Alexei
All night, I maintained control. The restaurant, the police, the trip back—each step, each tick of the clock, each rehearsed movement on the steering wheel or the lapel of my jacket—it was all a series of variables that I managed with logic.
The first lesson I learned from my father was that control is more valuable than any weapon; the second lesson was that, if everything threatens to go wrong, make up new rules until chaos looks like a plan.
So, I spent the night anticipating every deviation, every impulse from Griffin, every sharp word he fired like a wild dog testing the fence.
I analyzed him. From the first second I saw him, bleeding in that ring, trembling with adrenaline, I assessed his condition looking for cracks, identifying weak points, predicting the moment when the structure would collapse.
Every offense, every provocation, every look of defiance.
Griffin was a problem, an erratic variable, and yet, I underestimated him.
No one is born prepared for someone like Griffin.
Griffin is the catalyst for something I had spent my whole life pretending didn’t exist: a desire for violence that had no political purpose, no strategic relevance.
A desire for gratuitous violence, because it hurt, because it healed, because it forced existence to fit within a tiny, perfect instant.
He looks at my fury not like most people.
He doesn’t shrink, he doesn’t negotiate, he doesn’t fear.
He receives it as an invitation. He leans over the threat, savors the metal of the gun before the shot, and still dares me to shoot.
And something inside me, a thick rope held taut for years of discipline, self-control, family protocols, simply snaps.
I feel, with absolute clarity, the exact moment I lose the war against myself.
The red mist that descends over my vision is a surprise. I thought I would never allow myself this again after I was a teenager, after being trained to tame every destructive impulse. But it’s here, coloring everything with a damp, vivid hue.
The sound of Griffin’s body hitting the wall is a satisfying echo of the fracture I feel inside. The feeling of having him like this—trapped between my body and the cold surface, with his skin exposed, breathing fast, his eyes still mocking—is the only thing that makes sense tonight.
My last thread of self-control breaks. There is nothing left between me and what I want. Anger, yes. But not only. There is a violent desire to silence his insolent mouth with something other than words, to reduce every argument to flesh, bone, the swallowed scream in the back of the throat.
Everything condenses into a single point of focus: Griffin. Trapped, falling apart, and at the same time resisting, winning, taking me with him in the process of self-annihilation.
“You like this, don’t you?” I don’t recognize my own voice, hoarse, vibrating under my jaw.
The hand that holds him by the nape of his neck forces his face against the wall, my thumb applies pressure until he lets out a sharp whimper, his head hitting the concrete lightly. “You like to test the limits.”
“I like it,” he gasps, and the raw honesty of it disarms me.
“I like knowing that you want me so much that you’re willing to break your own rules.
” He tries to move, a minimal hip adjustment that brushes his body against mine and, fuck, it’s pure defiance.
“Break me, Alexei. Stop playing and break me for real.”
“I will,” I promise.
I lower one hand, and he groans when I reach the waistband of his pants. I hold the base of his nape, feeling the short hairs vibrating under my touch, and I push him harder against the wall.
My fingers close around his member under his clothes; the heat that radiates there is unreal. The sound he makes is wilder than anything I’ve ever heard, and every time he tries to resist, I squeeze harder.
He really likes this. He likes the absurdity, the contradiction, the punishment that is also a prize.
I run my hand down his back, tracing the line of his spine, feeling the tense muscles under his skin.
I explore the damage he has done to himself—marked ribs, fresh scratches, new bruises over old ones.
I press one of them with my thumb, and he flinches with a hiss of pain escaping between clenched teeth, but there is no sign of retreat. Just more desire.
“Does that hurt?” I ask, my mouth touching the skin of his neck, smelling the mixture of sweat, blood, and alcohol.
“Like hell,” he answers, breathless. “Do it again.”
I do. My hand on his cock caresses him slowly, while the other presses his wounds, reminding Griffin of every stupidity committed.
Griffin has a kind of strength that defies all my logic. He should be dominated, humiliated, but even so, with his cheek pressed against the wall and his whole body rotten, he finds ways to retaliate.
He bites his own lip until it bleeds, and then turns his head slightly to spit a low curse in my direction.
“Yes, fuck...”
His vulgarity is fuel. He feeds on my anger, chews on the raw desire, and returns it all in hoarse groans, panting breaths, spat-out phrases that are more weapons than pleas. Every provocation is a lit match thrown into a powder keg that I’ve tried to lock up my whole life.
I should be above this, I should remember what I learned in childhood—that all emotions are tools, that fury is just a poison to be distilled and used at the right time.
But with him, there is no composure. There is no logic, no contingency plan.
The pressure I put on the nape of his neck is so firm that I can feel his racing pulse under the skin.
Maybe there is only pleasure for him at the exact limit between pain and surrender.
I intensify my grip, forcing his face against the cold concrete, and the feeling of the heat of his body in contrast to the cold of the wall is erotic.
“That’s it,” he moans, his forehead now pressed against the cold wall. “Fuck, show me I was wrong...”
I should just drop everything, go to the bathroom to cool my head, look at myself in the mirror, and say that this means nothing, that it’s just about power, about keeping the variables under control.
But when I realize it, my fingers are squeezing his hip with enough force to leave marks.
I pull his waist back, sticking our bodies together.
He’s hard, of course he is. He laughs again when he realizes I am, too.
“Fuck,” he says, panting, “I thought it was just psychological torture.”
“You have no idea what torture is,” I retort.
I want him to break. I want him to beg. I want to hear the exact sound of the moment when Griffin stops pretending he doesn’t need anyone. But he’s stubborn—incurably stubborn.
I let go of his nape, suddenly. I hear the pull of frustration in his breath. He turns his face with effort, attentive, waiting for the next move.
I face Griffin—even from behind, he manages to look like he’s the one in control. There’s something in his arrogance that magnetizes everything around him. A crisis magnet.
I pull the waistband of his pants, rip the button, and expose him without ceremony. His body reacts immediately, his skin marked with bruises, his muscles tense.
It’s not enough. It won’t be enough as long as he keeps challenging me with that glint in his eyes.
“I want you to remember, for days, who owns you.”
The defiance wavers, but he doesn’t say a word to stop me.
I don’t waste time. I open my own belt, hold Griffin by the hips, fix his body against the wall, and position myself behind him.
I enter him at once, dry, with no warning. He groans a painful sound, and I feel the reverberation vibrating in my ribs, his body protesting, but he doesn’t say stop. He never says stop.
“Alexei,” he whispers, unrecognizable.
“I know.” I lean into his ear. He doesn’t pull away. “Shut up and take it.”
I start to move.
The first movement is slow. The friction is dry, relentless. Griffin lets out a sharp hiss, and the rawness of the contact is like fire on raw flesh. I hold him with both hands, fingers digging deep grooves into his hips, my nails almost tearing his skin.
“Fuck,” he pants, and the timbre of his voice hits me in the center of my chest. The name he carves into the concrete—“Alexei”—is an involuntary surrender.
“I told you to shut up.” My voice is strange even to me, distorted, hoarse.
He tries to push back, to press his hips against mine, to force a rhythm. I hold back.
I pin Griffin in place, so still that I feel the tremor of frustration growing from his bones to the outside of his skin. He is vibrating under my hands, but he doesn’t risk disobeying for real.
I advance again, deeper. His whole body curves in a way that makes me lose my reason.
“Fuck...” he grunts, his face against the wall, and tries to look at me over his shoulder with his face red. “No one’s ever fucked me like this.”
“No one would ever dare.” I pull him back with more force, burying myself in him to the hilt, and the groan he gives is muffled against the wall. He molds himself to what I impose. He breaks. He remakes himself.
He laughs, a twisted sound of pleasure and pain. “Fucking the Malakov’s Fighting Dog dry? That’s it, Alex...”
I establish a rhythm. Each thrust is a punishment for his recklessness: the restaurant, the blood, the insults, the threat at the car door. Griffin translates everything into moans, curses, irregular breaths.
He scratches the wall, leaving marks that will stay for days. “Faster,” he asks, but it’s not an order. His voice no longer has arrogance, only raw need. “Please. You’re killing me.”
“I decide the rhythm,” I say, and I slow down. On purpose—I move inside him with unbearable slowness, one step, a stop, a controlled torture.
He roars, frustrated, and tries to push himself back again. I pull him closer, hold his arms behind his back, and pin Griffin with my whole body.