“My pomegranate,” he murmured, a caress threaded with quiet menace, “this is only the beginning.”

Those words were the threshold. Once you crossed it, there was no turning back.

From that moment on, you became the axis of his world—the pulse he fed from, the sweetness that kept him alive. He consumed you slowly, deliberately, as if savoring a rare fruit. Every glance took something from you. Every touch drew out another fragile piece of your spirit, until what had once been bright and full began to thin and fade.

To him, you were a pomegranate: lush and fatal, bursting with promise and ruin. He peeled you open with unsettling patience, parting your layers as though he were doing something sacred. Each day, another seed of you was taken, crushed between his fingers, tasted, claimed.

“Slowly but surely,” he would murmur, eyes glinting with hunger, “gently and with patience… I’ll savor you until you serve no purpose.”

And you knew what that meant.

When your sweetness was gone, when you had been emptied of everything that made you you, he would leave you behind—just husk and memory—already searching for his next feast.

“You taste so sweet,” he whispered against your skin, breath warm and lingering, sending a tremor through you that felt too much like both fear and longing.