𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐢 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫 - 𝐱𝐚𝐛𝐢 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐨.
• 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲: 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐲𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐬.
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: 𝐀 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐟𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐛𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭 𝐣𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤, 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐢𝐧𝐯𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐜𝐲.
𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐲𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐛𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫, 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭, 𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐩.
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐡𝐢𝐦.
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @ts1m1kas , @anfieldroad . @luvr4miya , @anifffff , @mountsgirl , @houseofdolan, @liverpool-enjoyer, @sunnysideup478, @katoptris01, @strawberrymilkcow03
The first crack appeared not with a shout, but with a silence so profound it echoed louder than any stadium roar. She had, of course, grown accustomed to the weight of his gaze. It was a familiar warmth, a constant in the chaotic orbit of his life, the training sessions, the press conferences, the relentless travel. On match days, his eyes would find her in the crowd or on the sidelines, a silent anchor in the storm of his profession.
It was a look that said, You are mine, and this, all of this, is for you. She’d learned to read the subtle language of his glances: the proud glint after a perfectly executed pass, the soft crinkle at the corners when she met his eyes from the stands, the intense, focused burn that seemed to catalog her every reaction.
But that evening, after a tense, bruising away game secured by a last-minute winner, the language changed. The victory was sweet, the relief palpable as it fizzed through the team and staff in the bustling corridors of the opposition’s stadium. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, deep heat, and triumph. She was in her element, her camera a constant extension of her, clicking away, capturing the raw, unfiltered joy. She caught Carragher with his head thrown back in a roar, Gerrard draped in a flag, the young, promising right-back, Danny, making a ridiculous victory dance that had everyone in stitches.
Danny, high on adrenaline and youth, spotted her lens pointed his way and grinned, throwing a peace sign. “Get a good one, yeah? For me mam!” he laughed, his voice cracking slightly with exhaustion and elation.
She laughed with him, adjusting her settings. “I’ll make you look like a proper hero, don’t worry!”
He loped over, slinging a sweaty, heavy arm around her shoulders, pulling her into a half-hug for the picture. It was innocent, comradely, the kind of physical contact that was commonplace in the bubble of a football club. She clicked the shutter, capturing his beaming face next to hers. “Perfect!” she said, patting his chest.
And then she felt it. A shift in the atmosphere, a sudden drop in temperature that had nothing to do with the drafty concrete corridor. Her eyes lifted and found Xabi across the room. He was accepting a quiet word from Rafa, but his attention was entirely fixed on her.
The warm, proud smile he’d worn moments before was gone. In its place was a cold, hard mask. His jaw was set, his eyes dark pits of something unreadable and terrifying. It was a look that didn’t belong on the face of the elegant, controlled midfielder known for his grace under pressure. It was a look of pure, unadulterated possession. She felt it like a blade pressed between her shoulder blades, a promise of violence contained only by the public setting.
Her smile faltered. Danny, sensing the change, followed her gaze and quickly removed his arm, muttering a quiet “Cheers,” before melting back into the crowd. The celebration continued around them, but for her, the world had narrowed to the frozen, furious line of Xabi’s posture.
The car ride back to his house in the Wirral was a mausoleum on wheels. He drove with a terrifying precision, his hands clenched on the wheel at ten and two, his profile stark in the intermittent glow of passing streetlights. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The silence was a physical weight, thick enough to choke on. She stared out the window, her mind racing, trying to rationalize it. It was nothing. He’s tired. It was a stressful game. He’ll snap out of it.
He didn’t.
Inside his minimalist, modern home, the silence grew teeth. She moved on autopilot, placing her camera bag on the sleek console table by the door, her hands trembling so slightly she hoped he wouldn’t notice. She slipped off her shoes, the click of her heels on the polished concrete floor obscenely loud. She could feel him behind her, a statue of coiled tension.
She turned, intending to break the silence with a soft word, a question about tea, anything to shatter this awful stillness.
His voice cut through the room first, sharp and cold as broken glass. “Do you enjoy letting them touch you?”
Her heart stuttered, a painful lurch in her chest. “What? Xabi, no, it was nothing, just a photo, Danny’s just a kid, he was messing about..”
He took a step forward, and the controlled facade cracked, revealing the white-hot anger beneath. “Don’t. Don’t play naïve with me. I’m not a fool. I saw the way he leaned into you, the way his hand gripped your shoulder. Like he thought he had the right.” His voice was low, each word meticulously enunciated, laced with a venom that made her shrink back.
“He doesn’t,” she whispered, the protest weak even to her own ears. She took a hesitant step toward him, though every instinct screamed to retreat. Her chest was so tight she could barely breathe.
“No,” he agreed, his voice dropping to a deadly calm. He closed the distance between them in two swift strides, his hand coming up to cup her jaw, his thumb pressing against the frantic pulse in her throat. It wasn’t a caress; it was a measurement.
“He doesn’t. Because you’re mine. Every part of you. Your smile, your laugh, the way you look at me… it all belongs to me.” His eyes bored into hers, dark and unrelenting. “And if he, or anyone else, tries to lay a claim on what’s mine again…” His voice lowered to a whisper, a promise edged with razor-sharp danger. “I’ll make sure he regrets ever looking in your direction.”
Her breath caught in her throat, a tiny, trapped sound. A primal part of her, the sensible part, wanted to recoil, to run from the terrifying intensity in his eyes. Yet another part, a deeper, darker, addictive part, thrilled at the raw possession in his voice. The thought of him, usually so composed and cerebral, being driven to such a primal, violent edge… for her. It was terrifying. It was electrifying. She stood frozen, caught between fear and a dark, swooping fascination.
His obsession didn't fade after that night; it simply found new, more insidious ways to weave itself into the fabric of her life. The leash, once invisible, began to tighten with a gentle, inexorable pressure.
It started with questions. “What are your plans for tomorrow, maitea?” he’d ask, his tone light and loving as he traced patterns on her bare back in the dim morning light.
“Oh, just meeting Sarah for lunch. I haven’t seen her in ages.”
A slight pause. His fingers stilled. “Sarah? The one from the magazine? The one who always drags you to those noisy bars in town?”
“She doesn’t drag me, we have fun,” she’d laugh, though a seed of unease was planted.
“Hmm. Just be careful. The city center can be… unpredictable.”
The suggestions followed, always framed as concern. “It’s supposed to rain later. Why don’t you just cancel and stay here? I’ll cook for you. It’s safer than you being out on the wet roads.” His logic was a cage, padded with velvet.
Then came the checking. He’d begun to casually memorize her schedule, her friends’ names, the routes she took. It was control, meticulously masked as care.
The pivotal moment came one evening a few weeks later. She was pulling on a jacket, ready to meet an old university friend who was in town for one night only.
“Do you really need to go out tonight?” Xabi asked from the doorway of the bedroom. He wasn’t asking. He was assessing.
She turned, forcing a bright smile. “It’s just for an hour or two. Lucy’s flight leaves early tomorrow. I promised.”
He moved into the room, his expression soft but his eyes watchful. “It’s getting late. And you look tired, my love. Wouldn’t you rather have a quiet night in? Just us?” He reached for her, his fingers circling her wrist. His grip was firm, not painful, but absolute. The message was clear: Stop. Stay.
“Xabi, it’s just a quick drink,” she said, her voice tighter than she intended.
His thumb stroked the delicate skin of her inner wrist, right over her pounding pulse. “I don’t like the thought of you out there without me,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that intimate, hypnotic register that always made her knees weak. “What if something happened? A car, a drunk man, some… opportunist? What if someone tried to take you away from me?” The fear in his voice wasn’t logical; it was a consuming, monstrous thing that filled the room.
Her lips parted, but the protest died on her tongue. How could she argue against a terror that seemed so real to him? To dismiss his fear would be to dismiss him.
“I only want you safe,” he whispered, pulling her closer, his lips brushing her forehead. “And you’re safest with me. Here. Where I can protect you.”
That night, with a hollow feeling in her stomach, she texted Lucy an apology, citing a sudden migraine. When she put her phone down, Xabi’s smile was a reward, warm and approving. He drew her into his arms. “My good girl,” he murmured into her hair. The victory felt like a defeat, but his embrace felt like a homecoming. The boundaries of her world had just shrunk, and he was the only landscape left.
Her camera had always been her sanctuary. Through its lens, she framed the world as she saw it: full of motion, emotion, and fleeting beauty. It was her art, her voice, her freedom. She spent a morning taking candid shots of life around his house, the way the light fell through the large windows onto the hardwood floor, the steam rising from his coffee cup, a book left spine-up on the armchair.
It was a quiet, personal project. She finished the roll and left the camera on the table, planning to develop it later in the week.
She woke the next morning to find the bed beside her empty. Stretching, she padded out to the dining area, expecting to find him reading the paper or already on a call.
Instead, she found her art laid bare across the sleek surface of the table. Dozens of photographs, still smelling faintly of chemical developer. But they weren’t her photos of light and shadow.
They were of her.
Images she had never taken. Her, asleep, lips slightly parted, the sheet tangled around her waist, one arm flung above her head. Her, fresh from the shower, a towel wrapped around her head, another around her body, her face bare and makeup-free as she studied her reflection in the foggy mirror.
Her, curled in the window nook, completely absorbed in a novel, a shaft of afternoon sun gilding her profile. Her, laughing at something on her phone, a genuine, unguarded moment of joy.
Every intimate, private moment she believed was hers alone had been stolen, caught through his lens. The violation was so profound it stole the air from her lungs.
Her throat tightened, a sickening dread coiling in her stomach. She picked up the one of her sleeping, her fingers trembling. The composition was perfect, the focus exquisite. He had a photographer’s eye. He’d been watching, waiting, hiding, capturing her in her most vulnerable states.
“You’re so beautiful when you don’t know I’m watching.”
His voice, soft and reverent, came from behind her. She hadn’t heard him approach. His arms looped around her waist, pulling her back against his solid chest. His breath warmed the shell of her ear.
She stood rigid in his embrace, the photograph a damning piece of evidence in her hand. “Xabi… where did you ...? How long have you ...?”
“I couldn’t resist,” he murmured, as if it were the most natural confession in the world. He nuzzled her neck, his lips finding that sensitive spot just below her ear. “You move through this house like a dream. I see you, and I have to capture it. I have to keep it.” His hand splayed across her stomach, possessive and claiming.
Her pulse raced, a frantic bird beating against a cage. She wanted to protest, to shove the photos off the table, to scream that it was invasive, a violation of trust, of privacy, of her. But the words wouldn’t come. His lips were on her skin, his voice a low, hypnotic prayer whispered against her.
“You belong to me in every frame, angelito. Every second of your life, even the ones you think I don’t see… they’re all mine.”
He turned her in his arms, his eyes scanning her face, reading the conflict there, the shock, the fear, and beneath it, a terrifying flicker of arousal at being so utterly desired, so completely consumed. He saw it, and he smiled. He kissed her, deep and claiming, and the photographs lay forgotten on the table between them, a testament to the fact that nothing of her was truly hers anymore.
The weight of his obsession began to feel like a lead cloak. The constant check-ins, the subtle criticisms of her friends, the way his eyes would track her across a room at a club function, ensuring no one held her gaze for too long. It was a love that suffocated, a devotion that left bruises on her spirit.
One evening, curled on the sofa with a film playing unnoticed, she found the courage to give voice to the unease. “Xabi?” she began, her voice small.
“Hmm?” His fingers were in her hair, idly twisting a strand.
“Sometimes… it feels like you don’t trust me.”
The room went still. The gentle motion of his fingers stopped. He slowly turned her face toward his, his expression unreadable for a moment before his eyes narrowed, as if she had uttered not a concern, but a profound betrayal. “What did you say?”
She swallowed, her courage wavering. “I just mean… the questions, the photos… it feels like you think I’m going to… do something wrong. Like you don’t trust me to be loyal.”
He leaned closer, the warmth of his body suddenly feeling threatening. His tone was low, laced with a warning she felt in her bones. “You misunderstand me completely. It isn’t you I don’t trust. It’s the world.” His hand came up to cup her cheek, his thumb stroking her skin with a deceptive tenderness.
“It’s the men who stare at you with hungry eyes, who dream of touching what isn’t theirs. It’s the women who whisper behind your back, pretending to be your friend while they wait for you to falter, so they can pick up the pieces.” His gaze was intense, fervent. “Don’t you see, my love? They all want something from you. They want to take you from me. They see your light, and they want to extinguish it, or worse, claim it for themselves. My only sin is that I love you too much to let that happen.”
Her chest ached, a painful twist of emotions. It was madness. It was paranoia. And yet, framed as the ultimate protection, as the highest form of love, it was so seductive. He made her feel like the most precious, fragile thing in a world full of threats, and he was her only shelter. The fear was still there, a cold knot in her stomach, but it was tangled with an overwhelming ache for him, for the man who loved her so desperately it broke him.
“But they can’t,” she whispered, the fight draining out of her, replaced by a weary need for his approval. “No one can. Because I love you.”
His expression softened, but only just. The intensity in his eyes didn’t lessen; it shifted, becoming something darker, more victorious. He cupped her face in both hands, forcing her to meet his gaze, to fall into the dark, possessive depths. “Say it again.”
“I love you,” she whispered, her voice trembling with the truth of it, and the terror of it.
He smiled then, a dark, beautiful, triumphant smile. “Good.” He leaned in, his lips a breath from hers. “That’s all I need to hear. Because you need to understand something, my angel. This isn’t a negotiation. This is forever.”
His voice dropped to a whisper, a vow spoken in the sacred space between them. “If you ever tried to leave me, if you ever let someone poison you against me… I would follow you. To the ends of the earth, through fire and through ruin. There is no world for me without you in it. And there is no world for you that exists beyond my reach. Do you understand?”
The words were a shackle, cold and final. They should have terrified her. And a part of her, deep down, was screaming.
But when his lips claimed hers with a bruising, desperate devotion, when his arms locked around her like iron bands, she melted into him. She kissed him back with a fervor that matched his own, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. The protest died, the fear was swallowed whole by a need so deep it felt like annihilation.
He was her sanctuary and her prison. Her greatest love and her most terrifying fate. And as his lips claimed hers with that familiar urgency, the world around them unraveled. The photographs lay forgotten on the table, a silent testament to her vulnerability as he pulled her closer, crushing her body against his.
The kiss deepened, feverish and demanding. His hands roamed over her sides, slipping under her shirt to explore her skin, feeling the warmth of her body ignite beneath his fingertips. She gasped into his mouth, arching towards him as desire flared, blinding and insatiable.
“God, you’re stunning,” he murmured against her lips, his voice thick with barely concealed hunger. “I can’t help myself. Every part of you calls to me.”
His hands found their way to the hem of her shirt, lifting it over her head before letting it fall to the floor. The cool air met her skin, but the heat radiating from Xabi’s body was intoxicating. He bent slightly, his lips trailing a scorching path down her neck, making her skin prickle with anticipation.
“Xabi…” she breathed, her fingers tangling in his hair, urging him closer. “We should… talk about this.”
“Later,” he groaned, his mouth moving down, kissing the delicate curve of her collarbone, savoring the way her breath quickened with each touch. “Right now, I just want you.”
Then, with a swift, practiced move, he lifted her effortlessly and carried her to the bedroom, pressing her against the wall as the door clicked shut behind them. The atmosphere was thick with desperation, charged with every unspoken need that had built between them over the weeks.
“You belong to me,” he repeated, his tone dark and fervent as he pinned her there with his body, a challenge laced in his voice. “And tonight, I’m going to show you just how much.” He captured her lips again, deepening the kiss, their mouths moving in a sinuous rhythm as she melted against him, feeling the strength of his desire igniting her own.
As he pulled back for a moment, a smirk tugged at his lips. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this,” he murmured, before pulling her into an even hotter kiss, his hands roaming down to her waist, fingers digging into her hips with the promise of possession.
“Show me,” she gasped in a moment of courage, her heart pounding in her chest as he grinned, that devilish spark igniting his gaze.
“Your wish is my command, angelito,” he whispered, eyes darkened with a mix of lust and something more possessive. Then he descended, his mouth trailing lower, planting fierce kisses down her torso. The heat radiated from his lips, sending shivers coursing through her body.
He paused at the swell of her breasts, glancing up at her as he eagerly captured one in his mouth, sucking and teasing with a skill that made her moan. The world outside faded, leaving only Xabi’s burning gaze and the sweet ache of his mouth.
She gasped, a white-hot wave of pleasure enveloping her as he lavished attention on her, his tongue flicking over her sensitive skin. “You taste heavenly,” he murmured, pulling back just long enough to gaze at her, panting lightly. He continued his trail downward, leaving a path of kisses until he reached the waistband of her skirt.
With deliberate slowness, he unfastened the buttons, his fingers grazing her thighs, and pushed the fabric down, baring her to him. The air felt cool against her heated skin as he pushed her skirt down to her ankles and watched her with fierce intensity.
“Beautiful,” he breathed, eyes drinking in every inch of her body. “You’re all mine.”
She trembled under his gaze, his possessiveness igniting a wild thrill within her. As he slipped a hand around her thigh and lifted it onto his shoulder, she gasped in anticipation of what he would do next.
Without hesitation, he lowered himself to his knees, his hands gripping her thighs firm yet tender. “I want to taste you,” he whispered, eyes filled with want and possessiveness, and before she could respond, he buried his mouth against her, diving into her with fervor.
A gasp escaped her lips as she felt his tongue probe and tease, expertly drawing from her the sweetest sounds he craved. He licked and sucked with precision, alternating rhythms that made her moan, each wave of pleasure spiraling deeper until she was left trembling and gasping beneath him.
“Xabi, please,” she cried out, every nerve ending on fire, the room spinning with desire and need.
He responded with fervor, his strokes growing faster, more insistent, until she could feel the tightening coil inside her threatening to snap. “That’s it, my love. Let go. I want to feel you fall apart for me,” he murmured, the sensation of his voice vibrating through her only pushing her closer to the edge.
With one last powerful flick of his tongue, she cried out, her body arching, pleasure washing over her as she found release. She shuddered, her hands gripping his hair, her legs quaking as he held her steady, guiding her through the waves with practiced skill accompanied by an undeniable possessiveness.
When she finally came down from the high, panting and spent, he rose to his feet, brushing a thumb across her cheek, his eyes still dark with lust. “You look ravishing when you lose yourself like that,” he murmured, the intensity of his gaze igniting the fire within her all over again.
“More, I need more,” she whispered, cheeks flushed with the aftermath of pleasure, her body trembling under the weight of his attention.
“Then more is what you’ll get,” he promised, lips brushing across her ear as he took her hand, guiding her backwards to the bed with a wicked glint in his eyes.
He landed above her, his body a solid wall of heat and muscle, as he captured her lips once again. The kiss grew hungrier, more demanding, as she felt the weight of him settle between her legs, his arousal pressing against her.
“Tell me what you want,” he urged, breathing heavy against her.
“Everything,” she gasped, meeting his intense gaze with equal fire. “I want you, Xabi. Please. Show me how much I’m yours.”
He smiled, a predatory spark in his eye. “Then hold on tight. I’m not holding back.” With that, he entered her in one powerful thrust, burying himself deep inside her, filling her completely and igniting sensations that sparked between them with each movement.
The rhythm of their bodies intertwined, a primal dance that spoke of need, desire, and a possessiveness that felt utterly consuming. They moved in sync with each other, hips colliding, breaths mingling until all that existed was this moment, the two of them, lost in every electrifying touch.
“Xabi,” she cried, her fingers digging into the sheets beside her, feeling the heady rush of pleasure building again. “Just like that… don’t stop.”
He answered her pleas with a fervor that left them both breathless, his body holding nothing back as the pressure between them began to climb once more, spiraling them both deeper into a world that pulsed with passion and an insatiable need for one another.
“Mine,” he groaned, his voice thick with desire. “You’re all mine.”
“Yes,” she gasped, the word a fervent agreement as they moved together, bodies colliding in desperate need. “Always yours.”
They lost themselves to the rhythm, to the heat of their bodies, the moans and gasps intertwining in the air. Each thrust brought them closer, their souls colliding in ways words could never capture. And in that moment, as they reached the peak together, they knew there was no escaping this, no desire to break free from the bond woven between them in passion and possession. She was his. Every frame, every second, every breath. Until the very end.
