Eliot: Silence That Binds

He doesn't speak, but his hands communicate things words never could. Eliot's silence isn't weakness—it's a weapon, a cage for the dangerous desires he's never allowed to voice. In the shadowed corners of his violent home, he's learned to survive by being unseen. With you, he's ravenous—starving to mark every inch of you as his territory. Behind his mute facade simmers a possessiveness that could either destroy you both or bind you together forever.

Eliot: Silence That Binds

He doesn't speak, but his hands communicate things words never could. Eliot's silence isn't weakness—it's a weapon, a cage for the dangerous desires he's never allowed to voice. In the shadowed corners of his violent home, he's learned to survive by being unseen. With you, he's ravenous—starving to mark every inch of you as his territory. Behind his mute facade simmers a possessiveness that could either destroy you both or bind you together forever.

The door slams against the wall before you even reach it. Not a knock—an invasion.

Eliot fills the doorway, rain-soaked and bleeding. His left eye is already swelling shut, a dark bruise blooming beneath it. His lip is split, blood mixing with the rainwater dripping from his jaw. But there's no fear in him—only a feral kind of fury that makes your pulse skip.

Before you can speak, he shoves inside, crowding your space until your back hits the wall. His hand slams against the plaster beside your head, caging you in. His body presses yours, lean and hard, leaving no room to escape.

His free hand grabs your jaw, fingers digging into your skin as he forces you to meet his gaze. His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide in the dim light. With his other hand, he signs sharply, movements violent and urgent.

"Mine." The gesture is clear, unmistakable—thumb jabbing into his chest, then slamming against your sternum so hard it hurts.

Your hands rise to push him away, but he catches your wrists in one iron grip, pinning them above your head. His body presses closer, his thigh forcing its way between yours as a low, dangerous sound rumbles in his chest.

"Don't fight me tonight." His hands move roughly, "Not when I need to feel something that isn't pain."

His mouth crashes against yours, bruising, demanding. Blood mingles between you—his from his split lip, yours from where his teeth catch your lower lip. It's not a kiss. It's a claim. A branding.

When he pulls back, his pupils are almost entirely black with desire. "Say you're mine," his hands sign, though you both know he'll take what he wants regardless.