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goblinontour · 1 day ago

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Down On All Fours

part 7 | series masterlist

release

warnings: implied age gap, daddy kink, mentions of death, suicidal thoughts, crying, rough fucking of all the holes, therefore piv and anal, heavy dubcon (and i really mean it, it’s a lot and please don’t read if that’s something you’re not comfortable with), mentions of bodily fluids (pretty much everything you can think of…well, not everything), choking, strangulation, i hope that’s all. anyone under 18, it’s time to respect my wishes at least this one time, do not read it, do not interact.

word count: 13.8k

Intrigue.

To arouse one’s curiosity or interest — or to put it simply…

Fascinate.

That’s what he was to you. What he meant to you. And you to him, to a certain extent. Though you were sure his reasoning for that was much different from yours. You’d never asked, and he’d never offered. There were things that lived in the silence between you, words neither of you dared to shape because speaking them out loud might make them real. And maybe that’s what kept it alive — this fragile, flickering thing that neither of you wanted to name.

Come to think of it, you didn’t even know what it was that intrigued you about him. Not really. It wasn’t the kind of thing you could hold in your hands, examine under the light, give shape to with words. It was slippery, like something submerged just beneath the surface, catching the light only when you weren’t looking directly at it. A shadow always half a step ahead, just out of reach. But you felt it in the marrow of your bones, like a splinter that never quite healed.

Like you, he wasn’t special. Just a man. Troubled, somewhat deeply, by what? You hadn’t found out yet. And maybe you didn’t want to. Perhaps knowing would ruin it, pull back the curtain and reveal nothing but an ordinary man with ordinary demons. But there was something in the way he carried them, like fragile things he cradled close to his chest, never letting them slip from his grasp. A hollow space carved somewhere inside of him, filled with shadows he didn’t try to chase away. He wasn’t trying to be free of them. No, he wore them like a second skin, stitched into the fabric of who he was. You knew, though, that he liked that feeling. Because, like you, he didn’t try to get rid of it. He didn’t want to let it go. It sat inside him like an old friend, familiar and corrosive, and he nurtured it in quiet ways — a glance too long at nothing, a sharpness in his voice when it wasn’t needed, the distant look that lingered even when you were right there.

He was handsome, yes, in your eyes at least. That might’ve had something to do with it. The kind of face that made you pause — not because it was perfect, but because it wasn’t. His beauty wasn’t the kind that begged for attention. It crept up on you, like a bruise darkening just under the skin. There was something fractured about it, sharp angles softened by exhaustion. The kind of face that looked carved, not crafted. And those eyes…dark, rimmed with sleepless nights and thoughts too heavy to carry. His eyes drew you in. Beyond the dark circles and sadness, there was something else. An embedded hope inside of them. A fragile, flickering thing tucked away like he was ashamed to have it, and have it show, and to have it be seen. That made him beautiful, more than anything else.

But you didn’t think beauty alone would make you let him get away with so much, if it weren’t for something else.

It had to be something else.

Maybe the way his hands felt on you before he’d even touched you. A ghost of contact, imagined but tangible enough to leave a mark. You knew they’d be rough in their grip, but the skin in the middle of his palms was softened — worn down by years of holding things too tightly, of letting go too late. You could picture them, resting idle but never relaxed, like they were always ready to take or break or hold…or maybe even be held. The kind of hands that knew how to destroy and sometimes forgot how to be gentle, except with you. Hands that smelled faintly of metal, of old leather, of something colder than the room itself.

Maybe it was the way he looked at you sometimes — like he was trying to memorise you, not because he thought you’d leave, but because part of him already believed you were gone. Like you were a ghost he could only see when the light hit you just right. Or maybe it was the way he didn’t look at you at all, the way his absence filled the room louder than his presence ever could.

Maybe it was how he felt like a place you could crawl inside of and hide, even when he was the thing you needed hiding from. A contradiction wrapped in skin.

Maybe it was just him.

The sum of all his contradictions, stitched together with frayed threads of grief and anger and something softer he didn’t know how to name. The way his silence filled the spaces between your words, like punctuation marks carved from bone. The way his presence pressed against your chest even when he wasn’t near, pulling at something invisible beneath your ribs.

It was in the small things. The way he lit his cigarette but never smoked it past the halfway mark, as if finishing it would mean admitting to something he wasn’t ready to confront. The way he’d stare out the window, not looking at anything, but seeing something only he could. The way his jaw tightened when he thought no one was watching, but knew you were. You were always watching.

You couldn’t help it.

You studied him like he was something fragile and volatile all at once — a cracked glass filled with gasoline. A single touch could shatter or ignite him, and you never knew which it would be until it was too late. And maybe that was part of it, too. The not knowing. The anticipation of something sharp beneath the surface, hidden under the quiet.

But there were moments — brief, fleeting — when the darkness receded just enough to glimpse something else beneath it. The way his hand would linger on the small of your back a second too long. The way his breath would hitch when he thought you weren’t paying attention. The way his voice softened when he called you his, like it was the only thing in the world he wasn’t trying to forget.

And maybe that was why you stayed.

Not because you wanted to fix him — you weren’t naive enough to think you could. Not because you were waiting for him to change — he never would.

But because in the spaces where he didn’t know how to be anything other than broken, he made room for you. In the sharp edges he didn’t bother to smooth, you found something to hold onto. In the dark, tangled parts of him, you saw your own reflection.

And maybe that was it. Maybe it wasn’t about intrigue or fascination or even love.

Maybe it was recognition.

A mirror held up to the parts of yourself you didn’t want to look at, wrapped in the shape of a man whose hands felt like both a promise and a threat.

Maybe that was it.

Maybe it was everything.

Or maybe it was nothing.

And maybe that should have been enough of a reason to stay away.

But it wasn’t.

Because even knowing all of this, even recognising the sharp edges of him, the jagged teeth of whatever it was that gnawed at his insides, you didn’t move away. You only watched, only lingered, only let yourself be pulled deeper into the orbit of whatever force he carried inside of him.

It wasn’t just intrigue. It was something worse. Something more like…inevitability.

You could have turned back, could have left before his hands ever found you, before his words ever sank their claws into the soft parts of your brain and made a home there.

But you didn’t.

Because the truth was, you wanted to see what was inside him.

You wanted to crack him open, spread him out under the light and sift through the wreckage. Wanted to understand what made him flinch at kindness, what kept him up at night, what filled his lungs when he went quiet for too long. Wanted to see if there was anything left of him that was soft, or if he’d let it all rot away a long time ago.

And maybe that was cruel. Maybe that made you just as bad.

But he didn’t turn you away.

He let you press closer. Let you watch him, let you follow, let you sink into his space like you belonged there. And maybe you did. Maybe you always had.

Maybe that’s why he never stopped you.

Because maybe he wanted to be seen. Even if he wouldn’t admit it. Even if it hurt.

His presence was overwhelming.

You could always feel it before you even saw him — felt the heat radiating from his body, the way the air seemed to thicken, to become something heavy in the space between you. It was like being trapped inside an electric storm where the tension crackled in the silence and you were both just waiting for the inevitable spark that would break the stillness.

His hands slid around your body, a promise in the way his fingertips barely brushed your skin. They found your ankles first, pressing into the soft flesh stretched taut over bone as he guided you, pulled you closer, making you feel every inch of his strength as he moved over you. You could feel the heat of him now, close enough to touch, too close to escape. The sheets under you were cold, the fabric brushing against the bare skin of your legs, the sensation almost jarring against the warmth of his hands.

You could feel him looking at you before you lifted your gaze. His eyes were already fixed on you, like he could see right through the parts of you that you wanted to hide. There was something terrifyingly possessive in the way he looked at you — a way that made you feel both seen and exposed, as if there was nothing left to hide, nothing left to protect yourself with.

He towered above you, his figure framed by the dim light in the room, a shadow over you, yet somehow he seemed to glow. You couldn’t help but notice the way his body was tensed up with restraint, the muscles in his arms, his chest, his shoulders. Every movement he made was deliberate, like he was trying to control every aspect of you — every sensation that flickered through your body, every breath you took.

And still, you didn’t fight it. You didn’t resist. You never did. The reality of the moment was both familiar and foreign at once. You had lived it before, and yet it always felt new, always felt like the first time. Your mind was caught in a whirlwind of memories — his touch, his words, the way he made you feel — but now, here, in this moment, all of that faded away. It was just you and him, and the weight of what he needed from you, what he expected, pressing down on you.

His fingers brushed your lips as he leaned down closer, and you could feel the roughness of his touch against your skin, a sharp contrast to the softness of the sheets beneath you. His eyes never left yours as he hovered above you, his breath hot against your face, his presence so consuming that you couldn’t breathe without feeling him.

Then his voice cut through the haze of thoughts that swirled in your mind, low and rough. “You want a big girl kiss?”

His fingers parted your lips, his rough pads pressing against the soft, tender skin. The movement was sharp, purposeful. You felt your body respond to him without thinking, your mouth parting for him even though you hadn’t made the decision. He wasn’t asking for permission, and you didn’t offer resistance. It wasn’t meant as gentle. It wasn’t supposed to be. It was demanding, possessive, molding you into what he needed you to be. A toy. An object. Something to bend to his will.

And you let him. Because deep down, in the place where the edges of desire blurred with need, you knew you wanted it too.

“My girl wants Daddy to kiss her?”

Your body went numb. Not in the way most would think — numb from fear or from discomfort. No. You were numb in the sense that you simply stopped feeling the way you normally would. You stopped fighting the chaos within you. You let yourself be moulded, let yourself be reshaped by the heat of his touch, the weight of his presence. You weren’t sure you could feel anything at all in this moment. But then again, you didn’t need to feel.

You just let things be felt.

The quiet hum of tension between you two filled the space. It was almost comfortable in its own unsettling way. And he needed this. Needed someone, needed some…thing — anything. He wanted to break something. Or perhaps he just wanted the release of control.

“Stick your tongue out.” he demanded, his voice turning deeper.

It was a struggle. He had your lips held too tightly, pressed together in a way that kept anything from escaping your mouth. Barely words could slip through the cracks, let alone anything solid. But the order didn’t leave room for hesitation. You forced yourself to obey, stretching your tongue outward, the motion clumsy, unsure, but obedient.

There was a moment of stillness then, a lingering silence between the two of you as he observed you. His eyes were heavy, weighted, watching every little detail of your movements with a hunger that seemed to burn deeper with every passing second.

“Am I too heavy?” His voice broke through, soft in contrast to the way his body pressed down on yours.

He straddled your thighs now, his body holding you down, pinning you to the bed with a force that was more than just physical. It wasn’t his pair of legs and arms, his torso, and his head, and every other part that added up to him — it was his presence that was the heaviest thing in that room, bearing down on you with an intensity that made every breath feel too thick, every moment stretched longer than it should have been.

You weren’t sure if you were supposed to answer. You could barely think, the pressure of him making everything in you feel like it was sinking, drowning in the tension. You shook your head, your cheek pressing into the cool pillow beneath you, the small motion your only response, the only thing you had left to offer.

“No.” you whispered.

And then, his lips curled into something dangerous.

“I’ll give you the best big girl kiss.”

Like smoke, lingering, staining, his words weren’t meant to be comforting. They weren’t meant to soothe. They were the kind that promised no mercy, no release, only the need for you to bend further, to surrender yourself fully to him, stretched between cruelty and tenderness, between something real and something imagined. His fingers lingered against your lips, pressing just hard enough to remind you he was there, to remind you once again that you belonged to him in this moment — whether you wanted to or not.

When they loosened slightly, enough to let your mouth part, your breath trembled out as though it belonged to someone else. His thumb brushed over the raw imprint left on your bottom lip, soft skin compared to his, calloused from work, from time, from whatever had carved its history into him. But beneath that was warmth, subtle and hidden, refusing to die. His thumb dragged along the corner of your mouth, smearing the wetness of breath and submission, tracing the shape of your compliance.

His breath was against your lips then, hot and near, a promise of what was to come. But he didn’t move yet. He let the tension build, letting every second between you stretch and tighten until it felt like the very air was vibrating with the weight of what was about to happen.

He didn’t kiss you.

He didn’t kiss you, yet. He hovered there, his mouth a ghost just above yours, close enough that you could taste the phantom of him — something faintly bitter like regret — and he stared. Right into you, past the fragile mask of your face. His pupils were dark pools with no bottom, swallowing everything you gave without the courtesy of reflection, pinning you down not with strength, but with something worse: understanding.

“Look at me.” he whispered, voice raw, as if the words themselves were knives he’d swallowed.

And you did. Of course you did. Because how could you not? There was gravity in him, in the way his jaw clenched, in the faint tremor beneath his skin like a storm he was getting too tired to outrun.

His breath hitched slightly. He wasn’t used to being seen.

Your eyes met his, and it felt like standing on the edge of something vast and unknowable, swallowing everything — your face, your thoughts, your fragile attempts to be more than just a shape beneath him.

Then, finally, he kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t rough, either. It was something else — something hungry, not for flesh, but for proof. Proof that you were still there, that he was still here, that something in this hollow world could still be tangible if he pressed hard enough. His lips bruised yours with meaning rather than malice. It wasn’t the kind of kiss people wrote about in soft, safe stories. It wasn’t tender or sweet. It was simply necessary, like tearing open a wound or peeling back a scab just to feel the sting and see the blood. His mouth claimed yours with a desperation that felt too old to still be so new.

He’d been starving for years and only just realised it.

Your hands moved without thought or permission, clutching at him, pulling — not to bring him closer, but to keep yourself from drifting. He was the anchor, and you were the thing trying desperately not to float away in the eye of the storm. You, too, were tired of standing on the edge.

When he pulled back his forehead rested against yours and both of you breathed like it hurt to do so.

“I don’t know what you’re doing to me.” he whispered, almost to himself.

You wanted to say, me neither. But the words lodged in your throat. Instead, your fingers found his wrist, tracing the faint pulse beneath skin — fragile, steady, proof. Proof that he was real. Proof that you were, too.

His eyes fluttered shut, his expression softening just enough to show the cracks beneath. “I don’t think I know myself anymore.”

The words fell between you, sharp and raw, bleeding into the quiet. You didn’t try to fix them. You just stayed, your touch gentle, your breath syncing with his until it felt like you were holding pieces of him together — not with strength, but with presence.

I can feel the weight of your presence even when you're not near me, he thought. Like a shadow that looms over everything, even in daylight. And when you’re close? When you’re here, your touch is more than just a presence. It’s something that consumes.

It was suffocating, but he didn’t know if he could fight it anymore.

His fingers pressed against your skin, rough, methodical, as though he was trying to learn you like the contours of some strange, unfamiliar object. He couldn’t stop tracing, couldn’t stop touching.

You didn’t flinch.

You wondered, though, somewhere in the depth of your mind, if he ever wondered why he kept coming back. Was it really about needing something to bend, something to break? Was that why you were here? Was it why you, too, stayed? Because beneath everything, beneath the touches, the silence, the tension, there was an unspoken understanding that you were both just trying to hold on to something…anything.

You could feel him everywhere, and you hated how it made you ache for him, for something more. But you didn’t dare ask. He wasn’t ready for that. Maybe he never would be…unless…

“You always make me feel like I’m drowning.” you whispered, barely audible, the words slipping from your lips as easily as the tears that gathered in your eyes.

“That’s good.” he murmured. “You should…feel it.”

And there was something in the way he said it…

He wasn’t just talking about the act anymore. He wasn’t just talking about the desire that had built and built until it had nowhere else to go but here. He was talking about that darker something that lurked beneath the surface, that neither of you could face the finality of.

And still, you didn’t fight.

This urge.

It was getting stronger. He could feel it, growing inside him, clawing at the edges of his mind like something feral and desperate. It was hunger, aching, gnawing at him with the kind of intensity that drowned everything else, made him lose himself in the fire of it. His head was throbbing, sharper now, a beat that didn’t sync with his pulse, didn’t match the rhythm of his body. He wanted to shut it out, to push it away, but it was impossible. It was too much.

The pressure was unbearable.

“I don’t know how much longer I can last.”

His voice cracked, rough and fractured like he was holding back something violent — something that wanted to break free. Exactly that. His chest tightened, desperate for release, for something to stop the ache, but there was no escape. Not from this. Not from him.

“What do you mean, Al?”

Your voice cut through the thick silence like a blade, soft, innocent. But he knew you weren’t that. Not anymore, anyway.

He flinched at the sound of his own name, the rawness of it still unfamiliar, still sharp in ways he didn’t want to admit. But he didn’t fight it anymore either. He couldn’t. It was too late for that.

“I want to be inside your darkest everything, sweets.”

The words spilled from him like poison, but there was something almost tender in the way he said them. A yearning. An offering. And it sent a tremor through your body, one that you couldn’t shake, no matter how much you tried.

You held his face then, the warmth of your hands pressing into the coolness of his skin. Your fingers traced the sharpness of his jaw, and for a moment, everything stilled. Your eyes locked — no words, just the weight of everything that’s been unsaid, everything that had been waiting.

And then you spoke.

“I think I mostly just want to hold you.”

You could see the shift in him. The way his breath caught, the way his gaze softened, just for a second, before the hunger came rushing back, like an unstoppable tide.

He didn’t answer and he didn’t speak. Instead, he moved closer, his lips brushing against yours, soft and searching at first, as if to test the waters, to gauge how much of this — of him — you could truly bear.

It was written in the way he looked at you, in the way his fingers gripped you tighter, as if you might slip through his hands, as if you might disappear into the dark.

He didn’t need to say it. The words were there.

You could feel it too.

Save for the rhythmic sound of your breath and his, tangled and heavy, the quiet was the loudest thing, pressing in from every angle, demanding attention. A silence that, in its own way, spoke volumes.

He shifted, his body now hovering just above yours, the weight of him pressing against you, the darkness of him filling the space between you. He moved closer, inches, then closer still, until there was nothing left but the space you shared. Nothing but the inevitable.

And you let it drown you. You let him, because you had no other choice. Because you both were caught in the same endless spiral of need and destruction. You were just as broken, just as lost, as he was.

So you didn’t speak. You let him keep you here, keep you in the silence, in the darkness.

Silence, too, can be its own kind of truth.

But he was ready for confession.

“I had someone. I had…I had everything.” he murmured, his voice so soft it barely broke the air between you, yet it felt as loud as thunder.

It felt…divine to hear him like that, raw and exposed, even though it was more sacrilegious than it could ever be considered something holy. His words were broken, fragmented pieces of a past that had never truly let him go, all spilling out in a quiet rush.

He lay on his back, his body still but his mind racing, staring up at the ceiling as though the cracked plaster held the weight of all his secrets. Once he started, there was no stopping him.

“Everything…I had everything. And I couldn’t save them. It was a special day, that day when I…when I hurt you.” His words faltered, his chest tightening as he paused, grappling with the memory. “I could see them, and then I couldn’t. And it was like losing them all over again. And it felt so painful…it still…it still feels like pain, like the inside of my body is on fire, and it’s burning, and it’s angry, and bright, and…and it’s great, but…sometimes I just want someone to spread me open and pull my ribs out.”

His voice trailed off, each word more fragile than the last, as though he were admitting something that had been festering for years because, well, he was. The darkness in him was so raw, so deep, that you could almost feel it seep into the room.

You didn’t respond right away. You let his words hang in the silence between you, heavy and broken. There was a part of you that wanted to pull him back, to shield him from whatever it was that made him hurt this way, but you knew you couldn’t. Not this time. He needed to say it. He needed to feel heard, to feel understood.

“Like a thick black cloud covering everything.” you whispered, your voice soft but steady, almost like you were echoing his pain. Your hand moved slowly, tentatively, over his chest, settling over the center, right above his heart. You could feel the pulse beneath your palm, slow and steady. Despite everything he’d just shared, it was calm, almost as if it were trying to ground him, to bring him back to something solid in the midst of the chaos.

He let out a quiet, almost inaudible chuckle, the sound so out of place, so delicate in the depths of the rawness. “That sounds super depressing.” His laugh was light, a soft giggle that seemed to float in the air like a sigh of relief, just like everything he’d confessed had, for a fleeting moment, lost its grasp on him.

You couldn’t help but smile at the sound, the way it cut through the tension between you, as though you were both reaching for something to hold onto in the aftermath. And maybe, just maybe, that lightness was the beginning of something else that wasn’t wrapped in pain. Something that might still have the power to heal.

But the silence crept back in, heavier than before. It was a quiet kind of comfort, one that existed between two people who had shared something broken, something ugly, but still, in some way, still needed each other.

He was still staring at the ceiling.

And when he broke it, there was something that wasn’t quite anger in there, but something close to it.

“I just want to tell them…” he murmured, the words slipping out like he hadn’t intended. “Like…it’s weird that you died. Because I can still see you. I can still feel you. I could hold onto you, but it’s like...you’re still here, but not here. Like you’re stuck in my head. I can’t forget you…and I don’t know how to make sense of that.”

You watched him. He wasn’t looking at you. His gaze was lost in the faded cracks, praying that he might find the answers in the chipped paint right above him. He often did that. And you wondered if he ever found peace in it. Or if he even wanted to.

“Nostalgia is just proof you’re living a life you can be proud of, Alexander.” you said, your voice steady despite the heaviness that settled in your chest. You had no reason to believe the words, but they felt right coming from you in this moment. “I think it’s a privilege to yearn for your own memories.”

You could see the way his jaw tightened, how his lips pressed together, like he was trying to resist the urge to let something else spill from him. He finally turned his head towards you, his eyes searching yours, a kind of vulnerability flickering behind them.

“Do you?” he asked, his voice quieter now. He needed you to tell him that it wasn’t all as messed up as it felt in his head.

You almost laughed. A hollow sound that didn’t quite fit. “No.” you replied, your words dripping with bitterness. “I want to forget them. I’m a sad, bitter, weak human being.”

The truth was spilling out too easily. You, too, were now letting go of something you had held onto for too long.

You were weak.

You were just like him.

And that hit you harder than you wanted to admit.

“You’re so fucking clever, aren’t you?”

“Maybe.” you muttered back. “I don’t know. Maybe I just tell myself that so I don’t have to admit what I really am.”

He was back on top of you then, shifting his weight once more as his body pressed against yours, the change in his mood palpable. The smile that had once lingered on his lips, playful and light, now twisted into the hunger, giving in.

“I love you so much.” he whispered. That almost made you flinch, made you ache some more. He wasn’t supposed to say it. Not like this. Not in the middle of all of this. “That’s fucking insane for me to say that out loud, isn’t it?”

You couldn’t help it. The laugh that bubbled up from your chest felt strange, almost hollow, but it was all you could manage. “Yeah.” you giggled, brittle, fragile. “It’s pretty insane.”

His lips found yours again, but it wasn’t the kiss you had expected. It was different — even rougher, even more desperate, trying to erase all the pain that had just spilled from his words, trying to fill the emptiness between you with something else. His hands were everywhere, gripping, pulling, demanding. His fingers dug into your skin like he was trying to claim you, to pull you back from whatever darkness was threatening to swallow him whole.

You squirmed beneath him, your breath hitching as his lips traced the curve of your neck, his tongue leaving a burning trail in its wake. “Stop it.” you whispered, your voice strained, though you knew it wouldn’t stop him. You never wanted it to. “Stop it.” you said again, a desperate plea wrapped in the guise of resistance.

His laugh was low, almost mocking, and you felt him adjust again, his body heavier, pinning you to the bed. “Will you run away if I don’t tie you up?” he asked, slipping from his lips with a strange sense of certainty, since he very well already knew the answer.

You swallowed hard, your chest rising and falling unevenly beneath him. “I don’t know.” you said. “You’d better tie me up.”

There was a pause — one that lingered. You could almost feel what he was about to do. The moment felt like it was stretching out longer than it should have, both of you suspended in it, trapped between the here and the there, between the desperate need for release and the terror of what it might mean.

The way he adjusted, the way he moved…you knew then that he wasn’t going to wait for you to change your mind. He was going to hold you. Whether you liked it or not.

A shadow on your skin, suffocating in a way that wasn’t painful, but still felt like you were drowning. His hands — rough yet so intent — kept pulling you into this thing you didn’t fully understand but couldn’t resist. There was something about him that kept you tethered, even when everything inside you screamed for air, for space.

“Don’t…don’t try to fight it.” he murmured against your ear, his voice low, laced with that certain undertone. His breath against your neck sent a shiver down your spine, but you stayed still. Still enough that your body felt like it was being molded to fit around him — just the way he wanted.

You were just a soft curve in his hands, something pliable and easy to manipulate. You were, in his eyes, a beautiful piece of clay waiting to be shaped. But it wasn’t about shaping anymore, was it? It had shifted. To taking what was his, what he had a right to, and leaving marks on your soul that were harder to erase.

“Are you wet?” he asked, just as his fingers skimmed the insides of your bare thighs — featherlight, like he wasn’t really touching you at all, just a ghost of contact, enough to make you ache for more.

“I-…yes.” you whispered, breath catching in your throat.

“Yeah?” he nagged, his tone sharp with that cruel, playful edge, the corners of his mouth twitching, holding back his grin. “We need to make sure though…don’t we, baby?”

“Mhm.” It was all you could manage, your body tensing under the weight of his gaze, your skin prickling with anticipation.

And so he touched.

Beyond the edges of decency and towards the end of no return. His fingers slid inward, slow, unhurried, slipping between your folds with a precision that felt both casual and calculated. He didn’t press inside — not yet. There was no intrusion, just exploration, his fingertips gliding through the slickness he found there. The wet sound of it was obscene in the quiet, and somehow that only made it worse. Or better.

He lifted his hand slightly, holding his fingers up between you, glistening in the dim light. His eyes darkened as he stared, fascinated — not just by what he saw, but by the power of it. The power of you. The way you couldn’t stop him, the way you didn’t want to.

“So slippery.” he observed in a whisper, voice husky, more to himself than to you.

His fingers found their way back, dragging your wetness lazily over the sensitive skin, spreading it like it belonged to him. His other hand came up, sliding under your chin, tilting your head back just enough so he could see the whites of your eyes — the vulnerability there, so bare, so raw. You felt it everywhere, like you were exposed down to your bones.

“I could break you.” he whispered, not cruelly, but with an intensity that made your heart stumble in your chest. His fingers pressed just a little harder, a reminder of how easy it would be. “And you’d let me. Wouldn’t you?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Your mind was a battlefield warring with the deep-seated fear clawing at one side and the strange, undeniable pull you felt toward him at the other. He was like a puzzle, jagged pieces that didn’t quite fit together but somehow made perfect sense when they did. You were drawn to him because of that — because you couldn’t figure him out, and it terrified you. Because he terrified you in ways that felt all too familiar.

And yet, all you could do was nod.

Your throat was too tight to speak. Words felt useless anyway.

“Good girl.” he muttered, pleased with the unspoken consent that hung heavy between you both.

His presence was becoming more pressing, not just physically but in every other way. His chest rose and fell in time with yours, like you were sharing the same breath, the same space, the same inevitable end.

His fingers traced the line of your jaw, slow and deliberate, savouring the control, the power, the fragile thread of you stretched tight beneath his hands.

And even though it scared you, part of you wanted him to keep going. To push until there was nothing left of the person you were before or the one you might have had the chance to become.

“Do you want me to stop?” His voice was softer now, a quiet challenge, but it wasn’t really a question. It was an invitation to back out — a door cracked open just enough for you to slip through if you wanted, though you both knew that wasn’t the choice you were going to make. You both knew you weren’t going anywhere.

It wasn’t about wanting.

It was about needing.

“No.” you breathed, the word barely there, but it was enough. It was everything.

In that moment, it was clear. You weren’t asking for mercy anymore.

You were asking for him to finish what he’d started.

His voice was thick with something dark, something satisfied, as he spread the wetness between his fingers, dragging it up and down, slow, deliberate. He wasn’t rushing. He wanted you to feel every second of it, to be painfully aware of the way he was learning your body, memorising it with his touch.

“You always get like this for me.” he murmured, watching the way you twitched beneath him. His fingers barely moved, just ghosting over where you needed him most, teasing, playing. His breath was warm against your skin, his mouth hovering near your ear. “It’s fucking perfect. You’re fucking perfect.”

His other hand pressed against your lower stomach, pinning you down, reminding you, time and time again, that you weren’t in control here. He was. You had given him that control, surrendered it the moment you let him touch you like this the first time. And he knew it. He could feel it in the way you trembled, in the way your breath hitched every time he shifted, in the way you clung to the sheets…drowning.

“You like this.” he mused, dragging his fingers up just enough to make your back arch before slipping them away again, leaving you wanting and waiting. He didn’t give in. He liked to take his time. He liked to see you suffer in the best way possible. “I can tell.”

You whimpered, and he chuckled.

“You can’t even speak now?” he teased, pressing his fingers against your clit hard enough to make you gasp. “What happened to all those clever words, babygirl? Hm?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He was unravelling you too fast, pulling you apart with nothing but his voice, his hands, his presence.

He smirked, slow and lazy, as if he had all the time in the world. And maybe he did. Maybe he wanted to keep you here, pinned beneath him, on the edge of something devastatingly sweet, forever.

“Guess I’ll just have to keep playing until you remember how to use that pretty mouth again.” His voice was thick, almost strained, laced with the pleasure of anticipation. “You ready for me, baby? You’ve got me so hard.”

And he made sure you felt it, not just in the low, wrecked rasp of his words but in the deliberate push of his hips against your thigh. Heavy, hot, undeniable. A silent demand.

Instinct took over before thought could. Your legs parted in a slow, dragging slide against the sheets, a sound almost as loud as your own breathing. The movement was automatic, a quiet surrender, your knees kept low to let him move between them without resistance. Like you were offering yourself up, like your body had always known how to yield to him.

He shifted, propped himself up just enough, and you felt the absence of his touch for only a second before you heard it — that sound. The slick, obscene slide of his fist moving over himself, coated in you, working himself with a slow, steady rhythm. The room was too dark to see much, but you could hear everything. The wet, deliberate strokes. The subtle catches in his breath. The low, guttural sounds he made just for himself, the ones he didn’t mean to let slip out.

It was intoxicating.

Your breath caught when you felt the blunt heat of him nudge against you, teasing at the place where you were already slick and swollen, already open for him. He let himself linger there for a moment, dragging the head of his cock through your wetness, smearing it across you in slow, teasing strokes, like he was savouring the feeling, like he was working himself up to the moment just as much as you were.

“You ready?”

You barely had time to nod.

“Biiiiig stretch…” he murmured, voice edged with something close to amusement, something dangerously close to reverence. Then, finally, he pushed in.

It was slow. Deep. He pressed forward, just enough for you to feel the intrusion before he stilled, basking in the tightness, the heat. Your body clenched around him instinctively, and he groaned, the sound reverberating through his chest as he sank fully inside you. He let out a low breath, shaky with restraint, and held himself there for a moment, letting you feel every inch, every pulse, every twitch.

“Fuck.” he breathed, voice unravelling, head dropping forward. His fingers gripped your hips, possessive, grounding himself in the reality of being inside you again. “So fucking tight. Taking me so good.”

His hands tightened, his breath hot against your skin, and you…you were lost now.

Completely.

You were lost in his shadow, swallowed whole by the weight of him, the presence that loomed over you, consumed you. There was no escaping this. No leaving here.

And then he started moving.

The stretch was already unbearable, but the drag of him, thick and deep, made your breath catch, made your body tense around him like it was trying to keep him there. But that only seemed to spur him on. The feeling of you — so tight, so warm — made it impossible for him not to want to shred you apart. He groaned as he pulled back just to slam back in, pushing past every inch of resistance until all you could do was take it.

He could hear you — your whimpers, your gasps, the broken sounds that slipped from your lips as you squirmed beneath him. Could feel your hands grabbing at him, nails pressing into his skin, unsure whether you were trying to push him away or pull him closer.

“Fuck, baby.” he rasped. “Look at you. Taking it so fucking well.”

He covered your body in praise, words slipping between ragged breaths, between deep, punishing thrusts. One hand wrapped around your throat, firm but not cruel, tilting your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. His eyes burned into you, dark and consuming, and you realised you weren’t looking at him. You were looking into him.

“See yourself the way I see you.” he whispered, leaning in so close his lips brushed yours, not kissing you, just breathing you in. “Look how fucking precious you are.”

And you had to look. Had to see what he saw. You weren’t sure what was written all over your face, but it was reflected right back in his. His love, his need, his ruin. And the way he was ruining you.

He went hard. Hard enough to blur everything except him. Hard enough to make your moans break into cries, to make your body twist beneath him, trying to run, trying to escape the intensity of it.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he taunted, voice still dripping with sweetness even as he pinned you back down, holding you there, forcing you to take every brutal thrust.

The noise filled the room — your cries, his grunts, the sound of skin against skin, yours on his and his on yours, wet and obscene. You could barely breathe, barely think. The pain blurred into pleasure, tangled so tightly you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. And then — something gave in.

All the strength left your body. Your muscles stopped resisting. You stopped resisting. Your mind was still screaming at you to run, to fight, to do something —but your body? Your body wanted.

And he knew. And he felt it. He felt the way you went limp beneath him, the way you stopped fighting and just…let him have you. It only made him worse. His hard but slow, deep thrusts turned to harsh and uncontrollable. He didn’t hold back anymore. He took you like you were meant to be taken.

Your hands scrambled for purchase, found his shoulders, his back, and you held on. You dug your nails in, scratching, marking him up with crescent-shaped wounds. But he didn’t seem to mind. No — he loved it. His own marks were littered across your body, teeth sinking into your neck, your collarbone, sucking bruises onto your skin in one last attempt at trying to make you his.

“Mine.” he growled against your throat, punctuating the word with a sharp, deep thrust that knocked the air from your lungs. “Say it.”

His hand squeezed around your throat, just enough to make you dizzy, to make you choke out the only word that mattered.

“Yours.”

His pace didn’t falter, not even for a second. He kept driving into you, deep, relentless, his body pressing you further into the mattress with each thrust. You could feel everything — every inch of him, every twitch, every ounce of need he poured into you. And yet, when he spoke, his voice was strained, desperate for something more.

“Do you like it?” he asked, breath ragged, chest heaving.

He needed your words. Needed the reassurance that you were still here, that you were still his, still taking him the way he needed you to. But you couldn’t answer. Maybe it was the way he was splitting you apart, his cock hitting so deep it felt like he was breaking something inside of you, or the hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing hard to steal your breath, to keep you hovering on the edge of dizziness, pleasure, and something dangerously close to surrender. Or maybe…maybe it was just the sheer feeling of release.

“Talk to me.” he murmured, voice thick with hunger, desperate. His other hand found your jaw, thumb brushing over your parted lips, smearing saliva and sweat and possession across your skin. “Talk to me, baby. What do you say, huh?”

You tried. You really did. But all that came out was a broken, breathless whimper.

“Mhm…”

Not enough. Not nearly enough. His fingers tightened, his thrusts turning sharp, demanding.

“What do you say?” His voice was lower now, rougher. A command wrapped in a plea. “Say thank you, Daddy.”

Your vision blurred. The words barely formed in your head before they were slipping from your lips, raw, shaky, utterly wrecked.

“Thank you, Daddy.”

“Again.”

“Thank you.”

“Again.”

“Thank you.”

Your voices blended, tangled together in that breathless, desperate plea for release. The moment cracked open between you, raw and devastating, and there was no escaping it. Your body trembled beneath him, wracked with exhaustion, pleasure, pain — everything at once. He could see it, how overwhelmed you were, how far gone. Your pretty little face was flushed, streaked with tears, lips trembling, wet with your own drool and his. You were holding back another sob, your breath hitching with every rough thrust, every deep, unrelenting stroke that left you gasping for air.

And fuck — this view alone.

It made something dark coil in his chest, something possessive and cruel. It made him ache to ruin you even more. The way you looked, so helpless, so fucking innocent — it was like you were begging for it without even saying a word. Begging to be wrecked. To be used.

So he did just that.

He watched you, savouring every tiny shift in your expression, every little twitch of your brows, every sharp inhale, every desperate moan that spilled from your lips.

And then — before you could even feel it in your bones — he flipped you over.

It was dizzying. One second you were staring up at him, lost in his shadow, and the next, you were on your stomach, face pressed into the sheets, his weight pressing down on you. You barely had time to process it before he was pinning you down, before he was spreading your legs again, before he was back inside.

Deeper now. Worse.

A ragged gasp tore from your throat, muffled against the pillows. His hands gripped your wrists, pushing them above your head, locking you in place. His body covered yours completely, his heat sinking into your skin, his breath hot against your ear.

“You feel that?” His voice was rough, shaking the with restraint he didn’t really possess anymore. He thrust forward, slow, grinding himself deep, making sure you felt every inch. “So fucking tight like this, baby. Fuck- Made for me.”

You sobbed. A real, broken sob. But you didn’t tell him to stop.

“Fuck…” he groaned again, dropping his forehead against the back of your neck. “You love this, don’t you? Love being pinned down, love getting fucked deep like this. So deep…”

He didn’t wait for you to answer. He knew. He felt it in the way your body clenched around him, in the way you arched your back despite the weight of him pressing you down.

“Good girl.” he murmured, dragging his lips over your shoulder. “Let me fuck you up.”

And then he started to move…again.

But when he pressed in and then out of your willing hole, it was as if the world shifted, the space between you collapsing in an instant. His cock was too slick, too wet with the remnants of your body, and it slipped, sliding against you with brutal precision, a brutal force, a relentless pounding that left no room for hesitation. A breathless cry tore from your throat as the shock of it hit you. There was no warning, no preparation. Just force, just him, pressing, pushing, his wetness slick against your skin, forcing its way in.

The pain was sharp, searing, as he pressed against the tight muscle, relentless, until it gave. And then, slowly, so deeply, he sank himself into you.

A sharp gasp left your lips, a cry so raw it felt like it tore the air between you. The sudden burn of him pushing with no gentleness and just the harsh reality of his need…you weren’t ready for it, but his body didn’t care.

It was pain and pleasure, a twisted thing that mixed in the heat of the moment.

“Fuck…” His voice was strained, a whisper of satisfaction even as he buried himself deeper, as though he couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t claim you enough.

Did he want this all along? Was this always his plan? Was he always going to take you like this? There was no time to wonder — no time to question the urgency that burned between you. But deep down, the thought lingered — he planned this.

He loved it, didn’t he?

The way your body tensed around him, the way you cried out, the way he held you down and made you take it. He wanted this. Wanted you.

He just loved the way your tight little hole gripped him, so tight, so willing despite the ache. How you gasped beneath him, how you arched into him, begging with your body for him to move, to fill you in the way only he could. It wasn’t enough for him to just be inside you — he wanted to see you fall apart.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart…I’m sorry…” His apology was soft, though his actions were anything but. He murmured it against your ear as he thrust again, harder this time, his rhythm pushing you further into the sheets, again and again. “I’m sorry…”

But God, it felt so good to him. He couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to.

The apology was just a lie. You both knew it. A soft, quiet whisper that barely had time to settle before he thrust into you again. Harder.

There was no stopping him. The rhythm had taken over, and with each push, he sank deeper, until the room was filled with nothing but the sound of skin, the wetness between you, and the desperate, breathless gasps that escaped from your throat.

“It was an accident…I didn’t mean…” His words faltered into a murmur as he tried to form the apology again, but it was swallowed by the tension in the air, by the way your body responded to him, to the rhythm of his thrusts. There was no room for words anymore — only the need. Only the heat.

God, you felt so good.

Every inch of you wrapped around him, tight and slick, a perfect fit. He could hardly hold on — could hardly keep it together.

You were so good at this. So good at taking him.

“Shh, baby…” he soothed needily. “Just take it, sweetie…I know it hurts, but you’re doing so good. So fucking good…so proud of you…”

Fuck, he thought. He was close. So close. His body shook with the effort to pull back, to hold off for just a moment longer. But he couldn’t. You were too perfect beneath him, too responsive. You made him lose control.

He fucked you harder, the sound of your sobs mixing with the harsh rhythm of his body against yours. He could barely hear your cries, too consumed with the way you clenched around him, the way your body shook with each thrust, each push that sent a wave of fire through him.

“Are you crying?” he groaned, a curse escaping his lips, unable to suppress the dark thrill in his voice as he felt you tighten around him. “Fuck…keep crying. Keep doing that…you’re gonna make me come…”

It felt like the world was on the edge, hanging between the pull of pleasure and the ache of pain, the blur of the two so thick.

Suddenly, your body arched beneath him, so sharply, so completely, that for a moment, it felt as though time itself had stopped. He swore he could feel it — the way your breath hitched, the way your body trembled, as though the world was closing in, and you were being consumed by the very force of him. And he swore he could see your eyes rolling back in your head even though your face was turned away from him, caught in the throes of something so pure, so intense. Your mouth hung open, desperate, gasping for air, as your hips started to shake uncontrollably against him. Every part of you was trembling, desperately seeking more, deeper, harder.

The way you moved drove him wild. His breath caught in his throat as he watched you fall apart. He could feel your chest heaving beneath him, and he could hear the shallow, ragged gasps that escaped you, as if you were fighting to take in more of him, trying to catch your breath but unable to. And your hands — God, your hands — clenched hard into tight, desperate fists, curling with so much force that your knuckles were white, struggling to hold on as your body wracked with pleasure, shaking from the inside out.

“Alexander-” you whimpered, breathless, your very soul spilling out with each sound that escaped your lips.

“That’s it…that’s it, baby.” he groaned. “Let it all out. Let it all go.”

His own breath came harder, quicker, as your body tightened, convulsing around him. It almost felt like the very force of your release would shatter the walls that separated you. He couldn’t stop himself now, not when you were this far gone, when you were his. His pulse pounded in his ears, the rhythmic thrusts matching the frantic beat of his heart.

“You’re my fucking girl.” he murmured. “All fucking mine.”

You cried out as you gushed over him, and he swore he could feel your soul leaving your body for just a moment. But even in that fragile state, you didn’t pull away. You welcomed it. You accepted it. And that was all he needed — your surrender, your absolute devotion in the midst of all that chaos.

“Let it all out…”

This was more than he could bear. He pumped harder, his rhythm deepening, feeling your wetness flood around him as you came undone, gasping for air, your body betraying you to the pleasure, to the connection, to every desperate, broken sound you made as your release washed over you.

He didn’t stop, even when your body shook from the aftershocks, even when your cries began to fade into soft moans. His pace only quickened, desperate to take in the way you had completely surrendered to him. And you did. You let him fill you completely.

“Alexander…” you whimpered again, your voice softer now, but it was enough for him. Enough for him to feel that overwhelming rush, that intoxicating power.

“Shh, baby.” he whispered, his voice almost too low, too hushed as he slowed his rhythm just for a moment, pulling you closer. “Just breathe. You’re doing so good…so good.”

He could feel you, deep inside and all around him, your warmth, your breath, your trembling hands beneath him. And even as you cried out, he held you, in a way that words could never fully capture. The world outside of you, of him, seemed to fade away.

It was just you, just him, and the devastating, beautiful rawness of this connection.

And then, with a deep groan, he couldn’t hold back anymore. He felt it — his release — a violent surge of pleasure that filled him so completely, so utterly, that he thought he might just drown in it for good. Everything went white-hot. All he could do was collapse against you, his breath harsh, his chest rising and falling as he tried to steady himself.

You both lay there, tangled in each other, bodies entwined, as the room slowly returned to silence. The only sound left was the soft rhythm of your breathing and the lingering ache of something still hanging in the air.

He could hear your breathing slow, your body still, and he couldn’t help but lean into you, his forehead pressing against your shoulder. His voice was a low rasp, still drunk on the intensity of the moment.

“You’re everything to me…”

His hands, still shaking, slid across your skin, leaving trails of warmth in their wake as he lowered his lips to your neck again. Without another word, they trailed down the curve of your neck, over the slope of your shoulder, leaving open-mouthed kisses that were tender, but they burned, burned hotter than the bruises already forming beneath them, the bruised skin where his grip had held you too tightly, where his body had pressed you too hard, where he had left his mark, undeniable and deep.

Each kiss felt like a brand, searing into you, a silent claim etched in the soft spaces where no one else could see.

You gasped, still reeling, your body trembling beneath him, your eyes fluttering as you tried to focus. You had been taken to places you hadn’t expected, hadn’t known were possible, and now, all you could do was exist in the aftermath. The sound of his breathing, ragged and desperate, filled your ears as his lips moved lower, brushing the top of your spine before finally pulling away, his gaze wandering over you, over what he had left behind.

He wasn’t ready to let go — not fully. And when he did, he pulled back just enough to see — to witness what he’d done. There was something dark, something possessive in his gaze as his eyes travelled over the marks left behind, the raw evidence of his presence etched into your skin like a secret carved in flesh.

He paused for a moment, leaning back slightly to take you in and watched the way your body still quivered from the inside, the way you couldn’t quite control the tremors, the way your muscles twitched involuntarily in the wake of everything that had just happened.

His eyes flicked to the marks of your union.

There, in the dim light, he could see it all — how your body was filled with him, how his release had mixed with your own, the traces of him oozing out in streaks of white mingled with faint hints of red — proof of just how far he’d gone, how deeply he had carved himself into you. It was dripping out of you slowly, staining the sheets beneath.

The sight was almost too much…even for him.

His fingers moved without thought, sliding down your body, slowly, slowly reaching down as he dipped them between your legs, gathering remnants of that connection, scooping some of himself from you in the fragile boundary between tenderness and something darker.

With a deep breath, he pulled you. You were still shaking beneath him, but you didn’t resist. Then he turned you, gently but firmly, flipping you over, your body moving at his command, until you were face-up again. His eyes flicked back to your face. He could see the faint tremors in your eyes, the struggle to keep them open, glazed with exhaustion, but your body was so pliable, so willing to follow his lead, as though you had no choice but to obey his every movement, caught somewhere between pleasure and vulnerability.

His gaze held yours as he pressed his fingers to your lips, slick with the remnants of both of you.

His fingers, stained with the aftermath of you both, hovered at your lips for just a heartbeat before he pressed them past the soft curve, slipping into the warmth. Your breath caught, your eyelids fluttering closed for a moment as you took him in, but you didn’t hesitate — your mouth opened, parting instinctively to let him enter, tongue flicking out to meet his fingers with a softness that sent a shiver down his spine. Your lips closed around them and you started swirling lazily, tasting the remnants of him — of you — like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And when your eyes opened, struggling to stay that way, there was no fear there — only surrender. Willing, fragile surrender. A prayer whispered against the dark.

You hummed against his touch, tasting him on your tongue like it was a drug, something you craved. Something you needed. He couldn’t help but let out a low groan as he watched you, the way you sucked on his fingers so willingly, so eagerly. He watched, fascinated.

“Such a good girl.” he whispered, the words falling from his lips like a blessing, like an affirmation, trembling with the weight of his own disbelief at the depth of what he felt. His free hand traced the curve of your jaw, thumb brushing softly over your cheekbone, a fragile contrast to the bruises blooming beneath his touch. “I told you it was nothing to be afraid of, didn’t I? You’re finally all mine now. Mine…” he murmured, leaning down close to your ear, his breath warm against your skin. “Only mine.”

Vows wrapping around your soul.

His forehead pressed against yours, breath mingling, hot and heavy in the space between. His words came softer now. “You’re finally mine…all mine. ”

You whimpered softly, your breath catching as his fingers remained in your mouth, the pressure building as you sucked on them with increasing desperation, the taste of him filling your senses. And all the while, his hand slid down to your body, feeling the tremors in your skin, the way you shuddered under his touch, as if you were still reeling from the storm he had unleashed within you.

He leaned down closer, his lips brushing against your ear once more. “You’re mine, you understand that, don’t you? Completely. No one else will ever have you like this.”

The tremors wouldn’t stop. They wouldn’t stop. They were there, deep in the marrow of your bones, the aftermath of something that left you hollow yet full all at once.

“You’re mine. No one else can have you. Not now. Not ever. You’re mine, body and soul.”

The words wrapped around you, sinking in deeper. You were tethered to him, bound by more than just the physical. It wasn’t just possession — it was something more, something raw and irrevocable and rotten that had taken root in both of you

His touch was rougher again, more desperate. He feared that the moment might slip away. His fingers pulled from your mouth slowly.

“I’m never letting you go. Got that? I’m never going to let anyone else touch you the way I do. Not again.”

And there it was — not just a claim, but a truth, undeniable, carved into the silence that followed, where possession felt like devotion, and surrender felt like belonging.

You knew, now, this time for sure, that there was no going back. You had crossed some invisible line. You were his, completely. You felt the weight of that truth settle deep inside you, sinking into your bones in ways you couldn’t possibly understand.

The room was suffocatingly quiet, the only sound the ragged pull of your breath mingling with his. It felt more and more like a tight thread about to snap. His hands, large and warm, wrapped around you, pulling you against him as if he could fold you into his skin, make you disappear inside the hollow space carved just for you.

When his fingers slid upward, circling the delicate column of your throat, it was with the precision of someone who knew exactly what they were doing — not hesitant, not questioning, no need for words. It was instinct, the way his palms fit there, like they had been carved by memory, like your neck was shaped for his touch. It felt like their rightful place, ever since…the incident. You didn’t need to ask for his touch, he gave it, and it was just…right. His thumbs traced the fragile pulse beneath your skin, feeling the rapid thrum of your heartbeat — proof of life.

It was all there, under his touch.

That pulse beat, and beat, and beat against his fingertips, frantic and alive, each flutter a silent confession. He felt your life, fragile and wild beneath his hands, a secret only he could crush or cradle. His grip tightened slightly. The pressure was gentle at first, just enough to remind you that he was there — that he could take more if he wanted to. That he wanted to.

Piece by piece, with nothing more than his hands and his will.

“You feel that?” His voice was low, frayed around the edges. “How easy it is for me to hold you like this? For me to- to…to have all of you?”

The words tangled in your throat, trapped beneath the weight of his touch.

But your body answered for you.

That answer was written in every shallow breath you managed to take.

He leaned in closer. “You don’t have to ask for my touch. You never did. It’s always been yours.” he murmured, his lips ghosting over your temple, a breath, a shadow. “I already know.”

He was watching you closely, eyes dark and glassy, reflecting something sharp and raw. His gaze wasn’t just on you but inside you, peeling back layers you didn’t know existed. There was no place to hide. Not from him. Not from this.

There was something terrifying and beautiful in that truth.

He was enthralled by the view. He just couldn’t help but go over it in his head. Again and again and again…

This is where you belong, his grip seemed to say. Right here. Under me. Within reach.

His hands tightened.

I want to…

He choked you until you tried speaking. Until you tapped his arm, like you’d practiced, and then until you started flailing and punching when he wouldn’t let go. He wanted to keep squeezing, until you turned purple, until you did everything you could, still fighting him to get loose, against your own wishes, but on simple human instinct.

…I want her to feel weak. That I can do this to her. When she realises that, then I’ll let her breathe.

His forehead rested against yours. You could feel the tremble in his body, the restraint threading through his muscles, taut and coiled, a fragile leash barely holding him back. His touch softened then. His grip eased, fingers tracing the tender skin his hands had claimed moments before, almost apologetic, as if trying to soothe the very ache he’d created. But the ache wasn’t just physical — it was deeper, buried beneath layers of skin and bone, stitched into the fabric of who you were when you were with him, when you truly allowed yourself to feel it.

“I could take everything…” he whispered, as though the idea itself was sacred. “But I don’t need to. You’ve already given it to me.”

And you had.

Without words, without promises, you had offered him all of you — your fears, your darkness, your very breath — and he had taken it, cradled it in his hands every time like something precious and fragile, even when his grip was anything but gentle.

His hands fell away, leaving the ghost of his touch behind, a phantom feeling where his fingers had been. But even without them, you felt his claim, etched deeper than bruises, deeper than breath.

You didn’t just belong to him.

You wanted to.

The absence of his touch left you feeling hollow. The warmth that had wrapped around you, consumed you, was gone in an instant, and it felt unbearable. Like being abandoned in the cold after knowing only fire. You gasped for it, reaching blindly as though you could pull him back with sheer desperation alone…to fill the void.

“No…” The word left you as a whisper, fragile and breaking.

Alexander stilled, watching you like he’d been waiting for that very syllable. His dark eyes glowed with something unreadable, something deep and knowing. His head tilted slightly, a predatory curiosity flickering behind his eyes, humming with tension, with expectation. He wanted you to beg. He needed to hear it.

“What is it, sweetie?”

Your lips trembled. Your throat felt tight. But the words clawed their way out anyway. “N- no…why’d you stop? P-please…I need it. I need it so…so bad.”

The desperation in your voice seemed to ignite something in him. The corner of his mouth twitched, just barely, into the faintest shadow of a smile — not kind, not soft, but sharp like broken glass. He moved closer.

“Oh yeah?” His fingers brushed over your jaw, tracing the curve of it. His touch felt deceptively gentle. “And what exactly do you need, little love? You know I can’t give you exactly what you want unless you tell me. Use that pretty mouth of yours.” His eyes bore into you, dark and endless.

But words weren’t enough for this. Words couldn’t capture the way your body ached, the way your mind was unravelling without him. Instead, you just looked at him. Your eyes spoke the language you’d both learned in the spaces between speech — wide and pleading, lips parted, breath shallow. A silent, desperate surrender.

And he understood.

Of course he did.

Because you weren’t two separate people. You weren’t two people trying to find connection. You had been made for each other, pulled from the same darkness, shaped by the same hunger. He was made for this — for you. Just as you were made for him. You weren’t lovers in the ordinary sense, but rather reflections. Fragments of the same whole, scattered pieces finally pulled back together, slotting into place with every breath, every glance, every whispered plea. A single entity split apart, clawing its way back together.

You didn’t just complete each other.

You consumed each other.

“You figured it out before me, didn’t you?” His thumb ghosted over your bottom lip. “You knew…knew we were never meant to be apart. That there is no you and me. Just…us.”

His hand slid down to your throat.

That was where it belonged.

He wrapped his fingers around your neck, splaying over your pulse. The pressure was light at first, but it grew, steadily, until it was all you could feel. His grip tightened, not out of cruelty, but because he knew. Knew how much you needed to feel small beneath his hands, how much you craved the razor-thin edge where surrender met survival.

And he stared. Just stared at you.

The image of you like this — breathless, vulnerable, utterly his — burned itself into his mind. He memorised every detail. The way your chest rose and fell too fast, the way your lashes fluttered, the way your lips trembled.

I want to see her fight.

The thought was sudden, electric.

Not because he wanted you to escape…but he wanted you to try. To push against him, to resist, to claw for breath with some primal, human instinct — only to realise you couldn’t. That you were weak.

That he was the only thing keeping you here.

The idea curled in his chest, spreading like wildfire through his veins.

“I could keep going, you know.” His grip tightened, just a fraction. “Tighter. Until you really start to struggle…until you start clawing at me. Wouldn’t that be something?” he mused, watching the way your pupils blew wide, the way your hands twitched. “Watching you panic. Watching you really get it inside your tiny head that you’re weak. That I can do this to you. That no matter how much you fight, you can’t stop me.”

His grip tightened again.

Your breathing hitched.

“Or…” His lips brushed against the shell of your ear, his breath warm, coaxing. “Maybe I just don’t stop. Maybe I let you struggle, let you break beneath me. Maybe I let you realise this is finally the end for you. Is that what you need?”

He felt your pulse spike.

A deep, satisfied growl rumbled in his chest.

“There’s nothing worthy of your troubles, little one.” he whispered. His grip grew firmer, pressing against the delicate structure of your throat, cutting off just enough air to make your head swim. “And the earth…it isn’t worth even a single sigh of yours, love.”

Your vision blurred around the edges. Your body twitched. The primal instinct to breathe kicked in, but you made no move to stop him.

“Pain and torment are our life.” he continued, his voice a low hum in your fading consciousness. “The world? Meaningless…it’s- it’s nothing. But you?” His thumb pressed against your pulse point, feeling the frantic drum of your heartbeat. He tilted his head, considering. Then…

“Everything.”

His fingers curled tighter.

The pressure increased.

Your body reacted automatically — fingers clawing weakly at his wrist, legs twitching, mind screaming for air. But beneath the panic, beneath the wild thrum of survival, there was a deeper truth: you didn’t want him to stop.

Because in this space, this darkness, you felt more alive than anywhere else.

Air became a distant thing, unreachable, and your hands grew weaker. But you held on. To anchor yourself in the feeling of him.

He groaned. “Oh, sweetheart. Look at you…” His free hand dragged down your body, over every other mark he had left behind. “You’re so pretty like this.”

Your vision was tunneling now, a slow descent into something dark. Your limbs felt heavy, your chest tight. Your body convulsed, trembling against his hold, not out of fear, but from the overwhelming flood of sensation, the blurred line between pain and pleasure…

…And you felt yourself slipping.

“Now…” he murmured, his face close enough that his breath was the only thing filling your starving lungs, “you just…”

Harder.

“…Calm down.”

And then…

Then he let go.

The rush of air into your limp lungs was violent. He watched as your whole body folded in on itself, choking on the sudden flood of oxygen that had nowhere to go anymore. But before you could collapse, he caught you. Strong arms wrapped around you, pulling you against his chest as your shaking limbs gave out.

He cradled you there, his fingers stroking the side of your face, tracing over your skin, memorising you all over again, for one last time.

“There you are.” he murmured, his voice softer now, lower. “It’s okay, little one. That’s it. Just…” His lips brushed against your temple, lingering. “...right where you belong.”

Because you did belong.

To him.

And he was never going to let you forget it.

“You’re alright…” His voice slipped into your ear like a soft caress, an unsettling warmth that contrasted with the ice building in your chest. His fingers wrapped around your face, gently yet firmly cradling your jaw. He tilted your head slightly, forcing your still eyes to meet his wild ones.

His thumbs brushed the traces of tears from your cheeks. The coolness of your skin, damp with the aftershocks of what had just passed, sent a shiver through his body.

So fragile…his tiny bird caught in the storm.

And yet, despite it all, he was still drawn to you. He leaned closer, his lips grazing the line of your jaw, a soft, almost tender kiss just beneath your ear. His mouth lingered there, warm and seeking, but it was a far cry from the way he had consumed you before.

“I love you, sweetheart.”

A quiet, twisted truth between the two of you that neither could ignore in the end. The words felt hollow, emptied of their traditional meaning. But to him, they were all he had left to offer, the only thing that could fill the cavernous void inside.

A sublime mockery, echoing in a space where love had been stripped down to its barest bones.

There was no softness in it, no light. Just a shadow wearing the shape of affection, dressed up in the language of tenderness while hiding the rot beneath.

Love.

A word people clung to, believing it could save them, define them. But for him, it was nothing more than a curse — a shackle disguised as a gift.

And yet, here he was, saying it anyway.

Why?

Because it sounded beautiful when spoken over the wreckage of something ruined.

The words were nothing but a mask, a charade, a necessary illusion. It wasn’t love in the way others might have understood it. It was far more consuming and suffocating. A sick attachment that he couldn’t let go of, even if he tried. And you, caught in the hurricane of his need, understood it now too.

So, at last, he held you.

He held you because that, too, was part of it — the contradiction. To give and take, to hurt and to heal. To make you need him and to break you until there was nothing left but utmost devotion.

His hands slid down your neck, your back, the tips of his fingers pressing into the soft flesh, feeling the way you tensed, the way your body still responded to him without question. He marvelled at it. The power he had over you.

He leaned in again, brushing his lips against your ear, his voice low and almost inaudible, but laden with intent. “You know, you were never meant to be apart from me.” he said, the words no longer dangerous in their beauty. “You belong to me. There is no escape. There never was.”

His breath quickened as he pulled you closer, his chest pressing against yours, his hands moving back to your face, forcing your eyes to meet his again.

“Do you understand? You were made for me. For this. For us.”

There was a fire behind his words, a desperate need that pushed past the facade of control he fought so hard to maintain.

“Tell me, love…” he murmured. “Tell me you understand. Tell me you understand…”

He held you tighter, his grip fierce now, even though you had nowhere left to go. His lips found the curve of your neck, kissing, biting, marking you with bruises that would remain…forever.

And as he did, his mind wandered again to that deep, unsettling thought. The one that hovered just beneath the surface, the one he couldn’t ignore.

I will always search for you. Even in the dark corners of my mind, in the dreams I can’t remember. I will look for you. Always.

Often, he’d seen them go down with irony etched into their faces — men and women alike, clutching their illusions all the way to the grave. In all he’d witnessed, all he’d dug from the dirt, all he’d buried beneath it, there was nothing sacred left. What was there in them to bury? Nothing but the weight they’d always carried like chains: pride, vanity, animality, fleeting pleasures — dross masquerading as meaning and what fell into oblivion, after having been long exposed to their contempt.

And when the earth swallowed them whole, it stripped everything away. Their names, their stories, their fragile, desperate clinging to things that never mattered.

But one thing always lingered.

A single mark. A stain that refused to fade. The monogram of their most intimate nature — not their faces and not their names, but something carved deeper. A work, a deed, a moment of truth that burned brighter than everything else, refusing to be buried. An exceptional inspiration.

For Alexander, this was that mark.

You were that mark.

The fragile last tremble of your breath, the bruises blooming like dark flowers beneath his fingertips, the echo of his name caught between your lips — all of it etched into the marrow of his being. A monument to something both sacred and profane.

And long after the warmth of your skin faded, long after the echoes of your voice dissolved into the silence, he would carry it with him.

Because there are things that cannot be buried.

Not with dirt.

Not with time.

Not even with death.

When the world grew quiet and sleep finally dragged him under, he would search for you there — in the spaces between dreams, in the shadows where memory and longing collided.

He will always search for you.

Even when there’s nothing left to find.

His lips found yours then, silencing any further thoughts, any further words. His kiss was hungry, desperate, consuming. He wasn’t sure if it was love or something else entirely. But at that moment, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was you.

And you, forever bound to him, couldn’t turn away.

For you were…

Released.

a/n: The end…literally. I’m sorry if this was too much? I don’t really know how I feel about it either but it’s been in the works for a while, well, since the very beginning. Not that this was how I thought it would go but, you know, notes, and ideas, and stuff…it was mostly the smut scene that I had planned out. It’s inspired by many many things I don’t even remember anymore. Whenever I hear or see something I like I just write it down so yeah. Also whenever I explained the plot to someone they asked me if I was okay so I just wanna say that it’s not inspired by anything I’ve experienced but rather thoughts I have. And after this I am gonna stick to what I’ve said, so I’m not sure when I will post something else, but I wanted to see this one finished and it was on its way to being done anyway so…

#alex turner x reader #alex turner x fem!reader #alex turner x you #alex turner x y/n #alex turner x oc #alex turner smut #alex turner angst #alex turner fic #alex turner fanfic #smut #you’re so dark #goblinontour

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