@viciouseternity you wanted this
His were the hands that killed too many to count in the name of the vision he sought to bring to the ruins he ruled. His were the hands that committed unspoken atrocities, driven by misguided genius towards a goal he put above all else. His were the hands that lacked warmth – cold and sharp, unfeeling, void of compassion, there to fulfill their purpose. His were the hands that evoked terror in the ones who found themselves in their reach, gleaming as he positioned the individual needles in careful preparation – the last image before they came down in one swift motion, bringing alongside them an inevitable end.
And yet, these same hands – they held you so fondly, so gently, making you forget about the horrors they orchestrated.
They felt secure in the way they encompassed you, they felt right, like their embrace was where you were supposed to exist. Each time you approached they would unfold for you, inviting you into their familiar cradle where you could discard every conscious thought you possessed and rely on them to take care of every little thing.
You sighed as you rested your head in his palm during a fleeting moment as he glided his fingers under your chin in passing, relishing in the affectionate gesture, closing your eyes briefly to better absorb the touch, content.
You yearned for the feeling of his fingers, like needles on hinges, against your back, locking behind you as he compelled you forward, their immense length resting across your shoulder blades, curling around your waist. Unyielding. Possessive.
Other times, you would inhale sharply as he pulled you in, back meeting his chest, while his hands gradually crept around you – one splayed across your front, the other laying on your shoulder, unhurriedly making its way down, covering your collarbone, inching over your neck.
He took your breath away whenever he placed his fingers under your chin, tender yet demanding, encouraging you to tilt your head upwards to gaze upon his visage, to meet his single piercing pupil while he held you in his sights as the sole object of his undivided, overwhelming attention.
Your heart raced when he put his hand against your torso, pushing you back slowly, coaxing you to lay down, pinning you underneath him like a specimen ready to be examined, fingers landing on both sides of your head as he hovered above – a remainder, a cage. One you would willingly stay trapped in if it meant that he would continue to touch you.
You shivered at how he would apply pressure to your skin, metal digging slightly into flesh, just about entertaining the tempting premise of breaking it with the sharp tips of his needle-like fingers, allowing you but a taste of the sweetest pain he was capable of offering you. And no one else.
His were the hands that could evoke both fear and longing. His were the hands that held the key to a myriad of sensations. From pain to pleasure, everything was his to give.
And you were his to bestow it onto.
