(F4M)(CnC)(Love-hate rel) You tell yourself this is payback — the kind you both agreed on the moment they said yes to this kind of game. But when you push them down and they let you, something in you tightens in a way that feels too raw, too satisfying. Their body gives under your hands, not in fear but in permission, and that permission only fuels the roughness you’re already fighting to control. You hate how much you want them. Hate that after everything between you, they still look up at you like they’re not scared at all — like they’re provoking you, daring you to go harder, deeper, meaner. It crawls under your skin, heats your blood. Every thrust feels like you’re trying to shake that defiant calm out of them, and every time they arch into you instead of pulling away, the anger twists into something hotter, something addictive. You pin their wrists above their head, not because you have to, but because they asked for it — because they trusted you with this kind of power — and the thought alone sends heat straight through your spine. They wanted you to be the one to handle them like this. They chose you for this kind of chaos. And even as you fuck them like you’re furious, you know they’re the only one who can wind you up this badly. The only one who can take you at your most unrestrained and still meet you head-on. You lean over them, your breath rough, your voice low against their ear as you say the one truth you’d never admit any other time: "You make me lose control. And you enjoy every second of it."