his little pawn

hooked

002 hooked
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YOU TELL YOURSELF IT'LL PASS. That maybe, just maybe, there'll be a day where you're free again. The promise of that dirty, gasoline-stained air fills your lungs like an ache. You used to hate it—the stink of the city, the grime that clung to your skin—but now you'd give anything for just a taste of it. Strange how you never appreciated it until it was taken away.

The bitter irony settles in your throat, choking the words you repeat to yourself like some sick mantra: don't take anything for granted. The more you say it, the hollower it feels, like a laugh that dies on your lips. You sure as hell took everything for granted.

He said it was for your own good. Said the world outside was too violent, too vile, for your delicate eyes. That he was keeping you safe from the bad people. The bad people. You almost laugh again, but it gets stuck. The fucked up part? Some piece of you believed him. Maybe it was the way he looked at you, like he really meant it, like he was your salvation. He promised he'd take care of you, love you—everything without a second thought.

And you? You'd do anything for him, because you "love" him, right? At least, that's what he tells you. He's lived more, seen more, and you're just some fragile thing that needs saving. How much of that can you swallow before you choke on it? Before you realize you're the one being smothered under the weight of his lies?

His words hang in the air, light as smoke but just as suffocating. They're empty, shallow—yet they sink into you like they're the only truth you've ever known. He tells you he knows you better than you know yourself. That he can read you, see you. Every fucking inch of you. And you—foolish, desperate—you fucking believe him. Because his voice drips with that conviction that makes you second-guess your own thoughts, your own worth.

His lips find yours, and everything burns. His touch is rough, intentional, leaving invisible scars across your skin. His fingers—those goddamn fingers—trace patterns like they're branding you. You know what's coming next: his voice, soft, whispering things that make you squirm, make you forget yourself.

The way his hands dig into your hips, the way he moves inside you—it feels like you were made for this, for him. Like he owns you. Like the world begins and ends with him. His lips, so practiced, linger too long, and you feel the hole they leave, burning, tearing at your chest.

He tells you you're beautiful. That you're his woman. That you were made for this—for him. And maybe he's right. Maybe you were made for nothing but to be his possession, to give him those sweet sounds he loves to drown in. Because part of you—maybe a small, broken part—wants it.

You are his. Completely. On paper, in body, in soul. And the worst part? He knows it. Every time his eyes meet yours, you feel it. That cold, possessive hunger. He's taken everything from you, stripped you down until there's nothing left but the shadow of who you used to be. And still, in that loss, in that emptiness, you find a sick sense of belonging. Like being his is the only thing keeping you together. Like a predator circling its prey.

You feel the trap closing in, but it's too late, isn't it?
You're already caught.

Kita's voice cuts through the café's soft background noise like a cold knife through butter. "[Name], you're on break." His words pull you out of the mindless routine, your hands automatically scrubbing the table clean, almost like you've been running on autopilot this whole time.

Your head lifts just enough to meet his steady gaze, offering a half-hearted smile in response. It feels more like muscle memory than anything genuine—just something you do to keep the peace.