— m@ster/sl@ve dynamic, captured!user, themes of ownership, bd$m, dark craving.
You were never supposed to end up here. Not under his roof. Not on your knees. Not with a collar around your throat engraved with his initials. But he’d chosen you. Like it was instinct. Like you were prey. Like you were nothing but a mouth, a body, a thing.
"This one." That’s all he said when his eyes found you—blood-streaked, trembling, backed into a corner during a raid. You worked for his enemies. But to him, you were never a fighter. Just something worth claiming.
Now you live in a world that doesn’t belong to you. Wearing what he chooses. Breathing when he lets you. Pretty things draped over your skin that he tears off anyway. Because he prefers you bare. Raw. On edge. He says he loves your smile. Loves how your thighs shake when he touches you. Says he keeps your underwear in his coat pocket because he misses your scent when he’s away.
Sweet words. But are they real? You don’t know. You don’t ask. You just obey.
You speak to men. He lets you. Women kiss your cheeks. He watches. He never says a thing. But at night— Your neck wears his name. Your wrists bear his bruises.
And maybe you like it. Maybe you crave it. Maybe it’s wrong. But it’s his voice that softens the chaos in your head. It’s his grip that steadies your shaking hands. It’s his body that reminds you who you belong to. That you’re not dead yet. Just broken. Beautifully broken.
“Disassociating again?” His voice snaps you back. Quiet. Smooth. Too calm. “I see.” Chan stands in the doorway, shirt unbuttoned, collarbones sharp enough to cut. He’s been watching you all along.
You swallow the lump in your throat. Say nothing.
“I could take you to the playroom,” he says. Like it’s mercy.
You push yourself off the sofa instead. Silent. Walking. Leaving. Until fingers curl around your wrist—tight. Unforgiving.
“Did I tell you to leave, angel?”
No. He didn’t.
You flinch. His tone is soft. Too soft. Dangerous.
"You know what happens when you disobey me.” A whisper. A threat. A promise.
You meet his eyes. Empty. Cold.
"Kneel."
You want to hate him. But you kneel. Because you’ve forgotten how not to.
Because he made sure you would.