#Had fun making this and playing with the background | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

musingsofheaven · 1 day ago

Text

EAT YOUR YOUNG.

summary: You weren’t supposed to matter. But Patrick noticed you anyway. Now he knows your name, your face, your routine. And when you show signs about the ex who wouldn’t leave you alone… He thinks you’re worth killing for. It’s not your fault you trust him. It’s not your fault he makes dinner. You’re lucky, really. He’d do anything for you. Anything.

pairings: killer!patrick zweig x afab!reader

warnings: 13.8k words. mature themes. graphic violence. premeditated murder. stalking. surveillance. dubcon-adjacent tone. food tampering. implied cannibalism. body mutilation. blood and flesh horror. references to emotional and physical abuse (from a past relationship). power imbalance. emotional dependency. unprotected p in v. praise kink. nipple play. mild overstimulation. breeding kink. mild somno-adjacent. read & consume responsibly.

note: I actually finished this a while ago but got stuck on proofreading this. Kept staring at it and overthinking. Originally it was a lot more graphic (especially the killing scenes, I had those written out already), but I ended up toning it down a bit. Thank you for reading. Please check the warnings before reading… 😅

He doesn‘t know your name. Doesn't know you. Never seen you before. Not even familiar with him. He knows he’s never seen you courtside before- not in that seat, not in his line of vision, and definitely not in that hoodie and legs crossed like you’re cold. Like you didn’t even plan to be here. Like you are bored and not enjoying the game. That’s what gets him first- how you don’t look like you belong. Not because you’re out of place. Just untouched by it. Like the noise, the tight skirts, the heat of the match- all of it is background. You have your own world, it seems. You’re scrolling with one headphone in, thumb flicking slowly. You shift when the sun moves, tug your sleeve down, and pick at your phone case like you love them.

He doesn’t realize he’s staring until the ball flies past him, untouched. Patrick blinks, totally distracted. Clears his throat. Focus, fuck, focus. But then someone slides into the seat next to you- loud, late, elbows you like he knows you. Too comfortable. You don’t flinch, but your leg stops bouncing. You're anxious but you don't show it to him. Your phone disappears. The side of your face goes still. Not angry- just resigned... look tired. This smug asshole is wearing a backwards cap. His arm was draped behind your chair like he’d done it before. And Patrick knows the type. The breakup didn’t stick. He's a leech. He still shows up. Still acts like nothing’s changed because there's always an opening. The door that never closed. And you’re letting him. That’s what is infuriating, even though he doesn't know you, he reads the situation, knows what kind of setup you are stuck with.

Of course, he knows this. He’s seen this before. The kind of guy who poisons the air just enough that you stop calling it out. The guy who will drain you out. He's the guy where you will learn to shrink yourself to survive it. Maybe it’s none of his business. Maybe. He's aware of that. He shouldn't have cared. But he saw you before the serve- and that was the mistake. One of his many mistakes in his life. You were never supposed to be in focus. You're supposed to be a glance. Because you're just some... you’re in the box like someone dragged you there- too many tickets, too many “it’ll be fun” texts. Maybe it would’ve been. If he hadn’t noticed. If you weren’t sitting there in that hoodie, sleeves over your hands, headphones around your neck, typing something, deleting it. Not even looking up when they announce his name. Which hurts his ego a little, but that's not the point.

Everyone else claps like he might hear it. But not you. Okay, maybe he's bothered by it. You just sit there. And he should’ve looked away. Bounced in place. Blocked you out. But he doesn’t. He watches your mouth twist when your friend nudges you. Watches your eyes flick up, slow and unimpressed, like you were doing something more important and now he’s in your way. Like his game doesn't matter. You barely move and it drives him crazy. Like you don’t feel it too. Jesus, why would he even look at you every time they announced the scoring?

And then that guy. Loud. Smirking. Maybe too much ego. He also has a lot of ego, but he's not like that. Not sliding into your airspace like he owns it. Patrick sees the way you fold in, pull your shoulders up. You don’t smile. Don’t lean in. But you don’t push him away either. You just let it be. Maybe he was someone once- someone who saw you cry. Someone who still texts even when you never answer. He talks close to your mouth. You laugh, but it’s hollow. Patrick can smell it. You’re not scared. You’re tired. And that kind of tired makes men bold. Makes them confident. Makes them feel powerful.

Patrick forgets the court. Forgets the match. He’s supposed to win today- clean. But there’s something hot in his jaw. Something sour in his gut. He cracks his neck like it’ll shake the feeling loose. It doesn’t. He doesn’t even know you. But you’re soft. And someone’s already wrecked that. And he hates it. And he’ll fix it. Sooner or later.

You leave before the match ends. Of course you do. You’re not screaming or filming or wearing merch. You’re just there. Crossed legs. Half-scrolling. Like someone dragged you to a sports bar and didn’t tell you why. Your friend’s the fan- squealing at the good plays. You’re just in the photo. Then the guy grabs your wrist. Doesn’t even glance at the court. Just pulls. You don’t argue. Don’t look back. You just go. Like none of it mattered to you in the first place.

That should’ve been the end of it, right? Match over, crowd on their feet, sweat still clinging to his neck. That's what he thinks, but Patrick’s still buzzing. Still hot. And you’re gone. Not just out of sight- out of reach too. Slipped through like steam. He doesn’t know why that bothers him, it's not like you're his girlfriend. He doesn’t know why he even looked, but your friends are still there. Still laughing and just let you leave like it's a normal thing. Like it's a tendency you always do. Still near the exit like nothing just tore through him mid-serve. So he walks. Not to fans. Not to cameras. Straight to them.

They see him fast. The loud one freezes mid-sip. Her friend elbows her. Patrick smiles like this is normal. “You guys were courtside, right?” His question sounds so casual. Like he’s not already fishing for information. The loud one lights up. “Yes! I told you- oh my god, I told you!” Already talking too much. Being all jumpy and excited. Says she dragged the group here. Says she made them come. Someone groans, says she’s said that six times. He hums before asking, “Dragged them?” She nods fast like an eager puppy. “My best friend doesn’t even like tennis. She literally left in the middle.”

He feigns surprise. “She left?” Another girl cuts in, voice flat: “With her ex.” He doesn’t flinch because he's right at guessing that it was your ex. “She ditched you mid-match?” The loud one holds up her phone like proof. “Yeah- here. White sweater. That’s her.” He barely glances. He already knows. “She’s the one in the corner?” Asking like he didn't even see her earlier. “The one who left,” she confirms. Then he asks, trying to be smooth and not harmful, “What’s her name?”

They give it. Full name. No pause. The one you wiped from socials. The one that only lives on mail and ID forms. You need to change your friends because they really gave you away. He nods, like he’s filing it away. Smiles for the camera. Like a good player, he is. Tag them. Let's them scream. But not long after he got what he wanted, he was already gone.

By the time his Uber’s halfway to the hotel, he’s on your social. One click from the tag and there you are. Easy. Unguarded. Sloppy. Real. Like you didn’t think anyone important would ever look. But he’s looking. And now he can’t stop. Just taking a look at anything he can find. It doesn’t take long actually. A few scrolls. Your college. Major. A blurry concert selfie. A liked tweet about throwing your prof into traffic. Then it tilts. A second account. TikToks with too-honest captions. A playlist. A mirror selfie- legs tucked, mouth soft, someone’s elbow just barely in frame. Cropped, but not enough.

It’s him. Same watch. Same slouch like your space belongs to him. Patrick knows the type. The ex who lingers. Exes who don't want you to move on. Who walks like time didn’t pass. Like your name’s still his. He scrolls faster. Screenshots everything he can find. Finds him. Tagged photos. Everywhere. Hotel mirror. Your legs are in a robe. Two toothbrushes are on the sink. They’re still up. He stares, but he's not jealous. It's something else. A darker thing. A creep creeps under his ribs. Heat in his jaw, his fists, his throat. You’re not with the guy anymore. Doesn’t matter. Not when someone else got there first. Not when someone else saw you soft and didn’t care. Patrick didn’t mean to want this. Didn’t plan it. But now you’re everywhere. In his hands. In his teeth. You gave him everything- your name, your face, your friends, your weekend. You walked away. But you didn’t vanish. And he's getting delusional.

Well, here he is... close to you. But he doesn’t mean to run into you. Not really. Not after spending the night watching your Instagram like it's breathing. Not after scrolling through your tagged photos and memorizing people from there. Not even when he heads down to the lobby past midnight for a cigarette. Coincidence, yeah, that’s what he tells himself. Until you walk in. The hoodie is too big. Mascara smeared. Hair messt that says don’t fucking talk to me. You look wrecked. Crying or fucking. Or both. Don't want to know.

You don’t see him until he steps out of the shadow, cigarette nearly out. He doesn’t say your name. Just, “Hey. You were at the match earlier, right?” Casual. Just curious. Just observant. God, he hopes he doesn't sound like a creep. You blink. “Huh?” He shrugs. “With your friends. One of them had a tennis shirt something.” You sigh and nod before chuckling, “Jesus. Yeah. Sorry- I, yeah. My friend’s obsessed.”

He hums like it’s news. “You’re not a fan?” You shake your head. “Not really.” He smiles. “Didn’t think so.” You squint. “Wait- were you playing?” He nods. “Patrick.” You huff a tired laugh. “Shit. Sorry. Didn’t recognize you.” He could probably guess that you don't, but it doesn't really hurt or bother him. “It’s late,” he says. “It is,” you echo. You shift on your feet, scraped thin. He wonders if the ex is upstairs. If you came back to cry. “Everything okay?” he asks. Softly. Not really pushing. Just enough for you to shrug off or answer. You pause. “Not really.” He doesn’t press. Just flicks the cigarette, nods at the bench. “You want to sit?” You glance. Then sit.

That’s the shift. The turn. You talk- slow, hesitant, too tired to keep the mask on. He listens. Doesn’t ask your name. Just waits. And when you finally stand, brushing your hands down your thighs like you’re putting the weight back on, he watches like he’s memorizing something. Then, just before you go, he lifts a brow. “You on IG?” You blink. “What?” He shrugs. “Didn’t catch your name earlier. Thought I’d follow you.” No pressure. But it still feels like pressure.

You pause. Then you give it. Because he doesn’t feel dangerous. But he is- just patient. The next morning, he DMs you: Was that your walk-of-shame fit or your signature style? You wait, then answer: Bold coming from a man in tube socks. That’s all it takes. That's where it all starts. The gate. The hook, line, and sinker. You feel like water. He plays it perfectly- just enough to stay near, never enough to draw attention. A heart in your story. A sarcastic reply. A meme at 1 AM. A blurry mirror selfie with a kill me caption. He's the guy you can easily get close to because he's easy to talk to. Like he knows all the strings. You laugh. You answer. You send photos back- nothing posed. A messy corner. Your foot is under a blanket. Iced coffee is sweating in your lap.

He saves them. He loves them. God, he's obsessed with them. Jerks off to your selfies like they’re sacred- licks his palm, strokes slow, your story lighting up his screen. He can be one of those freaks you may see on television. Your voice is worse in his case. A FaceTime while you’re tipsy, brushing your teeth with a towel. He waits until you hang up, already touching himself, replaying the part where you yawn and say, I wish you were here, until he’s coming, mouthing your name. You don’t know any of this. To you, he’s just that weird, funny tennis guy who always texts back.

You mentioned him to someone, but he doesn't know that. Maybe you said something like... yeah, I’ve been talking to this pro tennis player. I know. It’s dumb. Your friends laugh though. They don’t believe you. You don’t correct them. You don't really give a fuck about it. It’s not about proving anything. You like that he’s yours- quietly. Maybe. Maybe you're getting used to talking to him every day in chats, calls, or FaceTime. That he remembers the breakup, the ferret, the TA who smells old and expired cologne. That he listens like it matters.

You start looking forward to his messages. Noticing when they don’t come. Dressing better in your stories. Maybe a thirst trap if you are bold. Watching his reactions. Smiling at your phone. It’s nothing. Casual. You’re not together. But he’s there- in your day, your pocket, your bed when you whisper, “Are you awake?” And he is. Always. For you. Some nights, you stare at your phone and think: If he asked me to fly out tomorrow, I wouldn’t pack. I’d just go.

And yeah. It happened. But it's the other way around. It starts like this: “I’m in your city. 2:14AM.” You’re half-drunk on a couch that isn’t yours. “Wanna get a drink?” Casual. Like he didn’t see your tagged location an hour ago before sending that message. Still- you say yes and end up being a date. The first date is quiet. Hoodie and cap. You’re too busy trying not to stare at his mouth. You take a booth and talk until close. He asks the right questions. You laugh. He buys two drinks. Doesn’t touch you once. Just listening to you and talking to you like real adults do. Probably looks like he's so invested and getting to know you. Until he walks you home. You stop outside your building. Kiss his cheek- thank you, goodnight. He smiles. Doesn’t push. But you feel it. That shift. That which stays under your skin.

You fuck him after the third date. Invite him over. Not really expensive and all kinds of dates. Intimate. Cook something half-hearted. He does the dishes. You sit barefoot on the counter, no bra. He turns to say something- but you’re already sliding down. You kiss him. Hard. He gives in like he’s starving. Carries you to bed. The sex is slow. Measured. But raw. His hands shake when he spreads your legs. He moans into your cunt. You come with your hand in his hair, his teeth at your thigh. Your pleasure first, he said. He fucks you after. When he comes, he bites your shoulder. Barely. Like instinct. You wake up in his shirt. He makes coffee. After that, it just happens. When he’s in town, he’s at your place. Just a text: Landing soon. Still like Pinot? Takeout or are you feeding me? Then he’s back- shoes half-off, hands on you.

He tells you stories. A moment with his mom. A dog that ran away. You believe him. It’s easier than being suspicious. You soft-launch him: a wine glass, a blurry elbow. He never posts back to you. Always “busy.” But he answers. Shows up unannounced. Keeps you hidden- not like a secret, like something fragile. Says you’re his calm. That you don’t ask for anything. You tell yourself it’s enough. Even when it isn’t.

When the summer ends. Your dorm is empty. Then he texts- “Come with me.” You call. He picks up too fast. “Need me to book it?” You laugh. Say yes. You don’t know he already picked the dates. The trip blurs. Cities stop mattering. He pays for everything- hotels, wine, whatever you need. You offer once. “Don’t insult me”, he says, but he's just teasing you. You laugh, but something twists. He fucks you everywhere. Sometimes he just watches. When he finishes, he mouths something into your skin. Always the same. Always too quiet. You try to hear it. Can’t. You let him braid your hair. Let him fuck you rough. You think it’s love. But it’s too late.

You don’t see the cracks. He never leaves his phone out. But he knows your passwords. Knows your cousin’s boyfriend. Knows your ex is back before you do. While you sleep, he scrolls- old photos, old chats. He knows what your bedroom looked like at sixteen. That your favorite teacher died. He’s building you from the inside out. And you’re still smiling. Still whispering, I’ve never felt this safe, like it’s a blessing. Not a trap. Because he’s sweet. He makes you coffee. Let you sleep in. Touches you just to watch you flinch. You laugh. Call him insatiable. You think it’s love. But it’s colder. Sharper. You don’t see the fake IDs. Don’t ask why his phone never rings. When he says, No one’s ever gotten this close, you smile. Let him in. And that’s exactly what he wanted.

The relationship is okay. Got even closer. Got more comfortable with him. And now? It starts after a FaceTime call. You’re in bed, voice slow and sleepy, tucked in the kind of way that makes him feel like your city’s the only place he can breathe. He’s still in his hotel- post-match sweat drying, skyline behind him, TV on mute. The first thing he touched when he came back was his phone. Told you he wants to see your face, that he misses you. Of course, you miss him too and you don't really have anything to do so you accept the FaceTime call. You ask if he’s coming back for the off-season. He pretends to think, but you both know. “Yeah,” he says, eyes low. “I think I’ll stay for a while. Your city’s nice.” You smiled into the pillow when he said that. Happy that you'll be with him longer. He always tries to memorize that smile. You say you’d like that. Ask how long. He shrugs. “Long enough to fix some things.” You don’t ask what he means. But something in the way he says it lingers. And when he got there? He starts small- intentions folded like linen, nothing rushed. Just the start of a quiet storm.

Because there’s a man. One you never talk about. Patrick saw him gripping your wrist too tightly the first time he saw you. The one you brushed off with a shrug and a smile. The one who still views your stories the second they go up. Your ex- the violent, obsessive one. The one who made you small. Patrick doesn’t ask about him. He doesn’t need to. He already knows the story. He just watches. Then he begins. Quiet. Always searching for something. Deletes searches. Uses burner tabs. Wipes metadata like instinct. The obsession grows slowly, like he's too eager to want it to be perfect, to be precise. He starts with fiction: Hannibal, You, Dexter. Not for flair- for process. Ritual. Control. Maybe get some ideas from it. At night, he watches documentaries- unsolved murders, killers who prepped, studied, and perfected. There’s calm in their madness he understands. He dives deep: forums, tutorials, subreddits on disposal and blood spray, books on decomposition and forensics. He highlights passages. Rereads them like he's studying for board exams.

He learns the man’s schedule. The layout of his building. The doorman’s smoke breaks. He maps blind spots, times deliveries, studies routines like game tape- clinical, obsessive. He tests gloves. The good ones. Practice knots. How to tie someone. How to tie when you have a wound. Times the knife. He rents a basement flat two neighborhoods over. Concrete floors. No cameras. Cash only. Shady one. The kind of place that hums with pipes and disappears from people. Inside: bleach, rope, gloves, tape, wipes. A mini fridge. A comforter that's already there. A duffle packed with precision. Nothing extra. Just a boring shirt, deodorant, and drugstore soap. (He’ll toss it anyway.)

He buys everything slowly- different stores, cities, and aliases. Pays cash. Burns receipts. Bags double-wiped and folded flat. No prints. Even the gear breaks into parts. It lives in a crate marked TENNIS STRING + TENSION TOOLS, tucked between rackets and sweatbands. Make it look like a tennis thing. Looks normal. Because it’s not rage. Not jealousy. It’s control. Preparation. Something that’s his. He watches the man’s socials like clockwork. Never from his own account- he’s careful. Uses a fake: mutuals, old photos, just real enough. That’s where he sees it. Wednesday, 11:42 AM. Blurry cake. Two candles. Caption: “Nan’s bday. Family thing all day lol.” Perfect. He waits thirty minutes. Then moves.

Midday. Bright sky. Business casual. Wig under a plain cap. Short cut, light contacts, pale foundation over fake tan. Layered clothes shift his build, boots tweak his height. Hoodie’s neutral. The coffee cup’s a prop. His voice- low, bored, and forgettable. Make him look different. Not Patrick Zweig. At the gate, he buzzes. No name. Says he saw a listing. Just moved. Looking for quiet. The caretaker opens up. “Try 2C. Layout’s the same.” Patrick nods. That's a good one. He feels like every layout of it is the same for the furnitures inside.

Inside, he moves like he cares. Like he is really interested in moving in. But he’s tracking everything: creaks, locks, smells. Mailboxes. Shoes at the door. “Anyone stay up late?” he asks. “Mostly early risers,” the guy shrugs. Patrick nods. “That’s good. Just need quiet.” The tour lasts six minutes. No name. No number. Just, “I’ll think about it.” Doesn’t look back. He already knows the layout. No mess. No panic. Just a clean grab. The kind he’s practiced- like other people practice falling in love.

In his mind, the first kill wasn’t about chaos- it was about stillness. It's focus. Especially if it's planned. If it's not a sudden one. The one you will feel guilty doing. It is kind of cold that tightens the skin and thins the breath. It wasn’t about the scream or the way a body jerks when silence breaks. Patrick wanted it quiet. Methodical. Intimate. He needed to feel life leave with precision- not for power, but to know what it meant to step over a boundary like it was nothing. That’s why he went for the wrist first- anatomical, strategic. Just want to make it hurt. Control lives in the limbs; silence in the throat. He grabbed the arm mid-step and pulled until it cracked backward. Not just broken- dislocated, tenting the skin wrong. The grunt that followed was sharp, dazed, like pain had just arrived. He reacted like a fucking girl getting fucked.

“W-wait- fuck, man, what the fuck are you- ” That voice men use when they still think reason might save them. Well it won't save his ass this time. Not when he already turned the kill switch of being guilty about it. That he will pity this piece of shit. Patrick didn’t respond. Just stepped in, palm to chin, and twisted- quick, brutal. The jaw cracked out of alignment, tongue caught, mouth hanging open like a trap that forgot how to close.

Then the knife. Not a rage-stab, not messy- a tool, chosen after weeks of testing grips, weights, edges. Curved like a scalpel, thin enough to slip between ribs. Sharp enough to use in things like this. He drove it in with purpose- under the rib, angled up. Yeah, he learned where it would hurt the most when the knife pressed. But it's not a wild lunge. Just calm insertion. The way butchers work. Inside, it slid clean. Warm meat. Soft tissue. No spray- just a slow hiss, like air escaping a balloon. The blood pooled steadily, not dramatically. Not like a shaken champagne when it gets opened. A red thread trailed down like a ribbon. Almost pretty.

The man stumbled, knees gone and wobbly, breath broken, and hit the floor sideways. One hand twitched in a last protest, then stillness. Patrick knelt beside him, unhurried. His heart wasn’t racing- it was settling. He brushed damp hair from his forehead and looked down like he was studying an old photograph. A bruise was already blooming where he used to grab you too tightly- wrist, throat. Patrick smiled. Soft. Private. Like something inside him finally unknotted.

He unzipped the duffel. No panic. Just routine. The sterilized kit opened clean. He lifted the leg by the knee. The jeans were half-off, fabric was dark. He peeled them down further, exposing the thigh- pale, veined, still warm. Pressed a palm to it, testing the give, then cut. A clean crescent, two fingers wide. He slid the blade beneath the skin, separating it from the muscle- slow, steady. No spray. Just a bloom. He held the slice to the light, then folded it into a tin. Not a trophy. Not rage. Just process. Something to keep. Not the man- never the man. Just the flesh.

Made it look like a mugging- nothing more. He wore a sealed base layer, a thrifted hoodie, and jeans. Gloves: nitrile under leather. Boots: two sizes too big, stuffed with paper. Bought for this. No prints. No skin. He didn’t break the window until after. Corner scored. A gloved elbow, glass spilling in. Forced entry. Inside, a few drawers open, a lamp knocked over, a chair nudged. Just enough to suggest chaos.

He wiped the phone, removed the SIM, and crushed it. Sliced out the GPS chip, fed it to the disposal. The thigh wound- deliberate, clean- was hidden. Pants refastened. Just a stain. The missing flesh? No one would notice. Not until autopsy. And even then- it would look jagged. Accidental. Nothing sacred. Nothing stolen.

When he’s done, he opens the fridge, takes a beer, and leaves it half-finished- poured but untouched- on the counter, like someone panicked mid-theft. He wipes it clean. Even the bottle cap is gone. Then he slips out the back, loops through the alley, crosses two streets, and ducks into a delivery alcove between dumpsters. Just enough cover.

There, he changes fast. Shirt, pants, boots- everything that touched what he did- folded into a heavy-duty plastic bag. Gloves, mask, sleeves- sealed. The tin goes in last, not in the burn bag but the duffel, separate. Still double-wrapped, tucked beneath a towel like a relic. Preserved. The new clothes are plain: zip jacket, clean sneakers, surgical mask, same cap. Nothing traceable. Just a guy running errands. He slides the trash into the duffel, zipped opposite the tin. Three blocks later, he reaches the rental parked under a flickering streetlamp. No cameras. No traffic. Just dead space near condemned buildings. The car is basic, rented a week ago under a fake name, and paid in full. Always clean. Always untouched.

He drives under the speed limit, hands steady, making two legal turns just to avoid an empty intersection. No sirens, no phone. The real one stays off so no location traced. Eventually, he pulls into the industrial zone- rail yards, warped fencing, nothing alive. He parks deep. Engine running. Headlights off. He opens the duffel and drops everything- clothes, gloves, knife- into a rusted oil drum. The tin stays. He soaks the pile in gasoline and lights it. Flame curls plastic into smoke. When it’s ash, he seals the trash bag and stows it in the trunk. The burner phone snaps in half, SIMless, tossed in a storm drain. The rental stays for now. Still clean. Still boring.

By dawn, he’s home. Basement flat. Concrete floors. Mattress on the ground. Fridge that hums like it’s dying. He showers twice. Scrub nails. Flushes his nose. Ditches the contacts. Every hair accounted for. He files down the callus the boots left on his toe. And in the freezer, sealed in a separate tin: the piece he took. Still warm when he stole it. Wrapped in gauze. Preserved. Untouched. No one will know. No one will tie it to Patrick Zweig because how can they even tie it to him?

He doesn’t sleep after that. Can't. Just sends a text before leaving: good morning, baby ❤️ / thought I’d grab groceries / text me when you wake. You’re still out since 2:44 a.m., wine in hand, lashes low from a picture you sent earlier when he's breaking your ex's wrist. You fell asleep safe. Unaware. Still, he sends the message. Routine.

By sunrise, he’s dressed again. Hoodie zipped just enough to shadow his mouth. Same baseball cap. The city is soft and slow, still half-asleep. He moves like a ghost. No breath fogs the glass. He drives with silently. Same rental. Clean. The duffel was zipped in the trunk. He parks three lots away and walks the rest of- hood up, head down. Still too early to be seen. Just sleepy couples and men in visors. The store opens. Fluorescents bloom. He grabs a basket. No rush. Muscle memory.

It’s a nice store. Too quiet for the morning. People look minding their own business. Soft music. Lavender and basil in the air. He starts with produce- rosemary, thyme, garlic, shallots. He rolls one in his palm, reading it. Near the pastry: pappardelle. Flour-dusted. He tilts the tray, watching the noodles shift. Intentional. Next: tomato paste. Imported. Blood-thick. He drops it in.

The cheese counter girl smiles. “Parmigiano?” she asks. “Shaved,” he says. She wraps it. Hand it over. Her eyes linger. He doesn’t look up. Just nods. “Thanks.” Then wine. He lingers. Finger bottles. Watches the red cling to the neck. Picks one. At the butcher: “Two pounds boneless short rib,” he says. “Trimmed?” He shakes his head at the question. “No. And half-pound pork belly.” His voice stays low. Certain. The paper’s thick. Folded neatly.

Then dairy. Foil-wrapped French butter. He presses his thumb- cold, dense, soft enough to melt. Tools next. Disposable knife, two cutting boards, gloves, vacuum bags, and bleach spray. All of it clockwork. Steadying. Then- a black takeout container. Glossy. Fancy without trying. Enough to hold what matters. Small enough to ignore.

Before checkout, he doubles back for sea salt. Flaked. In a gold tin. Hand-harvested. Pretentious. Unnecessary. He takes it anyway. For you. Self-checkout is fast. Cash only. No receipt. The bag’s heavier than it looks- by design. He wipes the screen. No prints. No trail. The day unfolds like nothing happened. like no one’s missing. Like no one will ever look at him twice.

Outside, the sun is sharp now. Too bright enough to be annoying. He walks the last stretch to the car like nothing matters. Grocery bag swinging from one hand- glass bottle tapping plastic, pasta sliding gently inside its tray. His face is blank. Shoulders loose. No rush. No tension. The world doesn’t know it should be afraid of him yet. The rental’s still where he left it- three lots over, behind a closed appliance store. No cameras, no foot traffic. He's really careful with the things he's doing. He opens the trunk, sets the bag inside, and shuts it softly. Slides into the driver’s seat. Your reply buzzes in: What’s for dinner? 😚 He types, deletes, rewrites: just wait. You’re gonna love this. Then starts the engine, window cracked, driving like he’s lived here forever.

The streets are busier now. More alive. Kids with cones. Men walking dogs. People running or jogging. The delivery truck was idling crookedly. The city doesn’t stop for him- and he prefers it that way. The car is boring, clean, and quiet. No playlist. No voice memo. Just the hum of routine. Seven minutes later, he’s back to his shitty temporary place. He doesn't really sleep there, just when he's planning things. Two neighborhoods away. Quiet block. No cameras. He pulls in slowly, wheels crunching gravel, and parks behind the alley wall. Shuts the engine and looks around. Cracks the door open. The bag thumps once against his thigh. One motion for the gate. Another for the door. Pipes make sounds as he steps inside, like the building knows him now. Like knows how rotten he is inside. How dark.

He doesn’t take off his jacket. Doesn’t pour the wine. He moves straight to the fridge- small, matte black, chosen for its separate freezer. Cold enough to burn your skin if you touch the back wall. He opens it. Not really smelling yet. Still fresh. Blood. It's like just an animal after being butchered. The tin is still there. Gauze white, lid tight. Metal cold as bone. He sets it beside the bag and begins. He pulls items from the grocery bag one by one. Paring knife- still sealed. He tears it open with his teeth. Cutting boards- white and red. The black takeout container- snapped open, just let it sit and wait. The rest stays in the bag. For now, anyway. He washes his hands. Fingertips to wrist. No gloves. He likes it better this way. Then unwraps the meat. Short rib first. Pork belly second. Spread out on the white cutting board, marbled and dense. He squares the rib, feels the grain, and cuts- clean, slow, practiced. Not sawing. Just slicing. Just like what he saw from cooking tutorials how to cut the meat for this specific meal. The fibers split like cloth. Cubed, measured. Wiped clean.

The pork belly is firmer, slicker. He scores it shallow- crosshatched for marinade- then slices smaller than the rib. It should melt. It was felt more than tasted. He transfers both cuts to the container- first the belly, then the rib. Setting it aside for marinating later. The container swallows it whole, made for this. Glossy. Black. Innocent. Then he reaches for the tin. Still cold. He sets it on the red board, steadies it, and lifts the lid. The gauze is still tight- careful, reverent. He unwraps it slowly. The flesh inside is pale, blushed with frost. Not frozen. Pliable. Tender. He doesn’t hesitate. Slide the blade beneath the skin. Begins to peel. The skin lifts in strips. Some clean, some stubborn. A little hair- fine, like the back of a wrist. He scrapes it too. Then flays the rest. Pink at the edges. Firmer than veal, softer than pork. He inspects the grain. Begins to cut. Not chunks. Too noticeable. He slices thin- smaller than the belly, close but not identical. He wants it to vanish in sauce, to be mistaken for something familiar. The blade moves confidently. Like he’s done this before. Because he has.

And when he’s done, it doesn’t look like a person. It looks like meat. Just animal meat. He wipes the blade. Slides the flesh in one handful, then another. It folds gently over the others, pink and soft. Visually distinct, but just enough to disappear. He presses the last bits in with his fingers. No force. No waste. It all fits. The container looks full. Heavy. Meant to be eaten. Like a gift. He wipes his hands, then pulls out what he needs. Rosemary- one sprig. Stripped by hand. Then thyme. Finer. Softer. It dusts the top. A shallot- sliced thin, rings sweetening in the air. Garlic- two cloves. Crushed, peeled, minced. A pinch of sea salt. Big flakes. Bright. They stick where they land.

He opens the tomato paste. Scoops a small amount. Scrapes it over the top. Thick. Deep red. Doesn’t mix it. Just let it sit. No oil. That’ll come later. From your kitchen. He knows what’s there. The meat is streaked now. Red, glossed with shallot, dusted with herbs. It’s starting to look like dinner. Smells like something someone would want. He seals the lid. Tight. Let it sit. Let it sink. Let it become. He cleans like it’s all muscle memory. Like the end is just as sacred as the act. Red board first- slick with meat juices. Then white- flayed, marked, ghosting what used to be skin. He rinses both under hot water, sprays, and scrubs until nothing sticks. Then snaps them in half. One clean crack. Two. Plastic splitting like bone. The knife- disposable, blade dulled- gets rinsed, wiped, and wrapped in a paper towel. The tin too. Cold. Hollow. Emptied now. He holds it for a second, then drops it in the bag like it means nothing. Because it doesn’t anymore.

The skin follows. Wrapped tightly in the same butcher paper that the pork belly came in. Folded neatly. Gloved once. Bare-handed now. It goes in with the rest. The butter foil. Garlic ends. Shallot skins. The first chocolate wrapper he opened but never ate. Everything that touched the process. Everything spent. Then, more. The rest of the flat: mattress, clothes, hoodie, notebook, dying pen. The candle he burned while writing. Lighter. Charger. Toothbrush. Cracked razor. Saline bottle. Tissue pack. Sock. Contact lens wrapper. Swept in. No pause. It all goes into the same bag. The whole life of the place, reduced to garbage. One knot at the top. Tight. No labels. No sorting. Just disposal. Just the final step of something holy.

He slips the grocery bag over his shoulder like it’s nothing- just dinner, just errands, just another quiet evening. The weight rests easily. Familiar. Domestic, even. Like he didn’t just unmake someone hours ago. The other bag- heavier, dense with use- goes in his hand. Gloves, boards, wipes, the tin, the skin. He opens the front door without looking back. The key drops to the mat with a soft clink. That’s it. No second thoughts. The sun’s too high. Too clean. Like it doesn’t know what it swallowed last night. He moves through it steadily, invisible the way men like him are trained to be. The flat door swings shut behind him. Doesn’t echo. Doesn’t matter. At the car, he opens the passenger side first- a grocery bag lies gently on the seat. Pasta shifts, bottle rolls, but everything stays contained. Curated. Innocent. Then he pops the trunk. Lifts the trash with one practiced heave, lets it fall beside the duffel still waiting from last night- silent, zipped, untouched.

The two bags sit together. One was already burned in his mind. The other is about to be. He closes the trunk. Starts the engine. Doesn’t turn on the radio. Doesn’t check his phone. Just exhales once, slow and full, and pulls away like he’s done this before. He drives the route he knows by heart- past half-awake neighborhoods and sun-bleached alleys, broken fences, old warehouses, into the dead zone. Condemned industrial sprawl where no one looks long. The air smells like rust and disuse. The kind of place you can burn a life and no one asks what it was.

He parks deep, where the shadows pool thick. Opens the trunk. Trash first. Then the duffel- lighter now but stained with memory. Both go into the same rusted drum. Lid clanks. He unscrews the gas can- tacky around the lip. Pours until the smell sticks to his sleeves. One flick. One bloom. The flame climbs fast. It eats everything. Wipes. Paper. Gauze. Skin. Every trace. He watches until it curls black and the smoke turns thin. Then gets back in the car. Doesn’t rush. The drive to the rental return is clean. Normal. It’s a weekday lot- quiet, tucked behind a plaza where no one looks twice at a man with a grocery bag and a calm return.

He parks. Checks the seats. No stains. No smell. One glance in the rearview. Then walks inside. Returns the keys. Sign your name on the fake ID. The desk guy nods. “Need a ride anywhere?” Patrick smiles. Shakes his head. “Already called one.” He’s out before the sentence finishes. Outside, the grocery bag hangs from his arm. Wine, pasta, herbs, and meat. Nothing suspicious. Just indulgent. Just sweet. He orders the Uber before the door shuts behind him. The driver’s three minutes away. When it pulls up, he gets in like anyone else. Backseat. Calm. Bag in his lap.

By 1:00 p.m., they’re back in the city. Sun high. Heat rippling off storefronts and car hoods. Patrick doesn’t say a word. Just leans his head back, letting the hum of the car press softly into his temples. He's feeling tired but the adrenaline and the high from all the things he did are still there. The grocery bag is warm now. One hand around the handles. The smell of herbs. The faint, metallic heat of meat marinating slowly in its quiet. It’s sealed. Clean. Safe. But it’s there. All of it. Settling together. Becoming something else.

He texts just before the car turns onto your street: on my way up 🩶. You open the door before he knocks. Hair mussed. The tank top is soft. No shoes. You blink against the light when he steps in golden from outside, like something expensive. You smile, lazily. “Hi,” you say. He smiles back, soft and familiar. “Hi,” he echoes, quieter. He leans in and kisses your cheek, shoulder brushing yours as he slips past, like this has always been his home too. Like he's already too comfortable with the space. The grocery bag rustles as he sets it down on your counter, weighted placement like he’s already thinking ahead. He exhales through his nose, loosening his spine.

“You get everything?” you ask, padding in barefoot behind him after you locked the door. He nods, reaching into the bag. “More than enough,” he says, voice calm. He pulls out fresh pappardelle, herbs, and a black takeout container. You eye it. “What’s that?” you ask. “Pre-marinated,” he says. “Saves time later.” You raise a brow, curious. “Smells intense.” He smiles, eyes flicking to yours. “It will be. Slow-cooked. You’ll love it,” he promises. You lean on the counter, watching him place the sea salt near your stove, then the wine, butter, and head to the fridge. You smile while you are eyeing him, he looks so domestic.

“Is it one of those meals that takes hours?” you ask. Feels like it is because why does he need to marinate it already? He nods. “Yeah. I’ll start it around four.” You’re about to tease him when he pauses. “Did you eat lunch?” he asks, tone careful. He knows you don't. He feels like you woke up late. You blink. “Not yet,” you admit, pouting. He frowns faintly. “Want me to make you something quick? Eggs? Toast?” You tilt your head. “Did you eat?” His smile softens. “I’m fine,” he says. (He hasn’t eaten since before sunrise, but he says it like it doesn’t matter.)

“I can also order,” he offers. You hum before you shake your head. “Eggs sound good,” you tell him. He nods. “Go sit,” he says, voice low but firm. He likes cooking for you, it shows. You laugh and roll your eyes. “You’re so bossy,” you tease. He gives you a look over his shoulder, that quiet, amused curve of mouth. “You say that like you don’t love it,” he replies and huffs. You roll your eyes, but you sit, watching him move- calm, sure, sleeves pushed to the elbow.

There’s silence while the pan warms. Then he says it- casually. “I’m gonna stay here for a while.” You blink. “Here?” He nods. “Your place. I want to be closer to you. Dropped the place I rented. But it's just until the season picks up again.” It hits you warm. “Okay,” you say, smiling and nodding. The lunch is soft, lazy. He makes eggs and toast- simple, warm. He eats just enough to pass for hunger. He just likes sitting across from you.

After, the day stretches. You nap for maybe 30 minutes or an hour on the couch, sun on your legs. He washes the dishes, wipes the counter. At two, he starts cooking while you're sleeping. He doesn't even know how it can last. He hasn't slept since the moment he woke up yesterday. Garlic first, then shallots. Tomato paste blooms in the pan. The meat goes in short ribs, pork. It smells… expensive. You offer to help when you hear him moving around the kitchen. He smiles. “Let me take care of you.”

So you just shower instead while it simmers. Not a date, just something warm. You throw on a loose tee and cotton shorts. Damp hair, no makeup. Just comfortable with him seeing you like this. When you pad back out, the light’s gone gold. The wine bottle’s open. Two glasses poured- yours fuller. He’s leaning against the counter, mouth soft like he’s been smiling to himself. “Hey,” you say.

“You look soft,” he murmurs and smirks. You roll your eyes, but heat blooms anyway. Likes getting complimented by him. He brushes your damp hair behind your ear, kisses your cheekbone. “Hungry?” he asks. You nod and sigh. “Good,” he says. “Almost done.” You settle at the counter, sip your wine. The sauce is thick now, and the meat is tender. He stirs it like it’s sacred, adds butter off-heat. He plates it quietly. You just watch him while he moves around.

He uses the shaved Parmigiano over both bowls, then brings it to you to taste test it. The first bite melts. You hum without meaning to, you almost moan when you taste it honestly. “This is insane,” you say, incredulous. He nods, calm. “Wanted it to taste like something worth staying for,” he says. Before you can respond, he steps in close. His arms slide around your waist, slowly. He lifts you effortlessly. “Patrick- !” you exclaim, laughing and you wrap your legs around him. “You’re ridiculous,” you tease. “And you’re not sitting there,” he says. He sets you down gently in the chair, arms still around your hips. You lean in first. He meets you halfway. The kiss is soft, unhurried. Like a thank you. Just all sweetness. Just love.

When you pull away, your smile stays. You look like a love-sick woman. Can't really help it when you have a tennis player boyfriend that can't breathe when you're not around, yearns for you, take care of you, a great cook and fucks you so good. The light’s soft- gold through the windows. He’s plating with focus. Two dishes. No garnish- just pappardelle curled like silk. He sets yours down first, then his. He pours the wine, deep and syrupy. He doesn’t toast, just clinks, looking at you. You take your first bite. “Holy shit,” you say, breaking the silence. “This is stupid good.” You laugh softly, incredulous. He smiles, quiet and proud.

You eat like you trust him. You moan faintly, without thinking. He just watches, eyes soft. A man who’s cleaned up the mess someone else made of you. A man who made you dinner. You finish before he does. Wipe the corner of your mouth with the pad of your thumb and lean back, bare legs stretched under the table, your wine glass half-full and tilted idly in your hand like you’re debating another sip.

“I should clean up,” you say, not moving. Patrick lifts a brow. “Sit. I’ve got it.” You shake your head, insisting on doing something because you feel bad just sitting the whole time since he arrived. “You cooked. I’ll help.” He starts to get up, and you mirror it, the two of you moving like magnets, bumping hips in the tiny kitchen, laughing softly when your knees knock. You reach for the glasses; he grabs the bowls. “Not the pans,” you say, nudging him. It's messy and disgusting. You feel like he's not also in the mood to clean it though. “That’s a tomorrow problem.” He grins and sighs. “Yeah.” You take the dishes to the sink while he collects the cutlery, wiping the table with a damp cloth, pretending to be productive but really just stalling. You glance over at him, rolled sleeves, back straight, water running hot. The plate in his hand looks small, and the veins in his forearm flex with each movement. He’s quiet and focused, like doing the dishes is some ritual.

You grab the wine bottle and top off your glass, taking a slow sip to let the warmth coat you. You drift, listening to the water, feeling the weight in your stomach, the aftertaste of thyme and tomato. He’s right there, humming under his breath, relaxed in a way that makes your chest ache a little. You move behind him and wrap your arm around his waist while the other free hand of yours is holding the wine glass, just enough for your cheek to press against his shoulder blades. He goes still, then sets the dish down and turns on the faucet. He doesn’t speak; he just lets you hold him there, your arm loose around his stomach.

“You’re warm,” you murmur. “So are you,” he hums before he replies. You chuckle and close your eyes, breathing in the moment. The sink water is still hot, running over his hands, catching the last of the tomato-streaked plates. You kiss his back once, just a small press of lips. He pauses, then resumes, calm and silent. You're feeling needy. Two reasons: you miss him and the wine puts you to be in the mood. You grin to yourself and kiss him again, higher this time, and he exhales, amused.

You hold him tighter, wine glass still in your hand, then set it on the counter beside him. He’s rinsing now, turning off the faucet, shaking the water from his fingers. He reaches for the towel with a rhythm that makes you ache. You shift against him and press another kiss to his spine, then lower- kissing the small of his back, nuzzling there. Your nose brushes the hem of his shirt, and he tenses slightly.

You smile. “You’re doing a good job.” Your tone is playful but sincere. Complementing him. Just acknowledging what he’s doing for you. “Of what?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “Everything.” You nod, emphasizing the warmth in the moment. His breath catches as he folds the towel deliberately, then sets it aside. He turns to face you, and you look up at him, chin tipped, flushed and warm. He raises a hand and brushes a thumb across your bottom lip. “You’re drunk,” he says, studying your face. You shake your head. “Just full.” You're not really drunk. You can't get drunk that fast from the wine. Maybe just feeling looser. “Full,” he echoes, his voice low. “Of me?” His voice drops, a hint of vulnerability. You bite your lip.

He steps closer, and when he kisses you this time, it’s deep and intentional- one hand at your jaw, the other sliding down your waist, gripping your hip. You gasp softly into his mouth, fumbling until your fingertips hit the counter. The wine glass clicks gently as you set it down, too focused on his touch. His mouth doesn’t leave yours; he pulls you closer- hips to hips, his chest warm and steady. His fingers slip beneath the hem of your shirt, slow and aching.

First, at your waist- palm flat, calluses brushing your skin. Then higher, gliding up your stomach until his knuckles skim your ribs. You inhale sharply, and he smiles into your mouth. “Okay?” he murmurs. You nod and press your mouth back to his. “More,” you whisper. He gives it to you, his hand going slow and sure, dragging heat with it- up until his palm slides beneath your breast, fingers curling slightly. You sigh, breathless. His other hand lifts to your throat, just to hold- thumb at your jaw, fingers curved gently behind your neck. Just feeling territorial over you. He kisses you harder now, tongue slow and controlled, like he’s been starving for this and he is. So starving for you. To have you.

He swipes his thumb across your nipple, and you break the kiss with a gasp, breath hitching. He leans in, kisses along your jaw, down your neck. His hand cups your breast again, groping it in his hand, thumb circling your nipple through your shirt, slow and lazy. You make a soft noise- half moan, half whimper- and his mouth curves into it. “Pretty,” he murmurs against your skin. His other hand slides lower, curves around your waist, down to your hip, then your ass, squeezing once, firm. Making it bounce a little. You gasp again, your knees going loose.

You pull him closer, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, fingers sliding into his hair, tugging slightly. He kisses you again, deeper, hungrier. His hand slips under your shirt completely, hot and sure, sliding up your spine. You arch into it instinctively- chest to chest, breath caught. You don’t realize you’re moving until your back bumps the wall. He breathes against your mouth like he planned that, proud of it. But he doesn’t pin you; just kisses you again, slow and open-mouthed. His hand curls into your hair, gripping the base of your neck, while his other palm is full on your breast, squeezing just enough to make you gasp.

Your hands move like instinct. One slides under his shirt- palm pressed flat to his stomach. He twitches, groaning into your mouth. The other hand goes lower, pressing against the front of his jeans. He stutters against your mouth and then kisses you harder, hips pressing into your hand like he’s already aching. You squeeze gently, rubbing once, slowly. “Fuck,” he breathes, voice quiet and hoarse. He pulls you away from the wall, walking you backward, his mouth never leaving yours. Your legs bump the edge of the hallway. He guides you around the corner, not gently, not softly- hungrily. His hand keeps dragging your shirt higher. He doesn’t stop; he just wants more skin.

You don’t stop palming him; you work him through his jeans with deliberate pressure, and he’s rock-hard already, hips flexing into your touch. His cock getting more reactive from your touch. His hand slides up your back again- under your shirt, over your spine, up between your shoulder blades. His other hand stays over your breast, squeezing, thumb brushing your nipple. Your mouths are messy now- wet, open, your lips parting just to inhale each other. He kisses like a man who has nothing left to say, who’s told you everything in the way he fed you, touched you. And you? You kiss him back like you know, like you want it all.

He walks you faster now- still careful, still guiding- but desperate in the way his hips stay pressed to yours. You’re practically tripping backward, your hand leaving his cock only to grab the back of his neck, pulling him back into your mouth. The heat between your legs is sticky now, liquid and throbbing. You ache to sit on him, to be filled. The bedroom stretches open behind you, the door already wide, a lamp casting soft light, the bed waiting like it knew.

Your knees hit the edge of the mattress, but he doesn’t stop kissing you. He doesn’t stop touching you. His palm stays full on your breast, cupping you through your shirt- no bra, just thin fabric- your nipple pressing firm against his thumb as he rubs lazy, taunting circles. His other hand grips your waist, slipping beneath your shirt, fingers splayed wide across your back like he’s holding you together. You gasp into his mouth and moan when he tugs the hem of your shirt upward.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to pull your shirt over your head. You raise your arms without thinking, and it lands somewhere behind you. You’re bare from the waist up now, hair mussed, breathing heavy. Your skin glows in the lamplight- chest flushed, nipples tight, stomach trembling slightly when the cool air hits you. He groans- actually groans- when he sees you, and then leans down, taking one nipple in his mouth, warm and slow and deep. You whimper, fingers threading through his hair as your hips roll against his thigh, reflexive and needy. The soft cotton between your legs sticks wet to your skin, and there’s no hiding it anymore- not the heat, not the mess, not the way you’re already soaked through. “Fuck, Patrick- ” you manage to say, your voice thick with desire.

He hums against your skin and sucks harder. You reach for his shirt, fisting the back of it, then tug. “Off,” you command, urgency lacing your words. Your palm flattens against his chest, trailing down slowly over his ribs, feeling the heat coming off him in waves. Your other hand dips lower, sliding past your waistband, fingers slipping into the soft cotton of your shorts- wet already, clinging, thin enough that your knuckles drag over the slick between your legs almost immediately. But before you can go any further, before you can even press your fingers where you ache, he catches your wrist gently, firmly. He brings your hand to his mouth, kissing your knuckles once- soft, purposeful. “Let me,” he says low, his eyes locked onto yours. You nod, breath caught in your throat.

Then he sinks to his knees, eyes never leaving you as his fingers find the waistband of your shorts. The knot at the front comes loose with one tug, and his hands slide inside- skin to skin- as he pulls them down slowly, dragging the soaked fabric down your thighs, past your knees, watching the way it peels away from you like he’s unwrapping something rare. You’re bare beneath him, just flushed skin and wet heat, glistening where he’s barely even touched you. He breathes out like he’s in pain. “Jesus,” he mutters, taking in the sight of you. You say nothing, just look up at him, your heart racing. He stands, straightening fully, eyes still on yours, hands loose at his sides like he doesn’t know where to touch next- your shoulder, your mouth, your thighs- all of it. He just breathes for a moment, heavy, as you shift on the mattress, legs falling open without thinking.

Now he’s standing between your thighs, bare-chested and flushed, watching you like he might break if you stop. You’re still sitting at the edge of the bed, completely bare, knees parted, your hands still warm from tugging down your shorts. The heat between your legs is slick and obvious, and his eyes flick down for just a second, like he can’t help it, then right back to you. You reach for him slowly, one hand at the button of his jeans, the other dragging lightly up the front of his thigh. He flinches slightly- just the tension, not fear- like your touch is too much. You pop the button and tug the zipper down, the fabric parting. Glancing up at him through your lashes, your palm slides over the front of his boxers, and he’s already so hard you can feel it twitch under your hand.

“God,” he breathes, his voice breaking on your name. You hook your fingers in the waistband, and he lets you drag them down- jeans and boxers both- slow and smooth, the fabric catching briefly at his thighs. He steps out and kicks them aside, standing completely naked, just like you, with his cock heavy and flushed, dripping at the tip. You don’t say anything; you just reach forward and wrap your fingers around him. You stroke once, slow, feeling him pulse in your hand, thick and twitching, the skin warm and stretched. Leaning in, you don’t tease or suck him off; you just want to taste. Your mouth closes over the head- soft and brief- your tongue flicking once across the slit to catch the precome before it drips. His hips jerk, a broken sound leaving his throat. You suck just once, light and slow, like you’re drinking from the source. Then you pull back and lick your lips. “Get on the bed,” you whisper.

His hands are shaking as he moves, climbing back while keeping his eyes locked on yours. His breath is tight in his chest, as if he’s forgotten how to breathe without your body pressed against his. He leans back against the pillows, legs spread slightly, his cock hard and flushed, slick where your mouth has touched him. You follow him up, climbing into his lap, straddling him slowly and deliberately. It feels quiet, as if this isn’t about sex, not really, but about care- about giving back what he’s already given you. You place your hands on his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall beneath your palms. And then you say it, soft and honest: “I want to ride you,” you murmur. “Because you cooked for me.” His breath stutters as you roll your hips over him, not sinking down yet- just pressing your slick heat against the length of his cock. He shudders under you, and you lean in, kissing his cheek, his jaw, his throat. “Because you took care of me.”

He exhales as if he’s been holding his breath all night. His cock rests heavy and flushed against his stomach, already slick and twitching. You shift your hips, sliding slowly over him, your clit catching on the thick ridge as you roll forward, deliberately. Humping it as if it's a pillow. “Because you’re a good boyfriend.” You drag yourself up his length again, slow and smooth, your slick coating his stomach, leaving a trail as you grind against him. His hands grip your thighs, but he doesn’t push; he just holds on and lets you take the lead. “Because you treat me right,” you breathe, your voice warm and dreamy as your hips roll again, your clit barely catching at the tip now. “Because you make me feel loved.” Another drag, another grind. Your breath stutters in your chest, thighs starting to shake from how sensitive you’re becoming. “Because you made me dinner,” you whisper, kissing the corner of his mouth. You press down harder as you rock over him again, and he groans- quiet, broken, desperate. “Because you poured my wine.”

You feel the slick stick as you roll forward, your whole body melting into it, catching him just right. “Because you cleaned up.” Your hands plant against his chest as you lean your weight forward. Your rhythm is steady now- slower and dirtier, a deliberate act of devotion. “Because you let me hold you at the sink,” you murmur. “Because you let me kiss your back.” He gasps, fingers twitching as he watches you with his mouth half-open, eyes glazed like he’s witnessing something sacred. “Because you’re soft with me,” you say next, your voice quieter and breathier. Your clit rubs hard against the head of his cock, and you can’t help but moan, high and gentle, forehead resting against his as your hips move again. “Because you’d do anything I ask,” you whisper, so close that your lips brush against his. “Because you’d never hurt me.” He lets out a choked sound, trembling now, his whole body tense beneath yours.

You reach down between you, taking him in your hand and guiding him to your entrance- just there, resting. You grind one last time, slow and close, his cock sliding along your soaked slit, the tip catching right where you’re warmest. And then you breathe, barely audible, just for him: “Because you deserve it.” That’s what you whisper when you finally stop grinding, lifting your hips to guide him- thick, hot, and twitching against your fingers, both of you breathless and messy. You angle him just right and sink down slowly. The stretch punches the air from your chest, so full, so deep, and you’re not even halfway. He groans like he’s in pain, head falling back against the pillows as his hands grip your hips like they’re the only thing tethering him to this moment. You press your palm to his chest, steadying yourself, and slide down another inch. God, he’s thick; the way he fills you makes your whole body lightheaded.

“F-fuck,” he gasps. “You’re so- fuck, you’re tight.” You bite your lip, breath shaking, loving how he sounds, how he’s trying so hard to stay still, letting you take your time. You settle the rest of the way, hips flush to his, thighs trembling around him, fully seated. All of him is inside you. You breathe. He breathes. Nothing moves for a moment- the room is still, your skin flushed, your mouth hovering just above his. You feel him throb inside you, and your own heartbeat stutters where you're wrapped around him. Then you move, beginning a slow grind, barely lifting off him. You rock forward, letting him feel the heat, the squeeze, the way you clench every time he presses against the spot that’s already burning. His hands slip up your waist and back down- everywhere- like he doesn’t know where to hold on, as if you’re too much.

“You feel so good,” he groans. “So fucking good- ” You smile, lazy and wine-drunk, riding him like you’ve got all the time in the world. “I know,” you murmur. “I wanted you to feel it.” You roll your hips again, slower this time, letting him drag against every inch inside you. His cock twitches, and you moan softly. He’s completely under you- shaky and still- allowing you to move how you want, how you need. You keep it steady: up, down, grind. Your clit brushes against his pelvis every time you seat yourself again, making your head spin. You can’t tell if the slick sounds are coming from him, you, or both; it’s all soaked and sticky and loud in the quiet room. Suddenly, he grabs your face and kisses you hard. You melt into it- your tongue against his, your cunt fluttering around him from the way he moans into your mouth.

You pull back, panting and dazed, your forehead resting against his. The air between you is hot and heavy; every breath makes your chest brush his, your hips shifting instinctively to keep moving on him with shallow, needy rolls. He brushes his knuckles down your cheek, eyes half-lidded, voice low. “Don’t rush it.” You blink and nod, feeling the weight of his words as his hands find your hips again. This time, he holds them firm- not to stop you, just to guide. One thumb presses into the curve of your waist, the other tilting your body slightly forward. “Stay close,” he murmurs. “Grind on me. Real slow. That’s all I want right now.” So you do. You listen and settle into it, starting to move again in small, languid circles, a rhythm that feels like it could last forever. He’s so deep inside you, the drag of every roll catching just enough to make you gasp.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “Don’t lift off me yet. Just stay right there.” Your hands clutch his shoulders as you moan softly, lips parted and skin flushed. His cock feels thick and warm, the pressure hitting deep without the sharpness of a thrust- just this perfect, stretching fullness that makes you feel safe and desperate at once. “You feel so good like this,” he whispers. “Let me feel every inch of you.” Your thighs tremble, and he notices. “Slow it down,” he says again, gentler now, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You’re getting worked up. Take your time.” You breathe and steady yourself, rolling your hips again, slower this time- longer, deeper. It makes you twitch, and you whimper as he swallows it with a kiss. His hands never leave you; one roams up your back, under your hair, while the other strokes the side of your thigh.

“You’re so…” he murmurs but doesn't even finish it. “I don’t want to rush this. I want to feel you like this for a while.” You nod again, feeling helpless. You can sense how wet you are, how soaked the space between your bodies is. Your clit pulses every time you grind forward, and it’s so good, but you hold back because he asked, and because he’s right. You’re not ready to come yet- not when it feels this good just being here. You kiss him again- slow and deep. He groans into your mouth and murmurs, “We’ll get there. I just want to stay like this.” And you do too. You keep your hips low, your body pressed to his, his cock resting deep inside you like it was always meant to be. There’s no rhythm now, no urgency- just the slow grind of slick skin and soft breath, just the stretch, just the heat. His hands roam lazily- one at your hip, the other drifting up your spine, slipping under your hair and spreading warmth down your back with every slow pass.

You move gently above him, rolling your hips in long, slow circles, not lifting off, just grinding. The kind that makes your clit throb every time your bodies meet just right. He breathes harder through his nose, brow drawn like he’s trying to hold on, like this is the only thing tethering him to the moment- your body, wrapped around his, rocking so slow it doesn’t even feel like movement until it hits you just right. You shudder, and he feels it; his hands flex. “You’re so warm,” he comments, his voice softer now, almost dreamy. “So good.” Your lips brush his cheek, his jaw, his mouth again. You don’t speak; you just grind deeper. Another soft moan spills from your throat. He keeps you close- doesn’t thrust, doesn’t chase- just lets you ride it out, lets you use his cock like it’s yours, like it’s your anchor, your relief, your final comfort.

But after a while, the tension shifts. It grows- not sharp, not urgent- just heavier, just warmer. Your body wants more now: a little more drag, a little more stretch. So you lift yourself- just barely- until the tip of him threatens to slip free, that shallow, breathless place where you’re empty for a second. Then you sink back down. Slow. Deep. Full. He groans beneath you- low, wrecked, head tipping back as your cunt takes him again, warm and tight and wet, like you were made to keep him there. You move again, the same rhythm: half-lift, slow descent, letting him feel the squeeze, the slide, the way you grip every inch as you move. It’s not bouncing- not yet- just a lazy, liquid rise and fall, a rhythm built for dragging out pleasure, not chasing the end of it.

He watches you now, eyes half-open, mouth parted. His hands stroke your hips, guiding you but not controlling- just helping, just holding you steady while you ride him soft, deep, and warm. “You’re perfect,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “Just like that.” You keep going, lifting and sinking over and over, thighs starting to burn from the slow control. His cock drags along your walls just right, pressing into that spot each time you drop down again, and you feel yourself start to flutter around him, breath coming faster. He feels it too, tightening his grip and letting out a groan. “Fuck- keep going.” And you do: over and over, slow, fluid, deeper now. A little more bounce, a little more breath.

His hands roam up your sides, sliding over sweat-slick skin. Thumbs brush beneath your breasts before he cups them fully- warm palms, steady hold, catching their weight as they move with you. He watches everything: the way your body lifts and falls, how your tits shift in his hands with every bounce of your hips, and the way your cunt tightens around him when you drop down deep. You’re not rushing, not pounding- just riding him slow, bouncing in that lazy, delicious rhythm that leaves you both panting. Your thighs ache, and your body shakes. Every movement presses him into your sweet spot just right, almost too much. Your clit rubs against his stomach when you sink down far enough, making you whimper and claw at his chest like you need to hold onto something to stay grounded. He groans under you, hands tightening at your breasts, thumbs brushing across your nipples again and again. Leaning up, his mouth is hot, tongue flicking out to taste the curve of one.

He sucks it in- soft at first, then deeper- and the way you twitch above him makes him moan like he’s the one unraveling. “Jesus,” he breathes, lips dragging across your skin. You keep moving, hips rocking, thighs trembling, hands braced against his shoulders as you bounce- not high, not fast- just enough to stay filled and to keep grinding the pleasure into both of you like it could last forever. The room is thick with it: slick sounds, breathy moans, and the wet drag of your cunt around his cock as he throbs inside you, harder now, hotter, desperate to stay buried. His mouth trails down your chest, and his hands slide to your hips again, gripping tighter now- not guiding, not yet, but wanting to. He looks up at you, eyes glazed, lips swollen, and chest heaving. Then he says it, voice low and raw, barely holding back: “Can I fuck you now?” It’s not rough or urgent; it’s reverent, quiet- like he’s asking for something sacred. “I mean- ” his voice catches, trying to smile through it, trying to hold himself steady. “Really fuck you. Let me take over. Let me feel all of you.”

You slow your hips, hovering there, still full of him. He breathes again, softer now, as if it’s the only thing he can think to say: “Please.” It’s soft, barely audible, but wrecked. You lean forward, chest to chest, pressing your mouth to his- one more kiss, sweet and warm and loaded. You feel his fingers curl harder around your hips, and you nod, barely, against his lips. That’s all he needs. He flips you gently but surely, hands firm, arms curling around your back as he rolls you both over in one smooth motion. You gasp at the shift, at the way his cock slips almost all the way out before he sinks back in- slow, thick, and perfect- pushing deep until you’re gasping, legs falling open wider beneath him. He braces himself above you, one hand cradling your thigh, the other sliding up to cup your cheek. He looks down at you like you’re something he’s not sure he deserves but plans to keep anyway.

“You’re so good,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “So fucking good for me.” Then he starts to move, slow thrusts that are full and deep. He doesn’t slam into you; he fills you, rolling his hips like he’s been waiting his whole life to do this right. Every stroke is long, thick, and tender, and every time he pulls back, you feel the drag of him, the stretch, the delicious pressure. You whimper beneath him, legs trembling as they curl tighter around his waist. Your arms come up around his back, nails digging in lightly. He kisses your cheek, your jaw, your throat. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.” He stays close, never leaving your body. His chest presses to yours with every thrust, his mouth brushing your skin, your hair, your lips. You feel his cock grind deeper inside you, slow and rhythmic, the head hitting that spot that makes your eyes flutter and your breath stutter every single time.

He’s not pounding; he’s pouring himself into you- each stroke slow, full, and unbearably deep. His hands move constantly- stroking your thigh, smoothing up your ribcage, cupping your face- like he can’t choose where to touch because he wants all of you at once. “You’re so good for me,” he whispers, kissing your temple. “So fucking good, baby. You take me like you were made for it.” You moan beneath him, your body a mess of nerves and heat. You arch into him, letting him press you deeper into the mattress. He rolls his hips harder, slower, pushing so deep you swear you see stars. “So tight,” he breathes. “Like a virgin all over again. Fuck, baby- you’re perfect.” His hands slide to your breasts now, cupping them, thumbs brushing over your nipples as he thrusts in again- slow and deliberate. You clench around him, crying out when his fingers squeeze just right. He groans, dropping his mouth to your ear. “Gonna fill you up.”

Your breath catches. He doesn’t stop moving- just keeps grinding deeper, his voice low and steady as he fucks the words into your skin. “You’d look so pretty carrying my baby.” You whimper, and he kisses your cheek, still fucking you soft and slow and maddeningly deep. “Can you imagine it?” he murmurs. “These tits- ” he squeezes them, thumbs circling- “full. Heavy. Leaking. Made for me.” You shake beneath him. It’s too much. It’s not enough. You’re so close now, clenching around him with every slow, deliberate thrust. “Don’t need it now,” he whispers, voice thick. “But one day? Fuck. I’ll fill you up and keep you that way.” Your mouth falls open. He grinds into that spot again, making your eyes roll back. “You’d be so good,” he says, almost tender, almost reverent. “So warm. So soft. Letting me fuck it in deeper every night.” And you moan, helpless beneath him, head tipped back in offering.

He kisses your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. Still moving- slow, deep strokes that make your body jolt when he hits that angle. Not fast. Not rushed. Just patient, like he’s trying to carve himself into you. His hand finds yours, laces your fingers together beside your head, thumb brushing lazy circles into your palm. “You don’t need anything else,” he murmurs. “No job. No noise. No reason to leave the house.” His other hand glides down your body, palm catching your breast, your waist, and finally your thigh- pressing it up, opening you further, sinking himself deeper. “You’ll stay home for me,” he says softly. “Wear those little dresses I like. Keep everything warm and soft and mine.” You whimper again, cunt pulsing around him. “I’ll win my matches,” he continues, “and you’ll be waiting at home, all perfect and quiet and dripping.” The words land in your gut like heat. You can’t breathe. You can’t look away. Your whole body pulses around him, like it’s agreeing with everything he says.

He moans into your mouth, voice trembling. “Fuck, you’d look so good with my ring on your finger.” He thrusts deeper. You cry out, nails digging into his skin. “Mrs. Zweig,” he murmurs, and it sounds like worship. “That’s all you have to be.” His hand strokes your belly- slow, possessive- and his mouth hovers right at your ear. “You’ll come to my matches glowing. Full of me. Round with it. And I’ll fuck another one into you the second we get home.” You gasp- his hips grind down instead of pulling out, rocking into you, thick and hot and deliberate. Every thrust is more intense than the last. “I’ll take care of everything,” he breathes. “You’ll cook when you want to. Sleep when you want to. Keep the house pretty. Keep my cock warm. Let me breed you every night until you’re begging me to stop.” Your hands clutch at his shoulders. He kisses you again, slower now. Deeper.

Your body trembles under him. Every stroke feels heavier, like his hips are sculpting your body to fit him permanently. And it’s building- hot and sharp in your belly, curling tighter with every grind. You can’t stop it. He feels it too. His voice cracks open, sweet again. “You’re so close, aren’t you?” he whispers. “I’ve got you, baby. Come on. You’ve been so good.” You nod, breath caught in your throat. Every slow thrust wrings a moan from you. “You’re doing so good for me,” he says, slower now, like he’s in awe of you. “Taking me so well. Just like that. Let it happen, baby.” His hand strokes your cheek, and you realize- too late- you’re crying. His thumb wipes the tear gently. “That’s it,” he breathes. “You can come now. I’ve got you.”

And you do. Your whole body locks around him- tight, shaking, your thighs trembling, heat spilling out from your core. You arch up into him, mouth falling open in a broken cry as your orgasm crashes over you in slow, endless waves. You sob his name. You hold on like you’ll fall apart without him. And he doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it, slow and deep, as if he needs to feel all of it, every twitch and pulse and aftershock. He groans- rough, shaking- as his rhythm falters. “I’m gonna come,” he gasps. “Fuck- baby- inside?” You nod before he can even finish. And then he’s breaking. His cock pulses deep inside, his body curling forward like it’s too much, too full. He stays buried in you, kissing your mouth, your jaw, your neck, whispering thank you thank you thank you between every breath like a prayer.

You’re still shaking, still pressed together. Still joined. When the tension finally fades- when all that’s left is the sound of your mingled breathing and your hearts pounding- he kisses you gently and says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world, “Shh. You’re okay. I’ve got you.” Like he didn’t just fuck your future into you. Like he’s just a boyfriend. A man who made you dinner, and then made you his. Your body’s still twitching as he slows. His hips lose rhythm, his breath catching as the last of him spills into you. He groans against your skin, cock buried as deep as it can go, and he stays there. Just for a moment. Like he can’t bear to leave. And maybe- he can’t. You lie there, tangled together, soaked and shaking, breathless and stunned. His hand strokes your side. His chest rises against yours. You’re dazed from it- fucked out and full.

Eventually, he pulls out. You whimper. He hushes you with a kiss to your shoulder. Then he shifts in the sheets, pulling you into his chest from behind, spooning you, bare skin against bare skin. One leg hooked over yours. One arm wrapped around your waist. His hand settles low, over your belly. Protective. Possessive. Gentle. You’re still catching your breath, still wet where he filled you. His palm just rests there- like he’s holding something in. Like he’s dreaming of something that hasn’t even begun yet. He kisses the back of your neck and murmurs it so softly, you almost don’t hear it. “I’d kill for you.” You smile. Eyes flutter closed. It sounds like a promise. Like love. You think it’s just a phrase. Something people say when they’re drunk on each other. Something sweet. Something harmless. You let him hold you tighter, his hand still pressed over your belly as you slip into sleep- skin sticky, heart full, the scent of sex and wine still clinging to the sheets. You don’t ask what he means. And he doesn’t explain.

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

121 notes · View notes