when you’re fucking done with this attitude.”
Alex slowly turns toward your back, surprise flickering across his face as you storm over to the garage door. It isn't often you interrupt him, much less with that much conviction. “And I love you! If I was cheating on you, wouldn’t I find somewhere better to do it?!” You scream before slamming the door; you weren’t going to deal with his bullshit if he insisted on acting like a toddler.
Your keys dig into your skin as you grip the keys tightly, jamming them into your door before climbing in and driving to (your favorite bookstore), leaving the boys home alone.
Alex grinds his teeth as he watches you leave, his anger mixing with regret. In frustration he hurls his foot in the wall, leaving a dent as Liam, frozen in place, watches awkwardly near the door.
“Should I just-”
“GO!” Your husband shouts, his breath catching in short, forceful bursts as he slouches against the damaged wall.
♡
At (book place) you find some peace but your phone buzzes repeatedly with messages from him. And looking down at your phone you find quite a mix of senders. You decide only to reply to one.
ALEX: Come home now. We need to talk properly.
—
LISA (Alex’s secretary): Mr. Zamorano is in a terrible mood. Please help calm him down when you return.
Y/N: Tell him he can come apologize to me himself when he calms down, he can’t just treat me like that.
Slightly to your surprise the secretary responds immediately.
LISA: He’s already on his way to your location, Mrs. Zamorano. He’s bringing flowers and chocolates. He looks very upset with himself.
You just sigh and put your phone back into your pocket before you see his expensive car pull up near the front window. Alex gets out, holding a large bouquet and a box of your favorite chocolates. He looks around nervously, clearly conflicted after messing up so badly while you secretly watch him through the class, already in your favorite section, (favorite genre).
When he steps inside he scans the rows of colorful book spines, searching for you. Spotting your favorite section he pauses, his breath hitching before his tall frame appears between the shelves, searching for your familiar face.
Spotting your back turned to him he takes a deep breath and gathers his courage, though his hands tremble slightly as he approaches. “Y/N…” His voice is quieter than usual, lacking its earlier anger.
You turn around with a book in your hands and look up at him with a soft smile. “...Are you feeling better?”
He stops and holds out the flowers and chocolates like a piece offering, ignoring anyone who’s staring, his world narrowed down solely to you. “No. I feel terrible, I overreacted again, I’m an idiot.”
You put the book aside and hug him, melting into his arms with a content sigh. You’re just glad everything’s back to normal again. And as Alex wraps his arms around you tightly and buries his face in your neck, the flowers crush slightly against your back. “I’m sorry baby, I let my insecurities control me. I just saw red when you were with him.”
Stepping back a little you hold his arms and look right up at him with that smug little grin of yours.
“Well just to let you know… every time I see you I want to pin you to our bed, strip you down, and ride your dick all day long.”
His breath hitched at your words, his grip on you tightening possessively as his scarred face flushes. You really should be more careful about what you say, he might have to take you up on that at home… ♡
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A/N: Holy shit, 1.3k+ likes on my last post with fifty reblogs and around ten more followers? I can’t thank you guys enough, I seriously never expected the post to blow up so much! Feel free to drop requests in my inbox, (anonymous should be turned on), and I’ll continue to work on giving you quality content everyone can enjoy!
Ticci Toby x reader drabble
Warnings: making out, mentions of unhealthy obsession in relationship dynamic
An: SUPER FLUFFY!! I love sweet Toby mmm. Again sorry for grammar lol. Anyways requested by @s1vkmutt !!! I hope you enjoy:p
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The store was filled with small trinkets. Paintings, figurines, antiques, anything you could think of. You didn’t really enter with much intent, but you wouldn’t lie and say you weren’t attracted to the colorfulness of the tiny shop.
As you perused mindlessly, you spotted a small rack that was littered with keychains. Immediately, a small light brown dog with scruffy fur caught your eye. The key chain wasn’t big, in fact it was significantly smaller than the others, but you felt oddly sentimental about the tiny guy. As you picked him up you couldn’t help but think about your boyfriend, Toby.
He was fiercely loyal, brunette, and had a scruffy kind of look to him. If Toby ever got reincarnated into a dog, this would 100% be him. You smiled at the idea of him being a puppy, checking the tag out of the corner of your eye. Not only was the dog adorable, but it was incredibly cheap. Pulling it off of its hook, you decided you couldn’t just leave the poor thing there.
You secured the keychain, stuffing it into your bag as you bid the store keeper farewell. You tried to think of how Toby would use the small guy—doubting he’d even have somewhere to keep it—but even then you still decided it was worth buying. It wasn’t a far walk from the store, only about two minutes.
You subconsciously relaxed slightly as the familiar building came into view. As you went grab the door, it pushed open under the weight of your hand. You immediately retracted back, confused as to why the usually locked door would be left ajar. The urge to grab your phone and call Toby grew increasingly appealing, a sense of unease blossoming in your chest. But before you could, you saw a familiar head of brown locks peak at the door from the kitchen. You sighed a breath of relief as you walked inside.
“Toby, you have got to stop leaving the door open when you come in.” You walked up to him, setting your bags down in the process. As you reached him you placed a small kiss to his lips, more of a greeting than anything else. He brought his head forward in attempt to follow you as you broke away. You pushed him with a slight giggle.
“Suh-sorry. Why’d y-you take so l-long?” He questioned, referring to the fact that you usually got home at 5:30, and it was now 5:55. He seemed unusually anxious, his tics interrupting him every few seconds.
“Ah—I made a stop at a store. I forgot to text you.” You answered simply, running your hands through his messy hair. “I thought you had work today?”
His neck jerked to the side with a pop as he shook his head, “no-nope, Brian and tuh-tim had to go, but nnn-not me.” He told you with a lopsided grin. You lit up at his words.
“So you’ll be here all weekend?” You asked, hope gleaming in your pretty eyes. He stared for a moment, lost in thought as he stood there, utterly enamored by you. It felt weird—having someone be excited to have you around. Toby wasn’t used to it in the slightest, so every time you showed even the tiniest bit of affection or genuine interest, he felt a sickeningly sweet dizziness fill his head. When he finally answered, it was quieter.
“Y-yeah.” He leaned forward, wrapping his long arms around your waist. When your lips met, it was far from sweet. He didn’t know how to do that—how to be gentle with something he wanted so bad. So when your mouths moved in tandem, a slight giggle falling from your lips at his abruptness, the only word you could use to describe it was hunger. But it was him, and it was genuine.
He was restless, whatever patience he had growing thin as his hands roamed your body. The way Toby kissed you was dizzying; like he couldn’t bear to leave a single part of you untouched. The warmth of his mouth absorbed you entirely until all you could feel was him.
In a sudden movement you pulled back, a desperate whine tearing from his chest. Even though you pulled your face back, your body was still flush to his, his grip hardening on your hips.
“W-why’d you sss-stop? Did I do s-something wrong?” A harsh tic forced his shoulder to jerk up to his ear.
“What?—Toby, no.”
“Do y-you not want to kis-kiss me?” The words were frantic and jumbled, a pout already adorning his face. His rambling only came to a stop once you placed your hand gently over his mouth.
“Yes, I want to kiss you. No, you didn’t do anything wrong.” You saw the crease in his eye brows slowly soften as you spoke. “I just remembered I wanted to show you something, and I knew that if we kept that up I’d completely forget bout…said thing.” The hand you were using to cover his mouth moved to his cheek. The soft ridges of his scar pressed against your fingertips as you traced his cheekbone.
Confusion laced his features as he stared at you with an almost expectant look. You took that as an invitation to break from his hold, another small groan slipping from his chest as you reached towards your bag. Once you fished through it for a moment you popped back up to face him.
“I found this at that store I stopped at. It just kinda reminded me of you!” The keychain sat in your palm as he stared with wide eyes. His gaze flickered between you and the dog, torn on which one to stare at. Toby didn’t feel pain, but the second the words fell from your lips, his heart clenched so hard he nearly doubled over. He examined the stuffed dog in your hand with glazed over eyes.
“F-for me?” The answer was clear, but Toby still felt required to ask. Like he had to make sure you weren’t lying. His voice shook as if you’d just gotten down on one knee.
“Mhm! Jus’ thought of you when I saw it. You don’t have to put it on anything, though. I just—“
“No, n-no, I’ll use it! I’ll use it. I’ll puh-put it on my bb-belt.” His tics were making it hard for him to stay still as he grabbed at your wrists. Brown eyes bored into yours while he rambled. Toby didn’t retrieve many gifts, not even growing up. He didn’t believe he was worth enough to hold up space in someone’s brain, let alone their heart. But then there was you, who continued to break down his insecurities that he’d spent years developing. And you weren’t even trying—you weren’t purposely doing anything. You were just being you, buying him some key chain that reminded you of him. But it was those small things you did that fueled his obsession. His infatuation. And maybe you’d never understand how deep his love for you ran, but he didn’t mind. As long as you were his, he’d be okay.
He clipped the dog on his belt, eyes still glazed with something you couldn’t quite place. Not wasting any time, he pulled you into a hug, his arms slipping across your waist as you grabbed his neck.
“Thank you, t-thank you, thank yyy-you, baby.” The air from his breath tickled your neck as he continued his soft praises. His fingers twitching against your back as his grip tightened.
“Of course, Toby. It’s just a key chain.” You laughed awkwardly at his reaction to the small dog.
“No. It’s not. I luh-love it sss-so much. I love you so muh-much.” The crack in his voice caused you to hold him tighter. You didn’t understand why it made him react the way he did, but you didn’t mind.
As he stood there, holding you with his eyes clenched, he knew you’d be his forever. There was no other option, at least not in this world. Not while he was alive. You were a holy light, and he was a desperate sinner begging and clawing at your feet. One who was infected with a sickening greed. One who had no intention of ever letting go.
-
God Bound
Overview: Phainon, the god of dawn and sea, and you who wants the stars.
God!Phainon x Fem!reader, 4k words, suggestive, unhealthy relationship, coercion, dubcon, au
i. “His Gift”
The air was thick with salt and sunlight, the kind that made your eyes water and throat clog. Not the pretty, soft kind you’d lay out in. The temple rose from the cliffs like a fragment of the sky itself—white marble filled with pale blue and gold, as though the god himself had been carved into stone. Below, the sea smashed in and out against the rocks, silver foam scattering like starlight.
Your hands trembled against the ropes that marked the sacred boundary. Incense curled in the wind, sweet and smoky, mingling with the scent of salt and damp marble. You should have been disgustingly afraid. And yet, in this place, the fear felt almost holy. You had come here willingly, though not freely. Out of guilt. Out of love. Out of something nameless that burned low and quiet inside you.
You knew it was coming. Rumors spreading about appeasing the restless god with a gift. You never thought it’d strike this close. Your sister had been chosen. Her name whispered through the village. You had watched her kneel in prayer, her eyes soft and shining with faith you did not share. And when the priests came to try and mark her with the god’s symbol, you stepped forward instead. You offered yourself freely, offerings were sweeter this way so they accepted. You had heard he was a kind god and yet, he was still a god. That alone was enough to invoke a trembling feeling of unease in your stomach.
Now, standing at the edge of the world, the sky split open with the faintest line of morning, and there he was. Phainon—the god of light and the sea below it. His body was cut from the horizon itself, pale and sharp. He was breathtaking, as expected of a god. Hair white as the surf, eyes like the clear endless water.
He leaned against the temple steps as if the whole world had been made to bear his weight. The wind tugged through his hair, the hem of his white robes flickering like a flame. He was appearing more human than you'd expected, lacking the golden eyes and wings he was usually depicted with. His smile was careless, devastating, the kind of beauty that could ruin kingdoms.
“I wasn’t promised you,” he said. You didn’t expect him to be fooled, he was a god. Of course he’d know.
“I came instead of her.” you explained, voice unsteady, catching on the taste of salt. “I chose this.”
He tilted his head, as though turning over the meaning of your words. His eyes seemed to light up. “You chose? That's a new one.” His tone carried wonder, the kind of curiosity that belonged to a god. “Mortals rarely choose something like this. They pray until it happens, or doesn’t, and then they call it destiny.”
“I have never been one for prayer.” you spoke with shifting eyes. “I am standing in as a replacement. She was too young.”
That made him still. He regarded you quietly for a long moment. “And who are you to hold her place, then?” he asked. “To take what was never meant for you?”
“I wanted her to have the chance to grow up as I did.” you said. “And that was reason enough.”
The wind pressed against the temple, carrying the low sound of waves. The sunlight found his face and turned it gold, and for a moment, he almost looked kind. He almost looked human.
“You mortals,” he murmured, a faint curve to his lips, “so eager to trade yourselves for each other. I do not understand it. You speak of love as if it is duty, and of duty as if it is love.”
You held his gaze, though it burned. “Perhaps you never had to learn the difference. Perhaps you never will.”
Something flickered across his face then—curiosity, maybe, or the first shadow of realization. “Perhaps,” he said. His hand drifted slightly toward you, but stopped short, the air between you pulsing with restraint. “Maybe you could be the one to teach me.”
“I have never been much of a teacher,” you said.
His grin spread at that. “And I, never much of a student.”
He looked away, to where the sky met the water. “You mortals look to the sea when you pray, supposedly honoring me.” he said, almost idly. “But I think you would rather look up. You are all reaching for the stars aren't you? A purpose beyond the sky, something more?”
The words caught in your chest. You followed his gaze, tracing the faint, floating clouds overhead. “I don’t know.” you said. “I think most are just trying to survive for now.”
He laughed softly, the sound bounced off the marble. You grimaced, not understanding what was so humorous about surviving and the guilt, sweat, and blood that came along with it.
His gaze fell to yours and tried to read your now solemn expression. For the first time, he seemed unsure. His mouth parted, as if to reply, but no words came. Instead, he watched you with that fathomless curiosity, the kind that felt almost human in its hunger to understand.
“You are strange.” he murmured finally. “Unlike the other offerings that have come feeble and shaking.”
The god of dawn regarded you in silence. The distance between you shifted in the morning air—fragile, and full.
He did not touch you, not yet. He only watched with bright eyes, as the first full light of day spilled over the world. The sea roared below, the clouds vanished above, and the horizon burned gold between them.
ii. “Under His Sunlight”
The days that followed were a routine you could tolerate: sunlight, salt, fruit, and the weight of a presence that never left your side. You moved through the temple, half in awe, half wary, learning the spaces that were yours to explore and those that belonged only to him. Phainon—no, Khaslana, as he corrected, was always there, rarely close enough to touch. His attention was a fleeting thing that pulled at you unpredictably, sometimes gentle, sometimes cruelly distant, though always near.
You found him at the edge of the cliffs one morning, leaning against the marble railing basking in the sun which cracked over the horizon. His hair caught the light like molten silver.
You lingered back, watching him. The delicately cared for camellias tracing along your calves. You wanted to approach, but part of you feared that proximity might overwhelm you in the moment.
“Do you ever tire of the sun? You seem to always be basking in it.” you asked somewhat teasingly, stepping closer, your voice trembling against the wind.
He turned slowly, regarding you with that impossible calm, the corner of his mouth tilting in amusement. “I tire of nothing.” he said, voice low and measured in a way you could not read. “Not the sun, not the sea, not… you.” He shrugged carelessly. It didn’t make sense to you, just as you knew you didn’t make sense to him.
You swallowed. “Do you understand humans?”
His eyebrows pushed together before answering, almost reluctantly. “I understand the tides, the horizon, the dawn, I control them.” he said. “I understand the stars in a way you never will. But humans… no. I do not understand you. You are… unpredictable. Not easy to be controlled as I do with most things.”
Your chest tightened, nails digging into your palms. “I am not meant to be controlled. I am not… yours to keep.”
“Yet I try,” he said, and for the first time, there was a flicker in his gaze, something you hadn’t seen before. Annoyance, you decided. “Stupidly I try. I am drawn to the familiarity of authority, forgive me if I am harsh when I do not have it completely."
The wind tugged at your hair. You felt the pull of the world beyond the cliffs, the urge to leave, to climb higher, to chase the stars where he could not reach. He stepped closer, unconsciously, drawn by the same force that called you to the unknown. His shadow brushed yours, light catching the edges of him, illuminating him in all his glory.
“You are curious.” he noted, voice low, almost whispering. “Curious and unafraid. Even when I… overwhelm you with what I am. Even when the weight of me presses against you.”
“You do not overwhelm me.” you huffed, though your voice trembled. “Not entirely.”
He raised a brow. “You would say that now,” he murmured, voice deepening. “But soon… I may be too much. My touch, my gaze, my presence, I am not made for what you need. Human tenderness, patience, gentleness—I cannot give them. I can only offer the harshness I know.”
Something in your chest ached at his honesty, the way he recognized his own incapacity. “And yet you watch me,” you said. “Even knowing you cannot…” You gestured lightly in the air, searching for the right words. “Care for me the way I need.”
“I watch,” he admitted, stepping closer still. The air between you was tense. “Because I cannot stop. Because I am drawn to you. Because you exist in a way I cannot replicate.”
You felt the first, faint quiver of fear mixed with desire—the awareness that his devotion, in its intensity and ignorance, might suffocate you. His curiosity was not gentle; it was consuming. And even with that, you could not turn away.
“Do you even understand what that means?” you questioned quietly.
“I understand that I want,” he said, voice rough with something like longing, “what I cannot have. That I am pulled toward the finite, because it is alive. You are warm in a way I am not.”
You nodded, swallowing against the swell of the moment. “Then I will teach you,” you whispered. “Not how to be a god. But how to be… human, for even a little while.”
“Even if you have never been much of a teacher?” He tilted his head, expression unreadable as you nodded. His face contorted into a splitting grin grabbing onto your hand happily.
And so the days fell into rhythm: you moving through human habits and small pleasures, teaching him without speaking, guiding him in laughter and touch and the soft, trembling intimacy of shared meals, brushing sand from each other’s arms, watching the sunset. His fascination was relentless, his attention suffocating at times, and yet you could not help but be drawn to the way he looked at you—as though he could memorize every curve of your neck, every soft breath you let out. It was addictive to be studied in such a way.
And in the quiet moments, when the light softened, when the constellations twinkled, you felt the stars pulling at you—bright, infinite, calling to you. He noticed, of course. Khaslana’s gaze would flick to the horizon, tracking the pull you could not resist.
“I had hoped that you would grow happy here.” he murmured one evening, voice low, heavy, oddly sorrowful. “I want to hold you in this place, to keep you by my side. It is painful to see you do not wish the same.”
You let out a soft breath. “I am not yours, not fully. And I… I must see what's beyond this.”
He said nothing, only let the salt and the quiet consume the space between you. As the night deepened, the stars burned above, distant and untouchable. And in that infinite sky, you knew your heart already leaned toward them, toward the freedom that even a god could not provide.
iii. “The Weight of Him”
These months, the air hung heavy. Sunlight spilled across the jagged cliffs, the tide curling back in slow retreat, leaving mirrors of sea green and silver on the sand. You stood barefoot at the edge, toes sinking into the cool grains, heart thrumming.
And he was there.
Khaslana. The god who belonged to light itself, to the shimmer that lived in the sea and sky. The morning wrapped itself around him, caught in his white hair, glinting against the curve of his throat. You had watched him countless times before, traced him from afar, but never like this—never when he looked at you with such want.
He didn’t speak. Not at first. The silence between you was alive—thick, trembling, full of everything that had gone unsaid since you’d first met his gaze in the temple halls.
When he finally moved, it was slow, deliberate. “Come closer.” he said, voice hushed, edged with something new.
You stepped toward him without thinking, each pace dissolving what little distance remained between mortal and divine.
His hands found your waist—light at first, as though even touching you might undo him. You felt the shiver of his restraint, the way his breath hitched when his thumbs brushed against your hips.
He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your temple. The gesture was reverent, careful. You felt the heat of him—a warmth that seemed to stir from somewhere beneath his skin—and the ache it filled in you was both terrifying and exquisite.
“I have wanted this,” he murmured against your skin, voice low and rough. “To touch you. To see if you would feel as I’ve imagined.”
Your eyes fluttered shut. “And?”
His grinned against your lips. “You do. God you always do.”
He kissed you then—slow at first, tasting, learning. It wasn’t the kiss of a man; it was the bewildered, desperate touch of something immortal trying to learn the shape of human want. His lips moved greedily against yours. You cursed softly when his fingers trailed up your spine, when his mouth deepened against yours, when the line between curiosity and hunger blurred. One hand found itself under the swell of your breast, thumb rubbing harshly against the skin.
“You are too soft,” he said between kisses, breathless. “And yet—” His hand left your skin to cup your jaw, forcing you to look at him. “I can’t get enough of it. Makes me feel something I can’t name.” He groaned head diving back down to bite at your lips.
“Maybe that’s the point,” you whined. “Some things aren’t meant to be named. Some things are just meant to be felt.”
His eyes darkened, sky-blue fading into a sharp gold. “You speak like you understand this. I envy you.” His breath fanned against yours with every word.
“I don’t, not fully at least.” you said. “But I understand desire.”
He inhaled sharply, as though the words stung. His thumb brushed your lower lip, his gaze heavy, possessive. “You are mine,” he said then, his voice appeared to be soft, but you knew better.
You didn’t answer. You only stared back at him, lips parted, breath uneven. The silence that you gave wasn’t acceptance, instead it was quiet defiance. You let him believe, for a heartbeat, that he could have you.
He kissed you again, harder this time. His mouth moved with an intensity that bordered on worship, the kiss so deep it made your chest ache. His tongue was pushing at your lips. Once you gasped it pried itself into your mouth, you almost choked when it ran roughly along yours. You clutched at him, fingers threading into his hair, pulling until he groaned. He sounded half-divine, half-desperate. His hands slid beneath the fabric at your stomach once more, tracing the line of your ribs, learning you by touch, mapping you like he might lose you.
Every press of his palms left you trembling; every drag of his lips felt like he was carving you into memory. His leg eagerly spread yours apart, thigh pressing up right between yours. Each push of his thigh made you let out whines which he happily swallowed. Khaslana’s soft lips traveled down your jaw. Teeth scraping against the skin, he was sure to leave sore marks. The soft huffs he let out against your skin made you shiver. You felt him everywhere—the heat of his body, the taste of his breath. It wasn’t gentle anymore; it was consuming.
“Tell me,” he rasped, lips brushing your throat. “What do you want? Do you want this? Me?”
You hesitated, face flushed. You took a moment to clear your head from the buzzing heat, to focus on what you truly wanted. Then, softly, “No Khaslana, I want to be free.”
He froze. Just for a moment before jerking his head up.
His eyes searched yours, something raw and uncertain flickering there—confusion, ache, maybe even sadness. He pulled his leg back with a feigned smile. “You are cruel,” he said, voice breaking on a laugh.
He pressed his forehead to yours. “I will not let you leave,” he said softly, “Even if you manage to, I will find you again. I promise to have you in the end.”
You smiled faintly, eyes half-closed.
For a moment longer, you let yourself stay—wrapped in light, in his fake warmth, in the fragile illusion that the god before you could ever truly understand what it meant to love without possession.
iv. “To Be Held by Him Is to Burn”
The days after were quiet and wrong.
He came to you at every sunrise. The god of dawn, haloed in gold and sea spray would come with flowers, sweets, and long lingering touches. The cliffs, once vast, began to shrink beneath his presence. His voice filled every hollow space, his laughter clung to your skin like the salt in your hair.
At first, it was almost tender. Soft kisses to your face, slender fingers along your waist. He would trace the shell of your ear with a fingertip, whispering things that sounded like worship, like wonder. He spoke of how fragile mortals were and how beautiful it was that you still had a spark.
But the longer you stayed, the more those touches and words began to roughen.
He stopped asking what you wanted and would just take. He stopped listening when you spoke of the world beyond the cliffs, of the cities across the sea, of the way the stars could be seen clearer from inland hills near your home. He only smiled and nuzzled under your chin and said,
“You already have everything worth seeing.”
When you tried to step beyond the temple’s marble threshold, the horizon shimmered, and the wind turned back against you. It was pulling you to stay, pulling you back towards Khaslana. The sea, once your quiet companion, began to sound like him when it crashed.
And still, you stayed. For a while.
You told yourself it was because he was kind, in his own way. That maybe this was love—the immortal kind, the kind mortals aren’t meant to understand. But it wasn’t real love. Affection that confines you is not love at all. It is possession.
Khaslana did not understand that. He did not understand the smallness of human joy—the kind found in wandering markets, in laughter that fades into soft hugs, in the ache of choosing your own path. He only knew the severe devotion that has been given to him that he can't help but repeat.
And so, he began to mistake your quietness for contentment.
He began to touch you like he could anchor you here. He began to say “mine” more often—softly at first, then aggressively with fingers wrapped around your wrist. His fingers felt less warm, and more cold like cuffs as the days passed. When you looked away from him, his voice would follow, low and wounded: “Why do you look for the stars when the light is already here? I’m already here.”
That night, you dreamed again of the stars. Not distant, not cold—but close, bright, singing with a freedom that made your chest ache. You woke with tears in your throat and the taste of bitterness on your tongue. You knew then what you had always known: you could not stay.
When he found you standing at the edge of the cliffs one morning, the wind catching your hair, the sea churning below, he looked almost human in his confusion.
“Where are you going?” he asked. His voice cracked, grief and bewilderment flooding his senses. Emotions that he didn’t fully yet understand.
“Beyond here,” you said, breath trembling, the dawn still soft at your back. “Anywhere away from this.” You motioned toward him—the marble halls, the horizon burning gold behind his silhouette. “I’ll explore new things. I’ll go home.”
Your words trembled like the tide before retreat. You knew—you knew—that if he wished, he could stop you. That he would stop you. That the walls of this temple, once sanctuary, could become your cage. Still you tried, craving that freedom you once knew.
Khaslana’s eyes were endless. “You know they’ll send another if you do leave.” he said, almost pleading. “They’ll send her to please me, to burn, to kneel before me. I—” his jaw tightened— “I won’t take her. I only want you. Don’t you see that?”
He stepped closer. “And I will have you. Now. Always.” Khaslana’s expression had changed, what was once a pleading look of a puppy was now sharpened into something feral. The softness drained from his gaze, replaced by a hunger, the kind born from knowing he’d already crossed a line he could never return from.
“Even if it ruins you, I would rather have you broken than not at all.” He stared at you wide eyed.
You stepped back and looked at him—this beautiful, terrible god, carved from sea-light and loneliness, with all he reigned over trembling behind him, and smiled.
“I want a love you cannot give me,” you explained softly. “And a freedom you will not grant.”
His head cocked to the side. The light in his gaze fracturing completely into something else. “You can’t,” he hissed, stepping forward. “You can’t leave me.”
“I can, please, I must.” you breathed, your voice quavered like a prayer.
He reached out quickly, hand on your cheek. You felt the pull of his divinity—heavy and consuming. The ground trembled underfoot, his desperation thick enough to choke on.
“I will make you stay.” he said, voice low and breaking. “I will keep you here, where no one can take you from me. Isn’t that what mortals want? To be loved?”
“Not like this. This isn’t love Khaslana.” You wanted to scream, to do anything to get him to see that.
His face contorted with anger at your words.
“This is the only love I offer. You don’t understand,” He said, and his voice raised. “Mortals pray to be seen by gods. You have been seen. I see you. You would throw that away?”
You met his gaze. “You don’t see me.” you bit back. “You see a pet to control. That is not what I am.”
Khaslana’s fury was evident. The waves were slamming rapidly while the sun was blaring heat. His patience seemed to be running thin. He was done with waiting, no deity waits for what they want. They take it. The grass around your feet hummed. The gold tracery along the temple’s windows began to glow in the distance.
“I will show you,” he murmured, lowering his head towards yours, the divine light of him igniting your skin like flames. “What it means to be mine.”
The air warped. The scent of salt faded. You took a step back, but the wall met you first—cool, veined stone against your spine. You were inside now and his fingers found your jaw, tilting it upward.
His thumb brushed your lower lip. You pushed your hands out against his chest but he stood firm.
His touch was desperate along your skin. Fingers tracing your throat, the hollow of your collarbone, your fragile pulse thumping. You shivered when his lips followed, worship and possession tangled in every motion.
“Khasla—” you tried to speak voice shaking with tear welled eyes, but the sound fell on deaf ears.
“I do love you,” he said, the words almost tender. “I’ll continue to, if only you’d stay.”
But love, you thought, was not supposed to consume. It was supposed to be gentle, soft, caring. This was anything but.
Your hands tried to shove against his chest again, the heat of him pulsing beneath your palms—alive, burning, infinite. His breath stuttered, eyes flicked down to where your hands met his chest and pushed his body forward causing your nails to dig into the cloth covering him.
“You would cage me in gold, treat me as a pet. Collar me with silk and flowers.” you spat, trembling. “And call it love.”
His hand slid down your arm pulling your hands off him. “I would give you the world,” he said, voice a low tremor. “But I cannot give you freedom if it means being away from me.”
Your pulse thrummed beneath his thumb. “Then you give me nothing.”
He closed his eyes. His forehead pressed to yours, and he cooed.
“Then I will be selfish and only take.” he decided.
And the temple obeyed him. The wind stilled. The sea beyond the cliffs quieted. The air turned heavy, humming with Khaslana’s sick will. The land bows to him. It would not let you leave now.
You could feel it, the invisible threads tightening, wrapping around your limbs, your breath, your body. Marble beneath your bare feet felt colder. You were bound—not in chains, but in his twisted idea of love.
He cupped your cheek again, his thumb brushing away the tears he’d caused. His kiss followed, messy, and ruinous.
“I told you,” he murmured against your lips. “you can’t leave me. You are mine.”
And though your heart screamed for freedom, your body remained—bathed in silk and petals, trapped in the arms of a god who only knew humans as pets, and whose love was a cage.
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