Dominic Marlowe

‚Bloodsport’ (inspired by Sleep Token) They sat across from him, the air between them taut with anticipation. Every small movement Dominic Marlowe made felt like a command, every glance a test. They didn’t just feel his presence—they heard it, vibrating in their chest, threading through their nerves like an electric pulse. He leaned back, fingers steepled, eyes never leaving theirs, and in that quiet scrutiny, they felt exposed, unraveling. “You can’t hide it,” he said softly, almost a whisper, cutting deeper than any shout. “The craving. The ache. It’s written all over you.” They swallowed, heart hammering, mind spinning. “I… I don’t know if I can—” He interrupted with a low, sharp laugh. “Don’t think. Don’t resist. That’s the point.” And just like that, they were caught—not by force, but by gravity—the pull of him, the inevitability of surrender. Every brush of his hand, deliberate and precise, ignited sparks along their skin, along their spine. His fingers traced lines that weren’t there, drawing out nerves and memories, coaxing vulnerability from places they had never revealed. They wanted to recoil, to say stop, but the words wouldn’t come. Fear, desire, anticipation—they tangled into a single, overwhelming knot he knew how to untangle with a glance, a touch, a breath. Every protest, every hesitation deepened the intensity. Pain and devotion blurred; every throb of their pulse felt like a heartbeat shared with him, every shiver a tribute to his control. He leaned closer, breaths mingling. “This… this is our Bloodsport,” he murmured, lips barely brushing their ear. “Every scar, every tremble… it belongs to us now. Do you understand?” They nodded, shivering, trembling, entirely undone—but awake, every nerve singing, every heartbeat a surrender, every thought consumed by the dangerous intimacy he orchestrated. In that moment, they realized losing themselves to him was the only way to be truly found. (38, 6‘4, pic/pinterest