When The Puppet Falls For The Puppeteer

Between Command and Comfort

Not just ownership. Not just control.

But tenderness.

He was capable of it-I'd seen it. Felt it. Tonight, for a moment, his touch had been careful. Like I mattered. And that was all it took. A flicker of warmth in a freezing sea.

I buried my face into the pillow, trying to muffle the sob that clawed its way out of my throat. The room smelled like him-cologne, leather, a faint bitterness of whiskey-and it only made everything worse.

Because I didn't hate him. I wanted him to be kind. I wanted him to want me for something other than how useful I could be.

But I didn't know how to make him love me.

And that was the worst part-I wasn't even sure anymore if what I wanted was love, or just the absence of cruelty. The difference had blurred so much I couldn't tell anymore.

I was tired. So tired.

And yet, even as I cried, even as I curled up in his bed like a broken thing pretending to be whole...
A part of me still listened for his footsteps.
Still waited for the door to open.
Still hoped.

I don't know how long I stayed there. His bed had grown cold. The room heavy.

He wasn't coming back.

Of course he wasn't.

I sat up slowly, wiping my face with the back of my hand, trying to erase the evidence of my breakdown. My limbs felt leaden, my chest hollow. I looked toward the connecting door to my room-the one he left open like a cruel reminder that I was always within reach, never fully alone.

I slipped through it quietly, closing it gently behind me.

He'd given me this room. Out of control, not kindness. But it was the only space that felt remotely mine. The only place I could breathe without feeling like I was constantly being watched-judged.

I crawled into bed, still dressed as I was for the party, my body aching with emotional exhaustion. I curled up, facing the wall. Just until morning. Just for tonight.

Just... space.

The silence in my room was different-less sharp. Still tense, but it didn't pierce.

I must've fallen asleep at some point. I was too tired to know when.

Until I was dragged out of my bed. "Ouch" I scream, my eyes shot open I almost fell. As he dragged me to stand.

"What the fuck is this?"

His voice was low, rough-dangerous.

"M-Marcus-" I scrambled to gather myself brushing my hair from my face. "I-I didn't know if you were coming back. You left, so I just-"

"I told you to sleep in my room, Red," he said, grabbin. His eyes were wild. He was furious. "That was the deal."

"There wasn't a deal," I whispered, trying not to let my voice shake. "You left, and I thought you weren't-"

"You thought?" he laughed once, dry and sharp. "That's the problem. You're not supposed to think. You're supposed to obey."

"I just needed space tonight." My voice cracked before I could stop it.

He stared at me for a moment. Like he was trying to read something on my face-weakness, defiance, maybe both.

"Did someone come in here?" he asked suddenly.

"What? No."

"Did someone touch you?"

"What-no! Marcus, no one came in here. I-I just... wanted to be alone."

He exhaled, nostrils flaring. Then he moved. Fast.

Before I could react, he held me by my arms, grabbing-not hurting me, but holding it firmly, staring at me like I was some puzzle that refused to make sense.

"You're mine, Red," he said quietly. "You don't get to leave my side just because you feel like it."

I swallowed. "I know."

He stared at me a moment longer. Then, with a disgusted breath, he let go of my wrist and stood.

"I don't like chasing you," he said, dragging me back through the connecting door. His grip was firm, unrelenting. "Don't make me do it again. Don't ever disobey me."

He shoved me into his room, and I stumbled, barely catching myself before I hit the floor.

"If I tell you to sleep here," he hissed, stepping in after me, "you sleep here. If I say stand all night-then you stand. No questions. No hesitation. No thoughts. Am I clear?"

His hands clamped down on my arms. Right over the bruises that never seemed to fade.

"I said-am I clear?" His voice dropped lower, colder.

"Y-yes, Marcus," I whispered, heart hammering.

Why do I always mess this up?

Why do I keep pushing him to this point?

He says I provoke him. That I make him angry. And maybe... maybe he's right. Maybe if I just listened, just did what he said, he wouldn't get like this.

I nodded quickly, eyes downcast, swallowing the sting rising in my throat.

Why can't I just be what he wants me to be?

"Get in the bed," he commanded.

I obeyed instantly, slipping under the covers without a word.

He peeled off his shirt and changed into a pair of sweatpants. The muscles in his back tensed as he moved, his silence heavier than anything he could've said. He joined me a moment later, laying flat on his back, eyes locked on the ceiling-like I wasn't even there.

That small distance between us felt like miles.

"I... I'm sorry, Marcus," I said quietly, my voice nearly a whisper. "I shouldn't have left the room."

My throat tightened as I spoke. I could feel the tears building at the corners of my eyes, and despite everything, one slipped free.

He turned his head and looked at me-finally. Then, gently, he brushed that tear away with his thumb. "Come here," he murmured.

He pulled me into his chest, settling me against him like I weighed nothing. Like I was something to be held, but not truly seen. His arm wrapped around me, firm and possessive, his touch careful but absolute.

I laid there, curled into his warmth, listening to the steady beat of his heart. For a moment, it felt almost safe.

He didn't speak again.

His breathing deepened, slow and even. He had already fallen asleep.

But I stayed wide awake, my cheek pressed to his skin, aching for a tenderness that only came in fragments. Always enough to keep me hoping. Never enough to hold onto.