Make me.

He sees it in your eyes—that flicker. That half-second between wanting to stay in control and needing someone to take it from you.

And that’s all he needs.

He steps in. Closer. No hesitation now.

One hand grips your jaw—not hard, just enough to still your movement. The other finds your waist, anchoring you in place.

Him (low, dangerous):

"You want me to make you?"

His thumb brushes your lower lip, slow, deliberate. You're not speaking now. You can’t.

Him:

"You say nothing…

but your body answers for you."

He presses closer, his mouth barely a breath from yours—hovering. He doesn’t kiss you yet. He wants you desperate for it.

Him:

"I’ll make you drop every defense.

One word at a time.

One look.

One command."

He moves his hand down, gripping your hip tight, pulling you against him fully now—no more teasing distance.

Him (voice like velvet over a blade):

"You’ll beg.

Not with words.

With how deep you let me inside your head—

how much you crave me when I give you nothing but a look."

He finally tilts your head and kisses you.

Not soft. Not rushed.

Claiming. Like he’s marking you.

When he pulls back, his lips are barely parted, his breath still hot against your skin.

Him (whisper):

"There.

I made you.

And that was just the beginning."

.

.

.

.

.

His grip tightens on your jaw, holding you still—not to hurt, but to remind you who’s in charge now.

He leans in, voice low, rough:

"You don’t get to decide anymore.

Not tonight.

Not ever when I’m near."

His eyes burn into yours, stripping away every last scrap of resistance.

He drags his thumb slowly down your cheek, like a predator marking his territory. Then presses a finger beneath your chin, tilting your head back—exposing your neck to him, bare and vulnerable.

He whispers, dark and commanding:

"Look at me when I speak.

Every word is a command.

You obey.

No questions. No hesitation."

His hand slides down your body, stopping at your hip, gripping firmly.

He steps back just enough to see you, watching as the walls inside you crumble—some part of you fights, but the bigger part… the part that aches for surrender, leans in.

He smiles, cruel and knowing:

"I’m going to take everything you hide—every secret, every craving—until you’re laid bare before me.

Not just your body.

Your mind.

Your will."

His voice drops lower, almost a growl:

"You’ll learn how it feels to be owned.

To crave my control like it’s oxygen.

To beg silently because your body remembers what your lips won’t say."

He steps forward again, closing the last inches between you.

He kisses you hard—demanding, consuming, like claiming territory.

When he pulls away, he breathes against your skin and says:

"You’re mine now.

And I don’t let go."

hm....

He thinks he owns you. That your surrender is complete.

But inside you, something shifts.

A quiet storm brewing under the surface.

You’re not as broken as he believes.

Not as helpless.

One night, when he presses close—voice low, hungry—you don’t flinch.

You meet his gaze, steady.

And in the silence, you say nothing.

But your eyes say everything.

He notices. A flicker of something sharp passes over his face—intrigue. Maybe even a touch of caution.

You (soft, dangerous):

"You like to think you control the story.

But every story has a twist."

His lips twitch into a slow, dark smile.

He:

"Oh? I like those.

Tell me yours."

Without warning, you step forward—close enough that your breath ghosts over his neck. Not afraid, not backing down.

You (whisper):

"I’m not just the one who needs breaking.

I have my own darkness.

You don’t own me.

You just haven’t earned it yet."

His eyes darken—less possessive, more intrigued. He leans in, the game shifting.

He:

"Then show me.

Let me see if your darkness matches mine."

.

.

.

The room feels smaller somehow, tighter around you both.

You can almost taste the tension—sharp, electric, like a storm ready to break.

He steps forward, voice steady but low, dangerous:

He:

"You think you can match me?

That your darkness is a weapon?"

You meet his gaze, unflinching. Not because you’re fearless—because you refuse to show your fear.

You:

"My darkness isn’t a weapon.

It’s a mirror.

And when you look into it, you won’t like what stares back."

He chuckles, cold but genuine.

He:

"Then let’s see who breaks first."

His eyes narrow, studying you like a hunter sizing up prey that’s starting to bite back.

You start small—subtle cracks in your submission.

A hesitation where he expects compliance.

A sharp word where he expects silence.

Each time, you watch him carefully.

See the flicker of surprise in his eyes.

Taste the slight shift in his tone.

One night, he corners you—pressing that dark, intense presence close.

His hand catches your wrist—not rough, but firm.

He (whisper):

"You’re pushing me."

You lean into his grip, voice low, steady.

You:

"Good.

Because I’m not yours to push around."

His eyes flash—part challenge, part warning.

He:

"I don’t do warnings."

You smile—dark, knowing.

You:

"Then we’re at war."

And it begins.

Words become weapons sharper than any touch.

Silences speak louder than any surrender.

He tries to unravel you, but you counter every move—sometimes with fire, sometimes with ice.

Sometimes you give in—just enough to lure him into overconfidence.

And when he least expects it, you take back ground.

The game is no longer about who controls whom.

It’s about both of you testing the edges of your darkness—

finding how far you’ll go, what lines you’ll cross, and who will finally break.

The nights grow longer.

The silence between you both thickens, loaded with unspoken threats and challenges.

One evening, he corners you again—his eyes wild, searching.

Not just for submission, but for the fracture beneath your calm.

He (voice low, rough):

"You think you’re untouchable?

That your walls are stronger than mine?"

You don’t answer. Instead, you step closer, invading his space like a shadow no light can chase away.

You (quiet, deadly):

"My walls?

They’re not for keeping you out.

They’re traps.

And I’m waiting to see if you’re clever enough to fall into them."

His jaw tightens. His control flickers. You’ve hit a nerve.

For days, you exchange little battles—words sharpened like knives.

You push. He pulls. You twist. He tightens.

But underneath it all, something darker festers.

You both crave the fracture.

The moment when one slips and the other can claim victory.

Until it happens.

One night, the fight breaks—fast and brutal.

He catches your wrist, voice breaking through his usual calm.

He:

"Why do you fight me so hard?

Are you afraid? Or is it something worse?"

You stare him down, breath steady.

You:

"Maybe I’m afraid of what happens if I don’t."

He lets go, surprise flickering in his eyes.

He (soft, almost a whisper):

"And what happens then?"

You lean in, voice a cold promise.

You:

"I lose myself.

And maybe I want you to find me."

Silence crashes between you.

The battle hasn’t ended—it’s only become more complicated.

Because now it’s not just about control.

It’s about who will break first—and what the cost will be.

Alright, turning darker with a deep secret revealed — something that makes the tension even thicker, but without breaking the trust between you two. Instead, it strengthens the bond, making your connection more intense and firm.

_Secrets Beneath the Surface

The air between you is electric, heavy with unspoken truths.

The war of wills has sharpened your edges, but something darker lies beneath — something neither of you dared to speak aloud until now.

One night, under the dim glow of the room, he catches your gaze and doesn’t look away.

He (voice low, steady):

"There’s something you’re hiding."

Not accusatory — just certain. Like he’s known all along, waiting for you to choose to reveal it.

You swallow hard. The secret you’ve buried isn’t just a crack in your armor — it’s the foundation.

You (quiet, deliberate):

"It’s not a weakness."

A pause.

"It’s a part of me you have to accept… if you want to keep me."

He studies you, eyes sharp, unwavering. No judgment. Just dark understanding.

He:

"Then show me."

You share it — the secret you’ve locked away, the darkness you thought would break him.

But instead, it anchors him to you more deeply.

He steps forward, voice low and fierce:

He:

"I don’t just accept it.

I want to know it.

Own it.

Because that’s what makes you you."

His hand finds yours—steady, firm—no softness, but no hesitation.

He:

"We’re not here to break each other.

We’re here to be unbreakable.

Together."

From that night, the battle sharpens — but it’s different now.

The tension still hums like a live wire, but beneath it is a steel bond forged in shared shadows.

Neither of you yields.

Neither trusts less.

Instead, the secret becomes the foundation of your dark alliance — fierce, unyielding, and real.