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junedenim · 2 days ago

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i have been moved.

I Want You Hard

part 6 | series masterlist

or was it him all along?

warnings: implied age gap, angst, smut (not a lot), blowjob, nightmares, (mild) violence, choking (not the sexy kind), weirdness, overthinking, suicidal ideation again, oh, and a bit of daddy kink

word count: 7.6k

Waking up wasn’t exactly pleasant for him. It meant another day of living. And he wasn’t particularly fond of that anymore. The monotony of survival grated on him, the heavy knowledge of his existence weighing like a noose that never fully tightened. But waking up to your warm mouth wrapped around his cock? That was something else.

A better alternative than the usual crack of his joints, the stiff twist of his neck he could never quite finish, leaving his body in a continuous state of dissatisfaction. He’d stretch and contort himself every morning, yanking at muscles and vertebrae as if trying to realign something deeper than just his body. Sometimes, when the frustration boiled over, he twisted his neck so hard it felt like a test of how far he could push before something gave.

There were always cracks, sharp and satisfying in their own way, but never the final one. Never the one that might end the dull, gnawing ache that had nothing to do with his bones and everything to do with the parts of him he couldn’t reach. He didn’t know if he wanted it to snap or if he just wanted the threat of it. Either way, it didn’t matter. The moment always passed, leaving him in the same place he started — alive, irritated, and dissatisfied.

He’d think, sometimes, in those hazy early hours when sleep still clung to him, about how fragile the human body really was. A quick twist, a little more pressure, and it could all be over. The thought didn’t frighten him. If anything, it calmed him, a reminder that the choice was always there.

But he never did. Not because of hope or fear, but because he didn’t deserve an ending. He deserved the cracks without the snap, the tension without the release. The perpetual discomfort was his penance, his way of carrying the weight. That of everything he’d done, of everything he hadn’t.

This — your tongue tracing every ridge and vein — this seemed like the best way to start his day. Waking up to your mouth wrapped around him, to the soft warmth of your body and the slick, obscene sounds you made as you worked him over — felt like a reprieve. A distraction, maybe, but one he wasn’t about to turn down. Your touch dulled the edge, smoothed over the cracks, made the weight just a little lighter. For now.

He hadn’t asked for it. He didn’t need to. You’d grown to know your place in his space. You orbited around him and, somehow, into the cold, dark recesses of his heart. Holding and loving. Taking. Enduring. Soothing him even when he didn’t deserve it. Confusing him in ways he could never articulate. And now, serving him like a little slut — his little slut.

“Keep sucking.” he groaned out, his teeth clenched. The words barely escaped his lips, still sticky and sealed from the spit that always collected in the corners of his mouth while he slept. You paused for a moment, looking up at him, and his gaze burned down at you. “Don’t stop.” he growled.

His hand came down, gripping the back of your head — not to force, not yet, but to guide, to remind you who was in control. You obeyed, lips sealing tighter around him, tongue flattening against the underside of his cock as you moved.

The sounds you made were so wet and so messy they echoed in the quiet room. He hated mornings, but now, he was beginning to hate the idea of this ending even more.

He watched you through half-lidded eyes, his head sinking deeper into the pillow. His thoughts were sluggish, still caught in that liminal space between dreams and wakefulness. There was something almost tender about the way you worked him over, but he didn’t want to admit that — not even to himself. Tenderness wasn’t something he deserved and it wasn’t something he wanted. Or so he told himself.

“Fuck…” he hissed, his hips jerking. “You like this, huh? Waking me up like this, sucking me off like the desperate little thing you are.” His words were harsh, but there was a warmth in them, a heat that betrayed the growing affection he couldn’t snuff out.

You hummed in response, the vibration shooting straight through him. His grip on your hair tightened, and his breath hitched. He was close already — how could he not be? When you were looking up at him like that, like he was the only thing that mattered in your little world? It was maddening.

“Fuck, sweetheart.” he groaned, his voice dropping into a gravelly timbre. His hips bucked again, harder this time, and you gagged slightly, your hands bracing against his thighs. “Take it all. Every fucking inch. Don’t you dare pull away.”

Gripping tightly at the roots, he pushed himself deeper into your throat. He watched you struggle, your lips stretched around him, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. It only made him harder. “Keep…keep sucking me.” he ordered, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “You keep doing that, and I’ll let you taste me as a reward, yeah? Taste my cum…you wanna taste my cum?”

You nodded around him, desperate and eager, your throat tightening as you hummed in response. “That’s my good girl.” he murmured, his hips starting to rock in a steady rhythm. “You’re so fucking perfect like this, you know that? On your knees, choking on me, looking so damn pretty with my cock in your mouth.”

He could feel your tongue pressing against him, your mouth working in sync with the movement of his hips, and it was driving him closer and closer to the edge. “You’re gonna swallow every drop Daddy’s gonna give you, aren’t you? Gonna take it all like the perfect little girl you are.”

You whimpered, your hands gripping his thighs tighter, and he couldn’t help but smirk. “That’s right, sweetheart. You love this…love being used like this.” His pace quickened, his breaths coming out in ragged gasps as he chased his release, knowing you were right there with him, ready to take everything he gave.

His mind wavered, teetering between the animalistic need to use you and an urge to ruin you so completely that no one else could ever piece you back together. The thought of it stirred something primal, clawing at the edges of his restraint. And yet, in the same breath, he imagined cradling you afterward, holding you against his chest like a precious, shattered thing, his whispered words — mine, mine, mine — the only softness he could offer.

Your hand, trembling but determined, slipped up his thigh, your fingertips grazing over the ridges of his muscles as if tracing the fault lines. You lingered there for a moment before sliding higher, brushing against the taut plane of his stomach, where the heat of him was palpable, radiating through the thin barrier of his skin that almost made you wish you could just rip into him. His breath hitched as your touch grew bolder, more insistent, and his hand moved instinctively to cover yours, engulfing it entirely. His palm was rough, calloused, and impossibly large against your smaller one, as if to remind you of the power he held over you, the power you willingly surrendered to him.

His grip tightened, just slightly, a silent command to stay there, to feel the way his body responded to you, twitching under the weight of his own conflicting desires. He wanted to break you and build you back up in the same moment, to destroy and preserve. Madness.

The room seemed to shrink around you, the air heavy with the storm of his thoughts and the weight of your touch. Every small movement felt amplified — the way your thumb repeatedly traced a slow circle over his belly, the way his fingers curled over yours, possessive and protective in equal measure. Unbearable. Yet neither of you moved to break it, the moment, the tension, caught in the fragile, twisted balance of wanting and being wanted.

For now, all he could do was watch you, your lips stretched wide around him, your cheeks hollowing as you sucked him down, your eyes never leaving his. It was too much. Too good. His release was building.

“Shit, sweetie, I’m gonna-” He didn’t finish the sentence, just held your head down as he came, spilling into your throat with a guttural moan that seemed to shake the very foundation of the room. His eyes squeezed shut, his jaw clenched so tight it ached, and for a moment, everything else disappeared — every dark thought, every regret, every ounce of self-loathing. There was only you, only this.

When he finally opened his eyes, you were still there, swallowing everything he gave you, your tongue flicking out to catch what had escaped. The sight of you like this — used, obedient, perfect — sent a shiver deep down and through his spine.

“Good girl.” he murmured, his voice softer now, though no less commanding. He pulled you up, his hand cradling your jaw as he stared into your eyes. “You’re too good to me, you know that?”

You smiled at that, just a small curve of your lips in the shyness. “I just like making you happy, Daddy.” you said quietly.

“Oh, girl…” he breathed, the words spilling out between ragged pants. His chest rose and fell unevenly, and you could feel the tremor in his muscles as his body seemed to sag beneath you. He looked wrecked — more so than you’d ever seen him — and yet, his hands still held you.

His thumb brushed along your jaw, tracing the edge of your cheekbone with an almost unbearable tenderness. His eyes, dark and glassy, roamed your face, committing every detail to memory. He didn’t say anything else for a long moment, just breathed you in, his thumb now sliding down to the curve of your lower lip, pressing lightly as if testing its softness.

You kissed the pad of his thumb instinctively, and something flickered in his expression — a mixture of vulnerability and hunger, the kind of look that made you feel like you were teetering on the edge of something dangerous.

“You’re something else, sweet-face.” he murmured. “I don’t deserve you.”

“You don’t get to decide that.” you whispered, your hands sliding up his arms, feeling the tension still coiled in his biceps.

His grip tightened, only slightly, his fingers digging into the curve of your hips, grounding himself in the warmth of you. He didn’t respond — not with words, anyway. Instead, he leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours. His breath fanned over your lips, warm and uneven, and you felt the way his body sagged further, his strength momentarily giving way to weightlessness.

The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was thick, heavy with meaning. But it wasn’t suffocating. His lack of words didn’t bother you — it never had. His hands, his touch, his presence — they spoke volumes more than his voice ever could. And right now, those hands were everything, holding you steady, reminding you that you were his and he was yours, in whatever twisted, imperfect way you’d found each other.

“Stay like this.” he muttered, his voice almost inaudible. The words were more for himself than for you. His fingers slid up your back, tracing the curve of your spine, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. “Just for a little longer.”

“‘m not going anywhere.” you said softly, your own hands now finding the back of his neck, your fingers threading through his hair. It felt greasy in between them.

He exhaled deeply, his breath shuddering as if the reassurance had drained something from him. His hands slid to your waist, pulling you closer, his touch no longer rough or demanding. For the first time, he looked at you like he didn’t know how he’d ever let you go. And for the first time, you thought you saw something in his eyes that wasn’t just hunger or possession — it was need. Raw and painful and entirely human.

You stayed like that, tangled together in the quiet, letting the moment stretch until it became something neither of you dared to break.

Sunlight streaked through the windows, chasing the cold from the corners of the room but not entirely succeeding. It just pooled on the wooden floor and cast everything in a soft, golden glow. It caught his hair just right, almost like it was kissing it, illuminating it like a halo that seemed almost ironic against the sharp focus of his expression. The sweater — his thick sweater — hung off your frame, swallowing you whole, its fabric brushing against your thighs as you stood there watching him. He’d thrown it over your shoulders earlier. The warmth of it was undeniable, but the chill in the room still found its way to your exposed skin, prickling against the contrast of his lingering scent embedded in the threads.

“Alexander?” you called, your voice light but insistent, breaking the steady rhythm of the blade scraping against the stone.

He didn’t look up. A low hum escaped his throat from where he sat cross-legged on the floor, acknowledging you but keeping his focus. His spine was straight, his shoulders loose, but his thighs gripped the sharpening stone tightly, keeping it in place as his hands moved with practiced precision, the motion almost hypnotic in its repetition of drawing the blade down with a sound that sent tiny shivers down your spine.

“Al?” you tried again, softer this time, testing.

His hands stilled mid-motion, the blade poised mid-drag, hovering just above the stone. The furrow in his brow deepened as he snapped his head toward you, his eyes sharp and questioning.

He hated how that name sounded coming from your lips. Too casual, too intimate, too much like you thought you knew him. Like you had some claim over him. It was dangerous, the way you wielded familiarity like a weapon, soft and subtle but no less sharp.

Al. The syllable grated against something inside him, an old wound he thought he’d buried deep. That name didn’t belong here, didn’t belong to you. It belonged to another life, another version of him, one that was long gone. Wasn’t it? And yet, hearing it from you — it didn’t just sting. It burned, seared its way through the walls he’d built and made him want to — what? Push you away? Pull you closer? He wasn’t so sure anymore.

You don’t know me, he thought bitterly, though the words felt hollow even in his own mind. Because you did know him, didn’t you? Or at least the pieces he’d allowed you to see. Maybe that was the real problem.

His fingers twitched against the blade, a faint tremor betraying the steadiness he usually prided himself on. He didn’t want to think about why you saying his name felt like a violation and a comfort all at once. Didn’t want to examine the way his chest tightened, how it wasn’t entirely…unpleasant.

Because if he started to unravel that thread, he wasn’t sure he’d like what he found at the other end.

“Why did you call me that?” His voice was low, steady, but there was something underneath it, something taut and wound too tight — disapproval, confusion, maybe both.

The suddenness of his reaction made your breath hitch. “I- what do you mean? It’s just…a nickname.” you said softly, your fingers fidgeting with the edge of the sweater’s sleeve. “I just…thought it’d be okay. Isn’t it?”

His jaw tightened. He stared at you, the weight of his gaze making your chest feel heavier. His knuckles whitened around the handle of the blade as though the mere sound of your voice had disrupted something within him. He set it aside on the stone with deliberate precision, his gaze locking on you in a way that not only made you feel small, but like you’d stepped somewhere you shouldn’t have.

“No one calls me that.” he said finally, his tone quieter but no less intense. “Not like that.”

The way he said it made you feel like you’d…touched something fragile. You weren’t sure if he was angry or just…exposed.

“Why not?” you asked.

His lips pressed into a thin line, unflinching. “Because they don’t. And they won’t.”

Your fingers twitched at your sides, resisting the urge to retreat. “It’s just a name…”

“It’s not ‘just a name.’” He leaned forward slightly, the movement subtle but enough to make you feel threatened by his presence even from across the room. “You think you can just call me whatever you want? That you know me enough to-”

“I didn’t mean it like that!” you interrupted, your voice trembling slightly.

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “You didn’t mean it.” he repeated. “You don’t think, do you? You just…speak.”

The words stung, but there was something, some…a frustration that didn’t feel entirely aimed at you.

You dropped your gaze, the fabric of his sweater bunching under your grip as you kept twisting the hem in your fingers. “I just thought it’d be nice.” you murmured. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m sorry. I just-” you continued, taking a cautious step closer.

“Don’t.” he interrupted this time, his voice softening slightly as he looked away, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. “Just don’t.”

The silence stretched, the only sound audible being the faint scrape of the blade as he resumed his work, slower this time, less precise, the rhythm uneven. You wanted to press, to ask why it mattered so much, but the set of his jaw and the slight downturn of his lips warned you against it. Instead, you sat down on the edge of the chair nearest him, your hands tugging at the sleeves of his sweater that dwarfed you. The air felt heavier now, charged with something unspoken.

A soft brush against your ankle drew your attention.

The cat — Lulu — had wandered over, her sleek black fur catching the sunlight as she rubbed against you. You crouched down instinctively, your fingers running through her fur as she purred, her tail curling around your wrist.

“She likes you.” Alexander said suddenly, like he’d sensed it without even looking at you, or looking up at all.

“She’s sweet.” She leaned into your touch.

Alexander shifted slightly, adjusting back to his cross-legged position on the floor.

“She likes most people.” he said, his tone flat, almost indifferent. “Isn’t there some saying about animals being like their owners? She didn’t get that from me, but I guess…”

You glanced at him, your brows furrowing at the pause. “But you guess what?”

His mouth twitched, the corner lifting in a half-smile. “Maybe I’ve got a little softness somewhere, buried deep. You’d know better than me at this point.”

You let out a quiet laugh, the sound light and warm in the cool air of the room. “Is that your way of saying you like me?”

The scrape of the blade against the stone stilled again. He didn’t look up, but his hand tightened on the hilt of the knife, his knuckles going white for a brief second before he relaxed again.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, sweetie.” Sharp but he lacked the venom he might’ve carried in another moment. “I’m not the one petting my cat like she’s some kind of sacred treasure.”

You laughed again, a little louder this time, and the cat’s ears twitched at the sound. “Well, someone has to make up for your lack of affection.” you teased, scratching under the chin.

“I give affection.” he said, almost defensively. “You just don’t notice it.”

“Oh?” you said, raising a brow. “When exactly was that?”

He tilted his head, considering you for a moment before smirking faintly. “You’re wearing my sweater, aren’t you?”

You glanced down at yourself. “I meant towards Lulu. Plus, this doesn’t count.” you said. “You practically threw it at me.”

“And you didn’t give it back.” he shot back, his smirk widening. “Seems to me like you’re the clingy one here.”

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head as you stood. The cat stretched lazily at your feet, rubbing her head against your ankle before padding off toward the window. “You’re impossible, Alexander.”

“I know.” he said, leaning back on his hands as his eyes followed you. “But here you are.” He paused and glanced over his shoulder at you. “Wearing my stuff. Invading my space.” His gaze raked over you slowly, before his eyes flicked back up to meet yours. “Guess I must be doing something right.”

Your cheeks warmed under his scrutiny, but you didn’t look away. “Or maybe I’m just very patient.”

His grin widened. “Keep telling yourself that, sweets.” You opened your mouth to respond, but he held up a hand, silencing you. “Don’t. You’ll just say something else you’ll regret.”

“Does it bother you when I say your name?” you asked anyway, careful to keep your voice gentle.

He didn’t answer right away. But then he sighed.

“It’s not that.” he admitted. “It’s just…different when it’s…you.”

“Different how?”

He shook his head, a small, almost imperceptible shake. “It just is.”

“Okay.” you said simply, your voice light, almost breezy, as though the moment hadn’t just shifted into something unspoken and strange. But it had. You could feel it like a current beneath your skin, humming, pulling, insistent.

You didn’t push him further, though. You could tell — by the way his hands resumed their methodical motion, the blade dragging across the stone — that whatever it was, he wasn’t ready to put it into words. Maybe he didn’t even have the words.

Still, your eyes stayed on him, drawn like a moth to flame. The light from the window carved him in sharp shapes all over, shadows along the lines of his face, the hollow of his throat, the tension in his shoulders. You wanted to reach out, to smooth the furrow in his brow with your thumb, to ask him again — why does it bother you so much when I call you that? — but you didn’t.

He’d gotten all weird when you said it. It was just a name, wasn’t it? A nickname, nothing more. But the way he reacted…

You wished you could see inside him, to look past the carefully constructed exterior he wore. He was so good at keeping you at a distance, even when you were close enough to feel his breath on your skin. You’d caught glimpses, here and there — small, fleeting moments where his guard slipped, where something raw and vulnerable surfaced before he shoved it back down. But it was never enough.

He was a puzzle you couldn’t solve, a book with missing pages. And still, you couldn’t stop trying.

“Alexander?” you said softly, testing the feel of his full name on your tongue.

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, unreadable. “What?”

“Nothing.” you said quickly, shaking your head.

“I’ve got a blade in my hand.” he said dryly, holding it up as if to make his point. “Don’t want to lose focus and end up bleeding all over the place.”

You smiled faintly, but the humor — if that’s what he meant it to come across as — didn’t land. You wanted to say more, to ask him why he was always so careful, so controlled, even in moments like this. You just nodded.

You wished he’d let you in. You wished he’d let you see him — really see him. But you knew better than to push. He wasn’t the kind of man you could coax or cajole into opening up. If he wanted to show you, he would. Until then, all you could do was wait.

“Al?”

“You’re here?”

I lifted my eyes to meet hers, and for a moment, I couldn’t believe it. Her silhouette blurred, bathed in the golden light that streamed through the windows, almost too perfect, too radiant to be real. But when she stepped closer and I felt the warmth of her arms wrapping around me, solid and grounding, just a moment, the ache in my chest loosened.

What day is it?

“Of course, honey. Where would I go?”

“Anywhere.” I whispered into her hair, breathing her in, the scent of her so familiar and intoxicating, grounding me in a way I hadn’t felt in ages. She smelled like home, like things I didn’t know how to name but never wanted to lose. My hands gripped her tighter, unwilling to let her slip away, even though a quiet voice in the back of my mind whispered that this wasn’t real.

“Not without you.”

Her voice was so soft, so certain, wrapping around me like the arms I couldn’t bring myself to release. It almost broke me.

“Oh, please. Never…never ever.” I murmured, the words escaping through a grin that felt too wide for my face. I pulled back just enough to see her face again, to remember the curve of her smile, the light in her eyes — her eyes, shining as if the sun itself lived inside her — but not far enough to lose the feeling of her in my grip. My hands stayed on her waist, refusing to let her go.

“She’s in the garden, picking flowers for you.” she said.

“For me?” My voice cracked, a strange mix of disbelief and hope cutting through my words.

“You know how much she adores you.”

“I know.”

I said it and nodded, but that feeling in my chest grew heavier again, the pain of something unnamed that pressed against my ribs, threatening to split me open. My gaze drifted toward the window, where the garden stretched out like something of a dreamscape. It was impossibly vibrant, every color too bright, too alive. And there she was — another figure, smaller, crouched among the flowers, her hands gathering blooms into a bundle.

I knew her. God, I knew her.

“She wanted to surprise you.” the figure in my arms whispered, her lips brushing against my ear. “She’s been waiting for you all morning.”

I tried to speak, but my throat felt tight, the words stuck somewhere between my heart and my mouth. Words tried to form and my tongue wouldn’t let them come alive. Something wasn’t right. Something about the scene felt too sharp, too vivid, as if it might all shatter if I looked too closely.

“Don’t you want to go to her?” she asked, tilting her head to catch my eyes.

I nodded again. My legs felt heavy. They wouldn’t move. My hands clenched against her waist. It felt as though letting her go would mean losing something vital. I was unwilling to release her warmth, even as my eyes remained fixed on the figure in the garden, her small hands busy arranging the flowers.

The blooms were red. Too red.

“She’s waiting, Al.”

But I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. The scene began to blur, the sunlight dimming, the vibrant colors bleeding together like a watercolor painting left out in the rain or paint washing down a drain. I tried to step forward, but my feet were rooted, heavy as stone. My chest tightened, the ache turning sharp, twisting like a blade inside of me.

“Al?” Her voice echoed, pulling at me, dragging me toward something I didn’t want to even see, much less face.

I blinked, and everything was gone.

I blinked, and then there was nothing but the dark and the sound of my own breathing.

That darkness hit like a wave, crushing and infinite, pressing in from all sides. My chest heaved, but the air I breathed felt thin, as if the void itself was swallowing it whole. The warmth was gone, replaced by a cold that sank into my bones.

I was alone.

I tried to call out, but my voice wouldn’t come. The silence was suffocating, thick and unyielding, and the ache in my chest grew unbearable. I reached out, blindly, desperately, but there was nothing to hold onto.

Just the dark.

And the sound of my own breathing.

Shallow and ragged, echoing back at me like a cruel reminder that I was still alive.

You didn’t feel him at first. He was quiet in the way only someone utterly consumed by their own torment could be. You didn’t feel him. Until you did. Like a curse of affliction poured down upon him, saturating every corner of the room, and now it was sinking, deeper and deeper, infecting. And you were here to see its symptoms showing, right before your eyes. It was suffocating, thick and cloying, and you felt it before you even opened your eyes. Something heavy and dark sat there waiting for you to wake up and witness its reign.

The change in his breathing was what woke you. So sharp and loud even with the lack of audibility. It was like he wasn’t even here anymore, like someone else was doing it for him — some foreign force that dragged air in and shoved it back out in violent bursts. Cries without tears, just the relentless pressing of lungs and dry, guttural sobs from the subconscious.

And then came the sound. It broke the already loud silence. It wasn’t just the sound of air moving in and out — it was something far more primal. A sound so raw and distant that for a moment, you weren’t even sure it really was him. It didn’t sound human, didn’t sound like it could come from the man lying beside you.

When you turned to him, the sight was worse than the sound. His body was a warzone of tension, his muscles rippling under his skin as if they were locked in battle. His chest rose and fell violently. The shallow gasps made his ribs stand out starkly beneath his damp skin. His head was buried in the pillow, but it wasn’t resting there — it was pressed down hard, as if he were trying to smother whatever demons had clawed their way into his subconscious.

And when you reached out, instinctively touching from where your fingers hovered just above his back, the moment you made contact with his skin, it was like you’d burned him, branded him with a hot iron rod. His muscles flinched so violently you could practically trace each separate one by sight, their spasms highlighting the structure of his back and shoulders in sharp, unforgiving detail. You didn’t even know enough about human anatomy to name them all, but, in that moment, you could’ve pointed out each one like you’d studied it for years or even decades.

He fought the pillow beneath him, dragging it down from underneath his head and crushing it against his chest. His arms twisted around it, his hands gripping in a vice grip, so tightly that his knuckles went bone-white, the veins in his forearms standing out in stark prominence, his fingers trembling as though he might rip the fabric apart. His back arched. His legs curled inward. His feet scraped against the sheets in an almost desperate crawl away from something that wasn’t even there. His mouth hung open, drooling onto the mattress. His breath came out in wet, choking sounds.

And when you said his name, you knew it was a mistake. You knew it before the word even left your mouth.

“Al?”

His body jerked, head snapping up like a puppet pulled by its strings. His eyes — wild, glassy, unseeing — searched the room. Looking for something, someone. His chest heaved, his breathing erratic, the veins in his neck standing out against his damp, sweat-slick skin. His lips parted, but no words came out, just the wet sounds from within his throat. For a moment, he looked at you, or through you — it was hard to tell. His gaze was unfocused, his expression a mask of confusion and something darker, something almost feral.

“Al?” you tried again, softer this time, like you were speaking to a wounded animal.

He froze.

Your voice left your lips, and the change in him was immediate. He moved without thought, without awareness, his body snapping into motion as though driven by something beyond his control. In an instant, he was above you, looming, a shadow blotting out the faint light of dawn filtering through the windows. It was like watching a storm descend, a force of nature too powerful to stop. One second he was distant, his head buried in some unseen hell, and the next, he was there.

His arm was at your neck before you could even process the shift, the pressure instant, brutal, and suffocating, pinning you to the mattress with a force that was more than terrifying. His head was buried down, out of sight, his face pressed into the curve of your shoulder as if he were hiding from something, from you- no, from himself. The weight of him was so unbearable pressing down on your chest. The sharp edge of his forearm against your throat stole what little breath you could muster.

He remained hidden, tucked low. You couldn’t see his face, but his breath came in jagged bursts, hot and damp against your skin, his chest heaving with every sharp inhale. The tension in him was so severe that he was trembling, every muscle in his body was trembling, all his strength pouring out of him in waves and into you.

He wasn’t there. Not really.

Your body reacted automatically, hands clawing at his back, your nails scraping down the length of him, but it was like fighting against stone. He didn’t feel it, or maybe he did, and it just didn’t matter. His arm pressed harder against your throat, cutting off the air entirely, and panic surged through you like ice in your veins.

Desperate, desperate attempts only for his grip to tighten. Your vision blurred, black spots blooming at the edges as your lungs screamed for air.

Your legs kicked out, thrashing against the mattress, the sheets tangling around you as you fought for something — anything. Hits went to his shoulders, his arms, his chest, trying to push him off, but he was immovable. Solid. The sharp sound of his breathing filled the room and covered yours, so loud and erratic it felt like it was vibrating through you.

You tried to call his name, but the sound was lost, caught in your throat as you choked on your own spit. Your hands pushed at his chest, weak and frantic, your nails continuing to scrape anywhere you could reach. It was no use. He was too far gone, too deep in whatever nightmare had swallowed him whole.

It was terrifying, yes, but there was something worse, something darker about the way he didn’t seem to be there. His body was here, crushing you, suffocating you, but his mind was elsewhere, trapped in some abyss you couldn’t reach. He wasn’t Alexander in that moment. He was something unrecognizable.

Your lungs burned from the lack of air. Any sound you tried to make was swallowed by the pressure against your throat, your voice reduced to a weak, strangled gasp. Your nails found his skin again, this time digging deeper, hard enough to draw blood, but still, he didn’t stop.

You could feel the tears on your face, mingling with the spit you choked on, the desperate, wet sounds of your struggle filling the air alongside his uneven breaths. It was unbearable. Everything about it. The weight of him, the crushing force, the suffocating panic that clawed at your chest.

And then, with the last ounce of strength you had, your hands found his face. Your fingers pressed against his cheeks, your thumbs digging into the sharp lines of his jaw as you forced his head up. Forced him to see you. His hair was damp against your palms, clinging to your skin as you pushed, as you gasped out his name, a broken, strangled sound that barely escaped your lips.

“Al-”

His eyes snapped open.

For a moment, they didn’t see you. They were wild, feral, and broken, so dark that they sent a shiver down your spine even as relief flooded your chest. But then they focused, locking onto yours, and everything shifted. When they focused, the change was instant again, as if snapped out of a trance.

His grip loosened, his arm dropping away from your neck like dead weight, the pressure vanishing so suddenly it left you coughing and choking on the air you dragged into your lungs. He scrambled back, his body jerking away from yours, his movements frantic, uncoordinated.

And then those eyes of his widened, horror flooding his expression as he looked down at you, taking in the red marks on your throat, the way you cradled your neck with trembling hands, the way your chest rose and fell as you gulped down oxygen. His mouth opened, but no sound came out, just a dry, choked rasp. Until-

“Oh god-”

He dropped onto his back, his hands clawing at his own chest, his throat, as though he were the one who couldn’t breathe. His body heaved with every ragged inhale, his head thrown back as he stared at the ceiling with wide, unblinking eyes.

“Oh god…” he gasped, his voice barely audible, broken. His chest was heaving, trying to breathe through the weight of what he’d just done. “Oh god, I- what did I-”

His hands flew to his face, covering it as his body shook, the tremors violent, uncontrollable. “I didn’t- oh god, I wasn’t- oh god!” he said again, louder this time, the words catching in his throat. His hands fisted in his hair, tugging hard enough to make his scalp burn, but he didn’t stop. “What did I- oh- I- I-”

He turned his head to look at you, his gaze filled with a mixture of guilt and terror so profound it made your stomach twist. “I didn’t- I wasn’t-”

You sat up slowly, every movement deliberate, careful, less because you were afraid he might snap again at the slightest provocation and more to not startle him in this fragile state. Your fingers touched your neck, tracing the tender, throbbing skin, and you winced at the pain. But you swallowed it down, pushing it aside as you looked at him.

“It’s okay.” you said, your voice raw, hoarse, barely more than a whisper, or rather a rasp. You reached out, your hand brushing against his arm, and he flinched, jerking away from your touch like it hurt. “It’s okay, Alexander. I’m okay.”

But you weren’t sure if you were trying to convince him or yourself.

“No!” he said, shaking his head, his hands still covering his face. “No, it’s not okay. I-”

“It is.” you insisted, your voice firmer this time, though it still trembled. “Alexander, look at me.”

He didn’t. His hands stayed where they were, his body curling in on itself as if trying to disappear. “I hurt you.” he said, barely there, muffled by his hands. “I could’ve…”

“But you didn’t.” you interrupted, leaning closer, your hand finding his and tugging gently. “You stopped. You’re here now. Look at me, Alexander.”

Slowly, hesitantly, he lowered his hands, his eyes meeting yours. They were filled with so much guilt, so much pain, it hurt more than anything the touch of his hands might’ve laid on you.

“I’m here.” you said softly, your fingers brushing against his. “I’m okay. We’re okay.”

His eyes narrowed, and for a split second, you thought he might lash out. But then his shoulders sagged, the tension in his body releasing all at once as he let out a shuddering exhale. His grip on the pillow loosened, his hands falling limp against the mattress.

But it wasn’t relief you saw on his face — it was something else. Resignation. And defeat.

“You were dreaming.” you said, your hand hovering above his back again, hesitant to touch him.

He didn’t respond.

“It’s okay.” you continued, your fingers brushing against his skin. This time, he didn’t flinch, though his muscles were still taut beneath your touch. “You’re here now. I’m here. Hey, it’s me.” you whispered. “I’m here.”

You seemed to reach him, though not entirely. His eyes flickered, recognition dawning slowly, like the sun struggling to break through a thick, oppressive fog. His expression changed. The wildness faded, replaced by something colder, harder. His jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together audibly. He turned his head away from you, his body curling further in.

“Go back to sleep.” he rasped.

“Al, I-”

“I said, go back to sleep.”

There was no anger in his tone, no sharpness, but it was crushing, the way he left no room for argument. Still, you couldn’t just leave him like this.

“I’m not going anywhere.” you said softly.

There was nothing but silence, broken only by the sound of his breathing — slowing. You thought maybe he was coming back to himself, grounding in the reality of your presence. But when he spoke again, his voice was so quiet it was almost swallowed by the stillness.

“Don’t…don’t say my name like that again.”

“Like what?” you asked, your hand stilling.

“Like you’re trying to save me.”

The words hit you like a blow. You didn’t know how to respond. You wanted to save him, of course you did. But you knew him too well by now. You knew he wouldn’t let you.

“I just want to help, Alexander.” you said finally, your voice soft, almost pleading for him to understand.

He let out a low, humorless laugh, his head turning slightly but not enough to face you. “Help?” he repeated, his tone bitter. “You can’t help me, darling. No one can.”

Your hand resumed its gentle motion on his back. “Maybe not,” you said, “but I can stay.”

He didn’t reply.

You stayed anyway, your hand tracing slow, soothing circles against his skin. His breathing evened out little by little, the tension in his body ebbing away in increments so small they were almost undetectable. His back, once tense and unyielding, softened ever so slightly, though his head remained turned away.

“Do you…” you hesitated, not wanting to push too hard, but unable to keep the question inside. “Do you want to talk about it?”

His body got caught between fight and flight. Then, finally, his voice came.

“Not now.” he said. “I can’t. Not now.”

“Okay.” you murmured.

The quiet stretched again, the kind that made time feel like it was spilling out into an endless void. His breathing steadied, but there was still something in it — an edge, a tremor, a ghost of whatever storm had taken him moments before.

“Can you…would you-” He stopped, swallowing hard, the words catching in his throat.

“What is it?” you asked gently, leaning closer, your voice soft enough to coax without crowding him.

He shook his head, his hair brushing against your arm like even this small movement pained him. “I don’t know how to ask.” he admitted.

“You don’t have to.” you said, your fingers tracing along the curve of his spine.

But he did. You saw it in the way his hands clenched at his sides — a man holding onto himself with all the strength he could muster, and still losing — until he whispered, “Will you hold me?”

Like a bird with broken wings. Fragile, hollow-boned, and trembling in your hands in the same way he’d hold them in his. His fingers worked with such precision, restoring lifeless creatures to some facsimile of beauty. How carefully he stitched and smoothed, as if his hands alone could defy death. Now, those same hands lay useless at his sides, like they’d forgotten how to fix anything — including himself.

Words felt clumsy in a moment like this, too blunt for something so tender. So you just held him. Your arms came around him, wrapping him in a cocoon of warmth and softness, careful not to press too hard.

It felt almost sacred, holding him like this. You felt him give way — leaning into you, his breath uneven and fluttering, just like the faint heartbeat of a bird resting right in your palm.

You wondered now if he saw himself in them, in the brokenness he tried to repair, in the stillness he tried to make beautiful.

His breath hitched again, a shudder running through him that you felt down to your bones. Your hands moved, smoothing over his back, his shoulders, to remind him that he was here, that he was whole, that he was yours to care for. Only this time around, it wasn’t about restoration or preservation. It was about keeping him alive and keeping him real, even when he felt like he was fading.

“It’s okay.” you whispered. “I’ve got you.”

You held him like he was something precious, something worth saving. Because to you…he was.

“I don’t think I know myself anymore.” he said suddenly. “I don’t even know what’s left of me. If there’s anything left at all.”

You held him tighter. “You’re still here.”

“Am I?” he asked, his voice cracking. “Because it doesn’t feel like it. It feels like I’m watching someone else, like I’m not real anymore. Like I’m just a ghost haunting my own body.”

You didn’t know what to say, what words could possibly bridge the gap between his despair and your love for him. Was it love? Was this what that felt like? So you didn’t speak. You left your touch to speak for everything you couldn’t.

“You shouldn’t stay.”

“I know.”

And still, you stayed.

a/n: This wasn’t really the plan at all, but that’s where my mind seemed to go while writing it. The last scene, I mean. Soooooo yeah. Not the end quite yet.

#i have so many thoughts #but i'll have to figure out how to formulate them #this made me feel so many things #nonetheless i will be dying for more

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