#How many types of V-block are there? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

musingsofheaven · 2 days ago

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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.

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

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jillsandwhichs · 1 year ago

Text

Crazy girl, even crazier husband

Chapter 3 to RE Character x Reader Smutshot Collection

Masterlist

Pairing: Fem!reader x Leon Kennedy

Summary: Your husband and you go to the movie theatre to watch a new horror movie but this man just can't keep his hands off of you

Status of your guy's relationship in this oneshot: Married

WC: 6.1k

Type: NSFW

Warnings: Zoowee mama there are so many, Making out, Fingering, Tongue licking, P in V, Sorta public sex ?? , No protection, Biting, He fucks you hard in an employee storage room so enjoy :p

A/n: Hi! Hope you all enjoy. Please check out my masterlist, there's a lot of stuff there. You can get to know me, you can see the rules of my blog and then you can see all of my fanfictions. You'll be able to find the previous chapters to this fic and upcoming ones. You'll also be able to find my Wattpad & AO3. Comments, reblogs & likes are appreciated. Thank you

Window's rolled down, music on low, his hand on your thick thigh, your husband was driving you two to the move theatre in town. They were hosting some new random horror movie and the both of you thought it looked interesting, the idea to go on a date and watch it together randomly came up in a conversation last night. He's often times working so going out like this is rare, but whenever it happens, you absolutely cherish it, and so does he.

You could feel his fingers playing with the end of your skirt, occasionally gripping your thigh, his hand even leaving a mark. This is what he'd always do whenever he was driving and you were with him, he'd get you all riled up, all soaked up, and it's tortuous. The way his hand would slide up beneath your skirt was so painful, not literally, but he never even touched you, that made it painful. And half of the time, he doesn't even end up fucking you til way later or he doesn't at all. Such a man sometimes.

He wouldn't even acknowledge how horny you are either, he just knows, he loves making you feel all good inside just you leave you with nothing.

"We're almost there, by the way." You said softly, gazing out the window at the scenery outside. "Good to know, baby, thank you." Leon responded, his fingers trailing up her skirt again, just to simply not do shit. "Jesus Christ." You whispered underneath your breath, praying he wouldn't hear over the music. He was playing some song by Seether, it's all he ever listens to. You swear you know every song and every lyric by heart. Same with Hinder. This man and his early 2000s rock music, you swear.

The view on the way there was pleasant though. Mostly stores and other useless buildings but aside from that, you could spot tall & wide mountains in the distance. They're all able to be hiked too, you and Leon have done it before but in the summer heat, hell no. Luckily, it's autumn, no need to worry about that. Other than the mountains, the sky was gorgeous. That deep orange tint on the horizon was beautiful, it suited the night perfectly.

"What is this movie called again?" "It's called Smile, I don't know, looked creepy as hell." You spoke. "Yeah, yeah, the trailer was fucked." Leon snickered, one hand on the wheel still. "How much cash did you bring?" "Well, I brought my card, so a shit ton." Leon chuckled, "Using me for my money still, I see how it is." "What? You think there was another reason I married you?" You bit your lip, clearly, you were joking. He dug his nails into your thigh, causing your breath shutter. "Be quiet." He hummed, his teasing tone was deadly.

You couldn't help but let out a small giggle, he never fails to make you laugh. His humor is great, that's something you two bonded over immediately when you first met. You reminisce on that day often. Ever since, your life has been ultimately changed for the better. Leon was genuinely the light at the end of the tunnel for you, hopefully he feels the same way about you.

Just up a few more blocks was the movie theatre. This one is rather large, it was built more recently too. Only four years ago and it's held up well. When it was first built, you and Leon were still dating, now you're married, time flies by so quickly. The both of you have also been there a couple times before, about four times, each time was so nice. Leon really knows how to treat you. Every single date he takes you out on is special in it's on way. He's a miracle worker.

"Just up here." You whispered out, putting your phone in your little white purse that of course, Leon bought for you. He wasn't a poor man, rather wealthy. You don't know all too much about his job, he'd rather save the details, but from what you do know, he's a federal agent whose under the President, now that's saying something. And it all works out amazingly considering his love language is to spoil you with gifts, dates, travels, etc.. He truly never lets up on spending money on you.

"I know sweetheart." He leered, holding your thigh much more lightly now, his grip more gentle. "I'm praying they have sour patch kids." You snickered, Leon hummed at your comment. He's well aware it's your favorite candy... He's definitely spent hundreds on it. "Figured you'd say that." He snorted, pulling into the theatre parking lot. Surprisingly, it wasn't too packed. To your mental math, there was only ten or eleven vehicles, then again, it was a work night.

"Here we go." Leon grunted at he parked, taking the keys out of the ignition. "Grab my wallet for me, will ya doll?" "Yes babe." You replied, grabbing his wallet as you opened your car side door. Leon got out directly after, walking over to you. "Come here." He held his hand out. You handed him his wallet then grabbed a hold of his hand, squeezing it as you walked beside him. He was extremely tall, much taller than you. You were under 5'7, he was 6'2, you rather enjoyed the difference.

That instant hit of popcorn was glorious, it smelt like you'd just entered heaven. There was no one else in the lobby besides you and him, and obviously the workers. Not only did it smell so good, the decor was so retro, you loved the style of it. "I always forget how nice this place looks." You said in awe, loving the late '80s feel. "It is pretty." Leon huffed out before pulling his wallet out, "Go pick out whatever you'd like while I get out tickets." Your husband said deeply, pulling his card out.

You smirked at his words. You grabbed his arm and stood up your tippy toes to get to his ear, "Ask for popcorn please." You were sort of shy, you didn't wanna ask the employee yourself, plus you don't even have money to buy it, so. "I will, go on now." Leon chuckled as he then began to speak to the worker. You nodded, letting go of him and walking on over to the candy stand, they had a lot. But of course, your heart desired the sour patch kids the most, you grabbed them with haste.

You know Leon loves peanut M&Ms, he's always snacking on them, you grabbed a single pack of them for him as well. There was also some warheads in singular packaging, you grabbed ten, five for you and five for him, sour candy is your all time fav. You turned around, gazing over at Leon as he paid for you guy's tickets and the popcorn, you were excited for it. You were a foodie at heart, you could eat, and eat, and eat and never ever get tired of it. That's most likely why 80% of the dates you two go on are dinner dates.

Ambling back to your husband, you handed him the candy, your eyes locking on his. "Good, thank you." He smiled down at you, placing the sweets on the counter. "Good girl for getting my M&Ms." He whispered in your heart, his deep voice making your insides twist up like a pretzel, which was ironic due to the fact there were some in the hot food bar. "Heheh." You giggled, locking your arm with his, waiting on the popcorn.

"Your total is 16.20$." The woman behind the counter stated. Leon swiped his card through the machine, signing his signature too to verify the purchase. You grabbed the popcorn and Leon took your guy's candy, sliding the tickets into his back pocket. "Make it quick doll." Leon said from behind you as you began to butter it up. You loved the salty & savory popcorn, you'd drench it in that tangy yellow butter, but there is a point where it's too much.

Leon set his hands on your waist from behind you, his rough thumbs caressing the little sliver of skin showing from your shirt. You were wearing a tight shirt paired with your skirt, it had been awhile since the two of you went out so you thought it was cute. Despite only little bits of your hips showing, he still showed you he loved it. His nails lightly tickled at your midriff, watching you as you fixed up the food for the two of you. "All done?" "Done." You mumbled, turning around, his hands not moving though.

He leaned down, pressing his lips to your forehead gently before he then simply pressed his forehead against yours, "You're my everything." He hushly spoke. You were honestly caught of guard but maybe he was just in a lovey dovey mood...? "Love you too." You leered, kissing his lips swiftly, not wanting the employees to feel awkward. "C'mon baby, you know that ain't no kiss." He then gripped your chin, his lips settling upon yours for what felt like an eternity. You felt his tounge briskly swipe against your glossy lips, he could definitely taste the cherry.

He didn't go any further than that, pulling away after a few more seconds, "Let's go." He snickered, slipping his hand down your back as he lead you to the room. "You're so fucking crazy." You smacked his abs through his shirt. "Sorry, I just love you, is that so bad?" He acted sort of oblivious. Once again, he's such a man. "It's sooo bad." You dragged out your wording in a sarcastic manner, earning a titter from him. Making Leon laugh isn't too much of an accomplishment, he'll laugh at cat videos on the web.

"Just through here." Leon pushed the door open. The lights were still on too, proving the movie hasn't begun yet, luckily. There was only a couple other people in there, about five, they were all at the front. "Let's get in the back." Leon stated, gripping your hand firmly, "Why?" "Because I said so, be good and listen." He teased. You felt arousal stream over you when he said that, gosh, he's so good. You climbed up the stairs behind him, your hand still interlocked with his as you did so.

You two sat just a couple rows away from the very back, wanting to at least have a decent view of the massive screen. Leon sat down, then you did. "Here baby." You murmured, pulling the two ice cold water bottles from your purse. "Smooth criminal." He joked, taking his and placing it in it's holder. "Their drinks are more than their popcorn, it's ridiculous." You spat out, setting the popcorn in his lap. "Always making me hold it." "Mhm." You giggled. He glared at you, making your heart beat fast. You knew he was playing around but for odd enough reasons, it turns you the hell on.

You took the sour patch kids bag, ripping it out and setting it on the side of your leg, having it tucked between you and the seat. You'd save your warheads for later. "You gonna eat your candy?" "Maybe later, the popcorn is just fine for now." Leon assured you, taking a couple pieces in his mouth. Understandable. You ate a few pieces of your candy, the taste of them was immaculate, it could never get old.

After ten minutes or so of previews, trailers and commercials, the movie finally began. The lights went dark, setting the mood immensely. You could hardly see Leon's attractive face. "Finally." You uttered beneath your breath, taking some popcorn from his lap and eating it. The buttery, salty taste was too good, you practically moaned while eating it. The title card came on screen, the eerie noise playing in the background really suited the film from what you've seen.

At first, Leon wasn't paying too much attention to you, his eyes glued to the screen, he seemed to be into the movie so far. You tried to be, but that desirable burning feeling deep inside you wasn't doing you any justice. You could feel yourself pulsing, the mere thought of him had your panties soaked. He hasn't even done anything to crazy either, that's how good he is. He's such a dick sometimes. You can't even think about it, it makes you want him more. He can a man be so alluring?

As you snacked on your candy, you nearly lost your breath as you felt his hand slither onto your thigh, just as it was in the car earlier. Each one of his fingers caused an electric wave to course through you. The way they'd slightly lift off of your skin as they squeezed it, it was too much. You could feel as his pinky glided underneath your skirt, seemingly getting closer with his entire hand. "Movie is good so far, yeah?" Leon whispered to you, his hand going fully beneath your skirt now. Curse this man.

You didn't even reply, your body just simply reacted to his advances. You spread your legs open as much as you could in the tight chair, which wasn't too much but Leon definitely liked what you did considering he tightly gripped it, gaining a soft whimper out of you. "Look at how you responsive you are..." He murmured, not even glancing at you, making himself seem like he was just casually watching the film. At this point, you could care less about the fucking movie. You wanted his cock inside you. But maybe... His fingers would have to suffice.

"Finger me." You panted, looking at him, desperation plastered on your beautiful face. Leon didn't listen to your pleas, his pinky finger rubbing over your wet panties. That wasn't good enough, it never would be. You wanted him inside you, you wanted him to feel how wet you were for him. "Look how wet I am baby." You muttered. "Mmm, I can feel princess." He grunted, his entire hand planting itself onto your cunt through your undergarments, you whimpered quietly, needing to keep the act up.

"Please..." You gripped his arm. Leon sighed heavily, his eyes leaving the screen, his eyes locking on yours as he gandered down your body, taking the sight in. "So needy." He teased you. "You gonna stay quiet?" "Yes, I promise, please." You begged of your husband, your eyes never leaving his. "Don't make a single noise." He huffed out deeply, his voice husky. He pulled your dripping panties to the side, his index finger gliding through your wetness, causing you to sigh softly, not making a noise though. "Mmm." You murmured, resting your head against his fit arm.

His index finger continues to pick up your wetness, you could hear him sigh once more, "Fuck." He muttered, the sound of your sopping cunt was so fucking good to him. His fingers made their way to your nub, beginning to rub it with ease, a surge of pleasure bursting in your tummy as he did this. He made small yet fast circles on your clit, earning some subtle noises out of you ; Luckily, he didn't hear, the movie was starting to up itself in volume, good for you two.

"Does that feel good?" Leon purred out to you, his eyes shooting over to gaze at you, his eyes in a trance as he watched your face contort just by his touch. "Mhm." You moaned out hushly, your arms wrapped around his fit arm. "Good girl." He whispered, his fingers slapping your clit as they then went back down your slit, your wetness was practically dripping down your ass and onto the seat, sorry to the worker who'll have to clean your mess up...

His finger went all the way down before he then stuck it inside of you, your tightness grasping around it. Leon chuckled at how tight you were, you never fail to amaze him. He pumped his finger in & out of you, so moderately. "Gotta stay silent, remember that." Leon teased you, his thumb going to your clit, now fingering & rubbing you. This two in one deal was going to be the end of you. "Jesus..." You whimpered, your teeth sinking into his arm, causing him to only thrust his finger into you faster.

Your wetness was louder now, each time his finger went back into you, it sounded like a lemon being squeezed. You love biting Leon, he loves it too. One thing Leon especially loves is when he's fucking you, he's right on top of you, making you lose your sense of reality then you just bite down on his bulk shoulder. Gosh, he loves when you do that to him. His entire finger was drenched in your fluids, it was shining due to the bright lights emitting from the ginormous screen projector.

"Keep it quiet sweetheart." He whispered, a light snicker playing off his tongue. He was such an ass. He knows you can't be silent for much longer. He's bringing you closer and closer and closer to the edge. You fear if he keeps going at this rate, you'll cum and scream his name, like always. "It's so- so hard." You stuttered, your nails digging into his forearm fiercely. "Oh, you can do it." Leon praised you, he knows you can't.

As his singular finger continued it's work, you clenched around him even more as he slid another one in, this time curling each finger with every pump. No one in the theatre had noticed, surprisingly. All of them were mindless souls indulged in the film. You also really wanted to watch the movie, but fuck this was so much more needed than to watch some stupid horror flick. His thumb continued to rub your nub, the most sensitive nerve causing your brain to lose track of itself and your stomach to do flips like it's a gymnast.

"Leon... Baby..." You panted out, your hair getting messy from how much you've been tossing and turning your head. He didn't reply. His face was staring directly in front of him, acting all innocent, no one would suspect a thing... Yet he was finger fucking you, making your pussy clench around his fingers more tightly than ever before. His thumb was stroking your clit with pace, he was relentless on it. It was as if he was trying to gain a rise out of you and knowing him, he definitely was.

"Seriously." You whined, pressing your forehead against his upper arm. This man was going to be the fucking death of you.

"What is it?" He calmly said, still not looking at you whatsoever. "Fingers aren't enough, fuck me, I don't care about the stupid movie anymore." You said with an seductive tone. "Fingers aren't enough, huh?" He chortled as he began to finger fuck you at light speed. You instantly closed your legs, stopping all of his movements. "Don't." You squeaked, removing his hand from between your legs. Leon giggled, his hand gripping ahold of your cheeks sternly as he forced you to look up at him.

"You need me to fuck you?" "Yes baby, please." You mooched off your husband. You needed him and you need him at this current moment in time. "Well, where do you want to be fucked? In here? Where anyone could possibly see? In the restroom? In the car-?" "Let's find somewhere, please." You stated loud and clear, fixing your panties and skirt. Leon get go of your face. "Mmm, lead the way gorgeous." He held your hand, following behind you now. It felt powerful to take charge, to tell him this is what you want.

You both jogged down the stairs but acted as normal as possible, acting as if Leon wasn't just feeding into your dirty needs. Pushing open the wooden doors, you looked around and only saw a bathroom and other doors leading to another theatre area. Leon gripped your hand tighter, trying to indicate something to you. You spun around, looking back at the door behind you. "That's an employees only room!" "I doubt anyone is in here, c'mon." Leon laughed quietly.

He wrapped his hand around the knob, twisting it and pushing the door open. All that was in there was a table, some random movie posters and a counter, probably a type of break room. "Dammit, come here." Leon expired, grabbing your waist and pulling you against him. He lessened the space between the two of you as he smashed his needy lips against yours, his moving against yours in a passionate make-out.

Your arms went to his shoulders, holding onto them with care as you set your entire body against his. There was absolutely no stopping between kisses, it was constant. Heavy breathing and kisses were all that could be heard. Leon's hands went from your hips and down to your ass, gripping it hard as he licked your bottom lip, so badly wanting entry. You, of course, granted him exactly that. You moaned into the kiss as he squeezed your ass, slapping it too, he tried to keep it down though. This is technically illegal, so...

As you two made out sexually, he pushed you up against the wall, his hands still beneath your skirt, going from playing with your rear and pussy repeatedly. You'd randomly feel his fingers against your clit for short periods of time. Your nails scratched into his shoulders, you were so into this. Your sense of relief was this. He knew what to do and how to do it to you. Leon's tongue swiped against yours, his practically engulfing yours. He loves doing this.

You slightly stuck your tongue out mid kiss, Leon immediately jumped at the opportunity. He swiped his tounge along yours so deliberately, the sensual texture of it causing your pussy to literally drip more than it was before. Leon then grabbed your chin, tilting it to get a better angle. His entire tongue licked yours, then he wrapped his lips around it, suckling. Your moved your hands from his face and down to his waist, holding onto his shirt for what felt like dear life.

After sucking on your tounge for a few seconds, he pulled away swiftly, pecking you once more and now kissing down your precise jawline. You tipped your head back, allowing him to gain more access. His kisses were so slow and gentle, he really took his time. His heavy breathing was so sexy, it showed how much he needed you. He truly yearned for your presence, your touch, your everything. "You smell amazing." Leon breathed in, giving the end of your jawline a quick nibble. You giggled, kissing his cheek before going back to the same position as before.

Leon smooched down your throat, relishing in your perfume and it's enticing smell. "Mmm, what scent babygirl?" "Honestly..." You began, "I don't fucking know." You chuckled, earning a snicker from him. He licked from the top of your neck and all the way down, leaving a strip of saliva just there. He kissed all along the strip, you couldn't help but whimper, each kiss and every lick was to die for. You couldn't get enough of him. Leon groaned, his hands holding your ass - He couldn't get enough of you.

Making his way down to the middle of your neck, his hot breath sat on that same spot for a few moments before you felt that painfully pleasing feeling of his teeth lightly sinking into your skin. "Fuck." You moaned, your nails sunk into his slim waist. You felt his tongue going erratic on your neck as he continued to bite you. "Leon..." You soughed out, tilting your head to the side even further, wanting him to leave more love bites on you.

Heading you call his name, he pulled away from your neck, he gave you a fast peck before pressing his forehead against yours. "What's wrong sweetheart?" Leon panted, his right hand on the side of your neck where he was just feasting upon you seconds ago. "You make me feel so good." "Yeah?" "Make me feel even better." You whispered, your arms now encasing around his neck, embracing him closely. "Oh babygirl." Leon sighed out, caressing your neck carefully. "I'll make you feel just fine."

Your husband turned around, scanning the room. "Lay down on that table." He snickered, stepping away from you. "Okay..." You giggled, walking over to it. You pulled yourself up onto it, sitting with your feet dangling off. "Lay back baby." Leon hummed out to you, his voice soft. You obliged, laying all the way on your back, your legs bent upwards on the table. You angled your head so you'd be able to watch him. He unbuttoned his black pants, allowing them to drop along with his underwear, revealing his hard cock.

You bit your lip with a giggle. You get so giddy seeing him this way, he's so sexy. "Don't look at me like that." Leon chuckled, placing both of his hands on each one of your knees. "I'll look at you however I'd like." "Oh? Is that so?" "Mhm." You cockily mumbled, placing your feet on his chest. Leon's large hands wrapped around your ankles, rubbing them lovingly as he stared you down. His eyes were lustful, darkness bursting in his iris's. "Look at you." Leon whispered, taking both of your socks off, setting them to the side. "What?" You sighed deeply, your cunt pulsing at his cooing tone.

Bringing one of your feet up to his face, he placed a kiss on the side of it, then on the other one. You weren't into all that feet stuff, neither was he, but Leon will and does kiss you absolutely everywhere. He set your feet back down. Leon's hands went towards your waist, holding onto it firmly as he quickly pulled you down the table, earning a surprised gasp from you. "A warning next time?" You scoffed. "No." Leon responded sternly, being playful with you, per usual.

His fingers trailed up to your panties, locking them into the waistband of them. "I'm so wet." "I know honey, so wet for me, hm?" Leon whispered seductively, never breaking eye contact with you as he pulled your cute white panties all the way off, taking them off of your ankles afterwards. You spread your legs widely for him, the entire view of your core at his service. It was like he was trying to make it not look obvious, but it was so clear he was gazing at you down there. "So beautiful." Leon complimented you, you were his wife after all.

Grabbing his erection, Leon jerked it a couple times, maintaining eye contact with you, only breaking it for a tiny bit to look down at himself. "You have me fucking pulsing." Leon grunted, wasting no time as he swiped his dick through your wetness. You moaned, staring up at him, his tip would stroke over your clit and make your center have an even bigger heartbeat, that's how it felt at least. "I love how I make you get." Leon continued. "All wet, needy, clingy... You're so pretty." Leon shared, kissing your knee again.

You nodded in reply, he was right, he does manage to make you feel all of those ways. "Yeah..." You muttered out.

Without zero warning, you felt him plunge into you with haste, his entire length being grasped around your warm heat. You felt your stomach twist and turn when he did this, it gained a whimper from you, a rowdy one. "Holy shit." You panted out, like a dog on a hot summer day. "Can't wait any longer." Leon cackled, his hands on your hips as he started his movements. Each thrust was life altering. It felt like you were in Heaven with what he was doing. His mouth was sort of open, you could hear his quiet gasps, you were making him feel a type of way too.

You held onto his wrists for stability as he fucked you, his thrusts were causing the entire table to shake, you didn't want it to break or something. "What if a worker hears us? Sees us?" "Well, they'll see a woman being fucked real good by her husband." Leon replied. Could he ever not be snarky? You rolled your eyes, looking to the side, your face contorting as you felt his member reach deeper inside of you. "Don't roll your eyes at me, doll." Leon stated, his hands still on your midriff.

You never looked back at him, your eyes were stained on the other side of the room. Not that you didn't wanna look at him, you just know it'll make you cum sooner, and even make him as well, and you really want to draw this out. His cock moved in and out of you repeatedly, he switched up the pace every other second. One moment he was fast & rough and the other he took it slow & deep. Both ways made your heart beat faster and faster each time.

"Why aren't you looking at me?" Leon groaned out, his left hand groping your tit through your shirt, squeezing it. You didn't answer, you couldn't, you knew if you tried speaking your speech would only be slurred. "Look at me." You didn't listen. You just held onto his arms with more strength, indicating you were going to lose yourself sooner or later.

Although, next thing you know, he stopped thrusting into you. This ticked you off but before you could get a damn word out, you felt the hand that was once on your breast, now pulling your face to face him. "I suggest you start listening." Leon brought himself down closer to you, his body over yours. You nodded your head leisurely, licking your lip, then biting it. His demands were music to your ears. His movements picked up again, but he forced you to look at him. Something about staring down at you as he made you feel certain ways was so convincing.

After a minute, he let go of your face, trusting you'll listen to him now. His hands rested on either side of your head, his dick still surging into your pretty pussy. You felt like there was an imaginary percentage bar of how long it'll take before your orgasm implodes on you, and with each pump, it fills that bar slowly yet surely. "Fucking hell you're so beautiful." Leon moaned, tucking his head into the crook of your neck, his breath could be felt there. "You're so handsome." You added, your hand going up to his hair, playing with it.

You had a feeling he was going to do it, but once he did, it made your core tighten even more than before. His teeth once again made their way into your neck, he bit down on it. "Leon..." You grunted out, your fingers flowing through his soft hair. His thrusts were more slow & deep now, as if he was getting tired or something. It was either that or he was trying savour this special time together. "I'm gonna cum soon." You admitted, your arms going around his head, holding him close to your body.

Leon didn't say a word, he just nibbled on your throat, kissing & licking it every so often. That sharp sting of his teeth was erotic, it made your stomach get closer and closer to granting you that ultimate pleasure - your climax. "Baby... Harder..." You begged, letting go of him and instead grasping the white table underneath you. Once more, hit nibbled your neck, then your slender shoulders, before his face pulled back, going to stare at you again. "Harder?" Leon questioned, his moments all the same. "Yes, please." You tittered, your body so heated up.

Your husband did what he does best - please you. He began to fuck you, it wasn't anything vanilla, no, this was hard. Each thrust was rougher and rougher. Your eyes looked up into his, you could feel that they were watery, you looked innocent, like a doe in front of headlights. Leon looked back at you, his eyes much different. They are loving, yes, but also sexual desire was all behind them, his eyebrows also added onto the darkness of his face. "Don't look at me like that." The man grunted, closing his eyes as he pumped into your tight center.

"No, no, look at me, Leon." You reached up, holding onto his face. Now it was his turn. Leon slowly opened his eyes again, much more coherent than you were earlier. "Yeah..." You murmured, your hands caressing his scruffy cheeks.

Coming onto you was your orgasm, your initial release. You could feel how close you were, each thrust only brought you more and more to the edge. With his dick twitching inside you, you knew he was close to cumming as well. Your stomach was providing you with that all familiar feeling - The feeling of ultimate pleasure. Each time he fucked into you, your breasts would bounce, now that he was going much harder, they didn't get a break. Both of Leon's hands held onto your tits, he continuously squeezed them, he was like a teenage boy with how he was about boobs.

Leon gandered back up from your breasts and back at you, he never realized you were still staring at him. This, oh, it sent him over the edge. Your water colored eyes were like a death trap for him ; In this case, a sexual trap. "Fuck, why do you do this to me..." He grunted as he pumped only a couple more times into your cunt, his seed filling you, you felt the warm liquid shoot inside. "Why would you look at me like that?" Leon moaned, moving into you with short, fast thrusts, wanting to get you finished too.

You didn't reply, instead you just pulled his face down to yours, pressing your lips to his. Leon breathed out against your face, kissing you back passionately. You held the back of his head & neck, relishing in this moment. "Oh I love you." You moaned. "I love you too babygirl." He grunted, his cock still deep inside of you. "Cum for me princess." Leon began, "Have your pussy tighten around me." He stated, his voice husk.

Your breath shuttered when he spoke like that. He was so hot, every word he spoke made you feel all sorts of ways. You couldn't help it, even though you wanted to. You kept your lips against his, your tongue intertwined with his as you suctioned his length inside of you. Your orgasm withdrew you from the real world, your eyes practically rolling in the back of your head, surprised you couldn't see your own damn brain. "That's what I like to see." Leon paused his movements, just admiring his wife as she came all around him.

Both of you just sat there, your body felt super limp, you could feel his cock was soft inside of you. Everytime you guy's finish making love, it's like this. It's like the two of you are at a loss for words. You were still wet, you definitely needed to clean yourself up. You looked around the room, analyzing it. There was a paper towel dispenser by the sink on the other side of the room. "Could you please grab me some of that." You asked your husband. "Sure thing." He sighed gently, pulling out of you and heading over there.

Leon snatched up a few pieces of the towel, bringing it over to you. He didn't hand you them, instead he cleaned you up himself. You just watched him, heaving softly whilst doing so. He was a great husband. "Thank you baby." "Course doll." Leon replied kissing your inner thigh before helping you get back on your feet. "I'm not wearing these." You giggled, setting your panties aside. "Give them to me." He held his hand out. You rolled your eyes playfully, giving him your soaked underwear.

Your eyes widened as he sniffed them, the scent wearing off of them drove him crazy. As he pulled his own pants back up, he tucked your panties into his pocket. "Don't move around to much, I don't need your ass or pussy being flashed to the world." Leon chuckled, adjusting your shirt, you nodded in reply. He was right. "Let's go finish whatever time we have left of the movie." Leon whispered to you, his hand on your cheek firmly as he kissed you once more before the both of you made way back.

#resident evil #leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy fanfiction #resident evil smut #smutshot #smutshot collection #re vendetta #tumblr fyp

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tojislibrvry · 6 months ago

Text

★ ︵ @ toji / reader , phone sex, corruption, virgin!reader, masturbation, voice kink, vibrator

you were young, the right age to be wild and fun. you saw your peers around you at midnight, as you swiped through everyone’s instagram stories. red heart coloured in as you tapped on every new post. red cups littered everywhere in the background, strobing lights manipulating the camera as your beautiful classmates flashed a charming grin or had their tongue out cheekily at their phones.

you wanted to be them so bad, yet you couldn't muster up the confidence nor the courage to get up and be yourself.

this translated to your love life too. it’s not like you were a complete loser, you were friendly, thoughtful, and quite awfully pretty like that one song. there was just something that held you back constantly to go up and talk to the people you fancied. the inexperience made you insecure day by day.

it was not like you planned to be a virgin your whole life! the way things were progressing made you a little unsure though. you were also increasingly embarrassed that you couldn’t make yourself feel good. you would touch yourself in the dark whenever your roommate spent the night at her boyfriend’s. the coil in your stomach would begin to unravel but it would never snap. tears of frustration would bubble and there wasn't a day they converted to tears of pleasure.

and one normal tuesday, as you were scrolling through twitter a post caught your eye. huh? there was no way something like that was legitimate. it was probably a scam, probably. curious enough you click on his profile and the image you are met with has your mouth watering.

stood a faceless man with his shirt off and presumably his pants off — the picture cut off below his achingly deep v line. his veiny arms, you are sure were twice the size of your head, were orgasm inducing. one of his hands held the camera while the other trailed off downwards…fuck.

ovulating and mind clearly way out of rationality, you texted the number in his post. if it was a scam, you would know — you could simply just block him. you weren't the brightest when it came to internet safety.

you closed the message app as soon as you were done typing out a cute "hii! is this legitimate? what’s your business model like? can i trust you? sorry for rambling. i've never done this before." and placed your phone under your pillow as you decided to sleep.

the dreams you had that night were incomparable to the horniest porn you could have ever watched. the faceless man, held you against his warm body as he had you in the meanest mating press. your nails scratching his beautifully muscled back as you begged for more. your eyes rolled behind meeting your empty skull as he delivered a harsher thrust each time you mewled against his lips. as your dream self inched closer and closer to sweet release, you were thrown awake — your lonely beating heart ( and pussy ) your only company.

you woke up cringing at the wetness between your thighs, the fluids of your insatiable arousal coating your thighs. you felt like a hormonal teenage boy who had nutted ( almost in your case ) in his boxers the very first thing in the morning. the discomfort and the migraine you developed from ruined orgasm made you get out of bed dragging yourself to the bathroom. your phone automatically flew to your hand like thor with his hammer as you scrolled as you brushed your teeth.

everything was as smooth sailing as it could be until your eyes landed on a single notification that made you spit your toothpaste out halfway. you had actually texted that man in your delirious state. you glared at yourself in the mirror and clicked on the text expecting to see your usual scam test, something along the lines of "send me all your bank details haha promise i wont do anything about it!" instead what you are met with has you searching for a seat.

"so many fucking questions baby, why don't i call you tonight and you can see how legitimate my big dick is. you can pay me after i've shown you a good time. feel lucky. i don't do this for everyone, sweetheart."

you spent the next thirty minutes trying to cool yourself down, splashing water on yourself to cool how heated your face had become. you sat down on your bed, pulling your knees up to finally answer the text. too embarrassed to text out a detailed reply you simply send him a thumbs up and wait for your racing heart to calm down.

the rest of the day went on incredibly slow, painstakingly slow. you had to sit through college lectures while your mind was clouded with thoughts about the nameless man you were going to talk to that night. you knew you were playing a dangerous game. you knew nothing about this mystery man.

sure, you could discern some of his features by stalking all the media from his x profile. he had raven hair that you could find in the reflection of one lucky post, his hair short and unkempt which did nothing but elicit more of your attention. another post had a little bit of his face revealed, a salacious grin plastered on his face. you could see a scar run on his lips, the sense of danger it gave, had you turned on more than ever, making you wonder if you were going to discover more things about yourself from this ordeal.

during your lunch break you had received another text from the contact, asking about the timings of your encounter. you had hastily agreed to 11pm, a time you knew very well your roommate would not be at home.

if you were going to get dirty, might as well do it in a house with no one else. once you were back home, a quick eaten dinner with your appetite redirected to something else completely, you decided to unwind in the shower. you knew it wasn't a physical meet, this man probably had hundreds of callers before you yet deep down inside you wanted him to want you as much you did. silly as it was, you made sure to pluck and tweeze, shave and oil your skin making sure you smelled like a cupcake. you smelled good enough that the phone could pick up on your perfumed body if it were possible.

the countdown had you pacing in your room, your lips were raw and red with the entire day spent with your lips tucked in your teeth. you were glancing at your clock every thirty seconds, watching the hands of the clock read 10:58.

god were you wetter than ever before. you could feel the thrumming of your heartbeat spread throughout your body. taking deep breaths in you settled on your bed, legs criss crossed trying to pretend that the phone was not about ring any second.

at 11.00pm, your phone rang. the marimba ringtone heard throughout your room, echoing off the walls. you had to remain patient. you didn't want the man to think you were desperate. well, you were! but he didn't need to know that. almost immediately, unable to wait any more, you picked up the call.

you were a smart girl, your grades were proof of that and even now, you had evidence of your intelligence by how you had your bluetooth already connected, so you could hear this man's voice as closely as you could, like he was ready to whisper in your ears. your nerves pooled in but no amount of adrenaline could have prepared you for what you could possibly describe as the sexiest voice on the planet.

"heyyyy doll." it was a gruff voice, something that you would hear in the old cowboy movies your mother used to fawn over when you were a little girl. two words in and you could already hear the teasing tilt to his tone.

"no greetings for someone helping ya out ?" he asked, bringing you out of your stupor. shaking your head like he could see you, you stammered out a quick, "n-no! fuck, im sorry mr...." you trailed off unsure how to address him.

"want to know my name baby ? want to know what you should call out to when you are about to cum ?"

you responded with a squeak, earning a chuckle from the other side of the phone. you hear a quiet sigh as he whispers softly, goosebumps instantly painted on your skin when he says, "call me toji, i would love to hear you scream it."

before you could thank him for his gratitude, you were interrupted when he surprisingly asked, "so tell me doll, what's the issue ? pretty thing like ya doesn't need my help getting off, you must have those stupid frat boys drooling over you."

your eyes widened in surprise, "b-but you don't even know me! how do you know if i'm pretty !!?? or how do you know i'm in college !! are you stalking me ??"

"ah, i understand the problem now." you heard him mutter, you were already tense, shoulders ready to cramp and your hands gripping the sheets so hard you were surprised they didn't tear by the sheer force.

"you worry too much baby, do you think it's not easy to guess that someone that sounds as cute as you would be anything other than an inexperienced college girl. i might be exploiting my body, baby, but that doesnt make me stupid. i'm almost a lil offended." you could feel his sly pout through the phone. you only wished that you could feel it on you instead.

"...you are right, i am inexperienced." you said falling on your bed so you could stare at the ceiling instead. too embarrassed to look at the caller id. "i actually...." you tried to steel your nerves so it could be easy for you to admit it. taking a deep breath in you continued, "i cant..." "get yourself off? is that it sweetheart ?"

you sighed, nodding as you continued. "i've tried to, you know... touch myself, but i just can't!" you said exasperated. "you poor thing, you can't even get yourself off. of course you need my help. no one talks to me and goes unsatisfied." he stopped for a second, to let out a dry laugh.

"tell me, what are you comfortable with tonight?" he asked, letting you think for the first time. ten minutes on call with him and you were already too full of him in your mind, unable to think rationally. "i...i'm comfortable with touching myself and...there's something that i bought for myself, a toy to see if it would help me out. it didn't. i don't mind using that either."

a low whistle. ""a toy? fuck baby, y'er killing me." you gulped at his shameless confession continuing, "i also like it when...when it's a little mean..." you flushed with heat as you voiced it out loud, "i like it mean, not a little— like a lot. sorry."

"awww baby, why are you apologizing ? if you want to be called a slut , i'll call you a slut. no need to feel ashamed for what you like." he pauses, "hm? maybe not ashamed but you do have to feel filthy for a mind like that." you gasped in surprise. "with such less experience, tell me how do you know what you like ?"

you blushed, cheeks feverishly hot now. "ah, i i just.." "just what baby? ya watch porn all alone in your dorm ? that is filthy."

you tried to maintain a semblance of control. "tojiiiii m'not like that, i just—"

"awww, i'm playing, doll. i'm the last person to shame a pretty girl for trying to take care of her needs, no matter how bad she's at it." you felt yourself growing wetter with his words, thighs now spread apart as you laid on your bed, sweating on the sheets from his dirty words.

"silent now? can't hear you playing with your pussy either, waiting for permission?" you wished you could wipe off his smug smirk that is clearly translated through the shitty phone quality. realizing that you actually did not need his permission, your hands inched downwards.

"sweetheart, not yet." he said with a slightly terrifying tone attached to his elongated words. "tell me, what are you wearing?" you scoffed at him, "m'not wearing anything special." you lied. you were but it was too embarrassing to tell him that. "awww you are being a brat now? reaaaaaal cute." he paused, "quit playing, we both know how you had your thighs pressed together all day because of me."

your eyes were already glassy with need. "toji...m'just wearing a babydoll dress, it's not that special i promise."

"is that so sweetie ? all right then. why don't we start slow first? let's not rush into anything and confuse your pretty head." you nodded and quickly realized he could not possibly see you so you responded, "okay toji, i trust you..."

"fuck, you are going to kill me if you keep talking with that pout." he groaned, and you almost felt like he was itching to touch you the same way you wanted to touch him.

"now, pull up your dress, get your tits out. no more than that." you carefully listened, obedience coursing through your veins. you pulled your dress up, freeing your tits to the cold room, nipples hardening immediately. "hah, can hear your heavy breathing through the phone, you are too fucking cute."

you left out a shaky breath at his words and waited for his next instruction. you could hear the sound of clothes rustling from the other side of the phone. "now, pretty, i want you to play with your nipples alright? tug on them baby, pinch them." you burned at his lewd comments but nevertheless followed his words to a tee. you were able to control your sounds till now, biting your lips to suppress the moans that bubbled at his dirty words.

you let out the softest whimpers as you pinched yourself, stimulating your already sensitive nipples. you began to feel hotter than you usually did. maybe it was the fact that you had an audience or maybe because the audience was him.

“fuck, just like that. i wish i was there to see ya touch yourself, maybe even touch you myself a little bit. you would like that wouldn't you slut ?" you simply moaned in response, continuing the ministrations on yourself. "the way you sound like a goddamn whore, all i want to do is bite on your sensitive nipples for you."

you couldn't stop the floaty feeling in your head flowing through your body, his words having an effect on you like nothing had ever before.

"fuckin' slut, if ya can get turned on this easily by just having your tits fondled i think its time for you to touch your pretty pussy.." you immediately listened, wasting no time to bring your fingers to the valley of your thighs.

"fuck, spread yourself for me baby and let me hear the mess you've made for my voice." the simple act of you spreading your legs let out a sticky squelch, caught by your microphone and undoubtedly toji who practically moaned at that noise. "god. run your finger through your pussy, you sound fucking beautiful." you do as he said, letting the messiest sounds echo through the room. he groused loudly, "fuckin' hell, you have to be kidding me." you wouldn't believe your own body either. you had never been that wet before, never that aroused.

"awww, my sweet slut got all wet from my voice, no longer my sweet baby hm? so fuckin' dirty." you could hear the sound of something being uncapped and a loud squelch that came from his side of the line. "it's a disgrace that i can't feel how wet your dirty cunt is getting on my cock. have to resort to lube instead." he muttered under his breath. "god sweetheart, your pussy probably tastes better than this shitty artificial strawberry despite it being so filthy."

you began to inch your fingers closer and closer to your needy clit, which was already begging for your attention. maybe it was the praise along with his degradation that made you good because you immediately followed up with a "toj' can i touch my clit, please?"

toji growled at your innocent yet lewd request. "keep asking like that slut and ill give ya a baby too." you giggled at his words now actually touching yourself. finally, giving attention where you had desperately craved your touch had you arching your back off the bed, immediately crying out in pleasure. your bundle of nerves ached with need and being given the pleasure it needed all along, you could feel the black spots of pleasure already painting your vision.

"i want you to be slow baby, take it slow." he cooed at you, "make sure you rub the softest circles on her, hm just the faintest ya don't want to overwhelm her, pretty." you were hooked to every word that left his mouth and you definitely didn't miss the way he tugged on his cock. it had you growing so needy to be filled.

"that's right my filthy whore, why dont ya give her a kiss with your vibrator. come on, turn that flimsy silicon on." you nodded along, pulling your vibrator from underneath your pillow to use on yourself. you turned the pink silicon and brought it closer to your pretty clit just faintly touching it, hovering almost just as toji had told you to.

the minute you brought your vibrator to your needy clit, your body arched off the bed almost unnaturally. your mind was fuzzy with the pleasure it felt. you had never felt like this before when you had used that very vibrator on yourself. you began to mewl uncontrollably as your thighs twitched at the faint sensations.

"fuuuuuuck, you sound so slutty sweetheart. no one could have imagined that such a naive girl would be shamelessly getting off to a stranger's voice." you were babbling, mind too far gone to actually answer him.

"now listen carefully baby, i want you to keep that stupid toy on your clit while your other hand plays with your slutty hole alright?" you forced yourself to bring back some obedience so you could follow along to his words. "i want you to put a finger in yourself, sweets, just one. you can do that for me right baby?"

you nodded again, no longer able to form coherent sentences. "i need ya to use your words like a good fucking girl, else i'll leave you all needy and alone." your eyes opened in despair, tears streaming down your pretty face. "noooo toj' —" you hiccuped, "please, just wanna feel good!"

if you could have seen the sight that was on the other side of the phone call you would have lost your damn mind. sat on a leather couch next to a plastic desk, toji fushiguro had the sleaziest grin painted on his face as he listened to your desperate begging. the raven haired man had his sweats pulled down just enough to spring his cock so he could stroke himself to the little whines you couldn't hold back. the way you called out his name had him high on pleasure, the sticky strawberry lube clouding every sense of his.

all the poor man wanted to do was be able to push your head onto the bed as he pounded you like you deserved, snatching up your virginity like a disgusting pervert. alas, all he could do was fist his obscenely hard cock to the thought of your fingers pushed deep inside your cunt unable to give you the pleasure— a minute with his tongue could.

he settled for making you cry instead, revelling in the way you wobbled with tears. he moaned at your mewls, trying to talk to you but you made it so hard for him to talk.

"i want you to put another finger in, baby, oh? what was that? too tight?" he cackled at your words, "go slowly, don't wanna break ya doll." you sniffled, trying to put another finger into you slowly, and you felt so full already.

"if you can't handle your fingers, how can you ever take a cock? thought you were a cock hungry slut ?" you cried, as you began to scissor yourself open, hands beginning to cramp up. your body was beyond stimulated now, you could taste your orgasm on your tongue.

"toji, m'close, ah—i think so." toji felt his heart beat faster at your words.

"awww you are going to cum baby? my sweet whore about to have her first ever orgasm ?" you nodded as you continued to push your fingers in and out of your sweltering heat, eyes rolled back and mouth open as you couldn't crave for something bigger.

"sweetheart, i want you to increase the intensity setting on your toy and continue to finger that cunt okay? you'll listen right? i promise to make you see the stars." you couldn't help but cry out as you increased the intensity, body pushed beyond its limits. you could feel a warm sensation all throughout your body as you pressed the toy impossibly closer to your clit.

toji tried to match his strokes, his cock about to cum around the same time as you just as he continued thrusting into his own fist at the same pace your fingers thrusted into your warm hole. he couldn't help but tug faster as your moans became louder and your words became less comprehensible.

"let yourself go baby, you can do it. toji's right here with you." he nearly whimpered as he heard your desperate whines. you began to feel your cunt squeeze impossibly against your fingers and suddenly the coil in your stomach snapped. you felt a gush of liquid splash everywhere, dirtying your sheets. you could feel the slick ooze from you as you squirted for the first time in your entire life.

all those years of remaining "broken" as your best friend would call you was all worth it because at that moment all you could see was heaven. white washed over your eyelids and the softest buzzing sensation racked through your body. talking about buzzing, your vibrator remained on the side having its use truly fulfilled for the first time in your life.

meanwhile toji could not believe his fucking ears when he heard his so called inexperienced caller squirt only because of his voice. it was enough to send him over the edge, his fist grasping his cock almost painfully as he came all over his abs, his cum painting his tan skin white and his happy trail a wet mess from when he had started. he was beyond ecstatic, hearing your soft pants from the line.

you heard toji's grunts directly in your ears and if you were not completely exhausted, you would have brought the vibrator back once again. as you heard him finish, you muttered a shy thank you for being the first to make you cum.

he simply chuckles at your words following it up with a, “it's all good doll, just make sure ya pay me double before our next session.”

fuck, you needed to get a part time job now.

#toji smut #toji x reader #toji x you #toji fushiguro smut #toji fushiguro x reader #fushiguro toji x reader #toji fushiguro #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk x you #female reader #jjk #toji

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uglypastels · 11 months ago

Text

Halo of the Highest Grade / Logan Howlett x Reader

People tried to warn you about him, but you loved the risk and danger of it all. They prayed for you, but God already knew exactly the type of men you’ve had your spare share of fun with. And the Wolverine was exactly what you had been looking for all this time.

word count: 5.5.k

warnings: SMUT. 18+ Only. MDNI. afab!reader. p in v. no protection [wrap it before you tap it, folks]. cunnilingus. sadomasochistic tendencies: spanking. choking. biting. scratching. hair pulling. face slapping. mutual degradation. makeshift restrain. violence: cage fighting. blood. alcohol. smoking. cursing. not proofread.

gif from banner sourced online but couldn't find the op, all credits to them.

Shoutout to @deceptive-daydreams for helping me come up with all of this.

Masterlist - Requests are Open

They shake their heads

Saying, "God help her" when I

Tell 'em he's my man.

But your good Lord doesn't need to

Lift a finger, I can fix him

No, really, I can.

The shouts and vulgarities of the drunken crowd could be heard from outside the building. Inside, smoke and alcohol overwhelmed the senses whilst the lights shined through the slits in the high ceiling, practically guiding you towards the silver-lit halo that was the cage at the centre of the room. As if in a trance, each element was calling for you to move closer, so closer you came.

The bell indicating the end of the fight rang but was barely heard through the commotion of the spectators. Two men dragged the barely conscious body of the defeated, his red shirt camouflaging his spilt blood.

‘Hey pretty—’

‘Fuck off.’ You hissed at the pitiful man who had appeared by your side, not even sparing him a glance when you walked off, leaving him behind, stunned and confused. Maybe he tried to call after you or spit some expletives your way, but you were too focused on what was happening inside the cage to notice.

‘Gentlemen.’ The host called for the next challenger. ‘In all my years, I’ve never seen anything like it. Are you gonna let this man walk away with your money?’ With an antagonising finger, he pointed to the individual you had already been unable to look away from. His back glistened with sweat from the hot lights above his head. Each calm breath accentuated his shoulder blades. He barely reacted to the scream from the crowd as yet another loser came forward. While the other man approached the stage, you watched the champion take a long drag from his cigar, the smoke billowing around him in long ribbons.

‘Our Savior!’ the host exclaimed, and he exchanged some words of grace with the new fighter. Meanwhile, you kept a watchful eye on the other as he drained his glass of his last drops of golden spirit. With each second until the starting bell ticking by, you found yourself wishing him to turn around and face his opponent. But the bell came and went, and he didn’t move.

The “savior” lunged forward with a kick, pushing your object of interest into the metal wiring. It clattered at impact, and so his grunt was barely audible. Bend over, a dog tag hanging from his neck; he didn’t even attempt to block the punches thrown his way. Unable to look away from fascination, you winced at each hit. In everyone else’s eyes, it was a lost fight. One too many, he should have quit while he was ahead. Surely, he couldn’t take it anymore. But something in you saw the moments ahead. How he got up, fists and teeth clenched.

It was over before you could even blink.

Three punches were all it took. All punctuated with a dull metal sound no one could place but claimed to be the barriers of the fighting stage as the “savior” unconsciously fell to the floor.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen, tonight’s winner and still king of the Cage–’ the crowd booed to the harmony of the bell calling the Knock Out, and you quickly sought your escape from the eye of the storm before it formed. From the sound of it, things were gonna get ugly very quickly, and that ain’t the show you had come for.

‘The Wolverine!’ The announcer finished, and you made sure to remember that little nickname as you walked off.

With the majority of the crowd leaving, their losses very much at the forefront of their minds, you settled down at the bar.

‘Give me two of whatever he was having back there.’ You told the barman, cocking your head back to the Cage, and turned on the stool to face the room, a plan already forming in your head. You heard behind you how the man poured the drinks and placed one next to the other at your side.

‘You don’t wanna do this.’ The man chuckled through his warning, fully aware of your intentions. So, subtlety had never exactly been your strong suit, but in this case, you felt it would probably be a great advantage.

‘Now, what makes you say that?’ You reached for the nearest glass and took a gentle sip. The alcohol practically seared your throat as it went down. ‘He’s just like any other man, no?’

‘Lady, that ain’t no man.’, the older man said in a hushed tone, scared as he would be heard by the wrong people, despite of the chaos around you. ‘That’s a monster.’

Those words only sparked more interest inside you. A flash of ruffled dark hair caught your attention between the crowd, and like a shock had gone through your spine, you sat up straight.

Realising he was fighting a lost beetle, the barman simply sighed. ‘May God help you.’

Oh, God knew exactly the type of men you’ve had your spare share of fun with before. Leading the kind of life you had it was the only way to still make things a little bit interesting. And he, the Wolverine, was precisely what you were looking for.

His steps were heavy on the floorboards. The crowd, while still angry, parted like the Red Sea at his proximity, looking away as if scared to be petrified if they got caught catching a glimpse of him. But you didn’t even try and hide your stare as he walked up to the bar. A fact that did not go unnoticed. And neither did the manner in which his eyes glazed over your body, moving up and down across your frame, hovering in particular over a few places.

Although plenty of seats were vacant, he sat down at your immediate right. His mouth had already slipped open with the request for a drink, but you were quicker with your generous gesture.

He looked at it with a mix of surprise and amusement, but didn’t say a word. The liquor disappeared with one heavy swig, and the glass clashed with the counter. Without needing to hear anything, the helpful bartender brought out the bottle and poured him another.

‘Can I help you?’ The Wolverine muttered, looking at you from the corner of his eye when you had not stopped looking him over since he had sat down.

Isn’t he a charmer, you thought, but you also could not deny that his attitude and harsh tone were doing things to you.

‘Just wanted to congratulate you on the fight.’ As subtle as anything else you had done that night, you came closer, leaning towards him. You caught the glance he gave you as you moved, specifically how his eyes once more lingered on your breast. God, how you loved the ones that just didn’t give a shit. Those who were just as blunt as you were in these matters. It made things so much easier.

‘It wasn’t much of a fight.’ He replied, unphased by anything that happened that night.

‘I suppose you’re right.’ You shrugged, twirling the drink in your hand, ‘though I did think you were kind of soft on that last guy. Why let him get you like that?’ Your mind flashed to the fight, to the grunts he had made as his opponent’s fist met his stomach. ‘Surely, you could have knocked him out cold as soon as he stepped into the ring.’

‘Where’s the fun in that?’ With those words, he finally turned to you, and for the first time that night, your eyes met, and that’s when you saw it. That glint in his eye that told you everything you needed to know about him. How he didn’t get in that ring because he needed to. Maybe the money was a bonus, but that is all it was. He got in there because he wanted to. He let those other guys get in a punch or two before knocking the shit and wind out of them.

He enjoyed it.

The next remarkable thing about his face, aside from the apparent perfect angles of his features, was how truly perfect it was. For someone so eager to brawl, there were no indications of his hobby. No bruises, scars, and even long-term, his nose looked perfectly straight, as did his jaw, never broken or battered.

He just kept getting more fascinating by the second.

‘So you’re one of those thrill junkies, huh?’ you asked ordinarily, certainly not as if you had just lost yourself while looking at his face.

‘Sure, if you wanna call it that.’ He scoffed. He was holding back; that much was clear. The constant glances he threw your way were more than enough of a tell. He took another sip of his drink. Fuck it, now was a better chance than never. You let your leg slowly climb up and down his calf, gently pressing into him. Something in his posture stiffened, his jaw tensed up at your touch, and you revelled in it.

‘I can imagine it’s quite a rush, getting out there, getting the adrenaline pumping all through you.’ Your voice danced around him, only clear mischief at its core. ‘Makes you wonder…’ You leaned in so close you could nearly whisper the word directly in his ear. ‘If there is anything else that would have that effect on a man.’

‘Don’t start playing games you can’t finish, bub,’ he pushed out.

‘Oh, I’m planning on finishing.’ You smiled sweetly. ‘Don’t you worry ‘bout me, big boy.’

‘Is that right?’ He leaned in to fill the gap you could not match from your position. You had caught his full attention, his empty glass forgotten on the countertop bar.

Though he faught with a bare chest, he had layered up since and now wore a wifebeater tanktop, covered mainly by a blue button-up and a dark brown leather jacket. As he looked at you, he saw a little black dress that fits you like a glove and just called for attention, and that matched with some knee-high boots and your hair all done up just like the boys like it. You had the intention of getting out of this shithole with someone, and you had set your target. Now, you were so close to catching him, too.

‘Mmm,’ you took the final sip of your drink. ‘So what’you say we get out of here?’

He chuckled at your suggestion, turning back to look at his hands. You noticed how even his knuckles did not have a shadow of a blush on them. ‘You sure you wanna do this, honey?’

‘I know what I’m doing, honey.’ You got up from your stool, placing your hand on his thigh. He immediately tensed up, but only momentarily, as he relaxed once your slowed down the graze of your nails against the inner seam of his jeans. ‘C’mon, let’s have some fun.’

Your hand moved across him to reach for his, and the simple touch was enough for you to know you had won. At least this round. As soon as your fingers touched, his entire body gave in. Not that he would have admitted it, nor was it that obvious at first glance. You, however, picked up on those things. How he leaned into your touch and practically let you walk him out of the bar. But you didn’t have to do or say anything for him to place his other hand over your hip, let it fall comfortably over your ass.

As soon as your body was greeted with the cool winter air, you spun around, pressing yourself against him until his back hit the brick wall. From then on, everything turned to instincts. Like the bartender knew to refill his glass without a word or glance, this man knew how to kiss you. His hands found their positions on you, keeping you steady as his lips explored yours. You could feel the scruff of his beard, the taste of it all: the alcohol, the cigar. None of it should have had any appeal to you, but mixed with his touch, it simply made you melt away. The kiss kept going until your lungs ran out of breath, and even then, you leeched onto him until you couldn’t any longer, not-so-gently pulling his bottom lip between your teeth as you pulled apart.

‘Got a name, gorgeous?’ He asked, almost innocently, lip pink and plump, though mostly exhilarated through your actions, and so you told him, to which he replied: ‘Logan.’ He kissed you once more, deeper, harsher, before continuing his introduction. ‘Just so you know, I’m not one to hold back.’

‘What, like you did with that guy back there?’ You teased, letting your fingers brush through his hair.

‘That was just a warm-up.’ Was it meant as a threat? A warning? Whatever it was, it made your knees weak. ‘So don’t get scared if I get a bit wild.’

‘Trust me, I can handle me a dangerous man.’ You moved your hand down, brushing over the side of his face, down his collarbone to trace the silver chain that peaked from underneath his shirt.

‘Just be careful what you wish for.’ He nearly growled before pressing his lips back onto yours.

⦻

You had rented a motel room nearly across the street from The Cage bar and though fairly short, your journey back had turned into one big blur. All you remembered was Logan nearly throwing you into his car, a somewhat sluggish and overrun pick-up with an even older caravan attachment, and pulling you out with as much force. He had practically carried you up to your room, and if it wasn’t for the sake of the other motel visitants, you had a feeling he would have taken you right there and then, up against the green door with a steel 28 hammered into it.

But ever the gentleman, he pulled himself back, only slightly hurdling your attempts at unlocking the door as he let his hands roam all over your body. You threw your head back into the crook of his neck, your hand returning to its place in his messy hair. At the feeling of his lips on you, peppered kisses on the side of your neck, you couldn’t help but tug at his roots. Unintentional, but in hindsight, a revolutionary advance as Logan’s moan heated up your skin, and the thrust of his hips could only be described as untamed.

There really was a monster inside of him. And for one, you couldn’t wait until it got out.

The key finally clicked in its lock, and Logan was the one to push the door open. You spun on the tips of your toes to face him, unable to hide the playful grin on your face. He leaned in for a kiss, but you quickly avoided it with a step back. He stepped forward, kicking the door shut behind him. Just like that, the room fell into darkness, with the exception of the neon sign peaking through the curtains, illuminating your surroundings in glowing streaks of blue.

With a gentleness you had not shown before, you reached for a kiss. A feathery touch that left Logan needing more, the yearning visible in how his body followed you once you let go. And you let him. In fact, as you made your way to the bed, you hooked one finger through one of his belt loops, pulling him along with you. You took small steps backwards until your shins hit the edge of the bed and sat down with a squeak of the mattress springs. Standing in front of you, Logan towered over you.

A perfectly placed streak of light hit him, showing you just how dark his eyes had turned with need. How his chest was rising heavily as he shook his jacket off, throwing it aside. You watched it pile under the button-up he threw along with it, followed by your coat. Once you looked back at him, the sight of his bare arms had your mind wandering off into the most dark and corrupt places. No thoughts, just pure need pushed your legs open, so far the most inviting of places to Logan.

He wasted no time falling to his knees. You pulled him by the hair for another kiss. Everything got messier by the moment, hungrier, filthier. His hands settled on your thighs, spreading your legs further, then pulling one of them up over his shoulder, giving him space to do whatever he wanted with you. Admittedly, you could have kept kissing him forever, but when his lips attached themselves to your inner thigh, you let yourself fall back on the bed in bliss.

Logan moved closer with each peck. Closer and closer until he reached your panties—the arousal evident from the moment you had revealed yourself to him. You didn’t think the two of you could get any closer until, with a harsh tug, he pulled you up against his face, the bridge of his nose tracing over the soaked material. A shaky moan escaped past your lips, and the hold you kept on his hair tightened. Putting the underwear on started to feel like your biggest regret that day as Logan got comfortable placing sloppy kisses over them, sending shock after shock of elation through your core.

Your back arched at the sensation of his cold hand on your hot skin, climbing up to the spot where your bodies connected. Still, through that damned lace, he pushed a finger over your slit. The pleasure slowly began to form into agony as you couldn’t take it much longer. But perhaps neither could he, as not long after he had started those teasing strokes, he grabbed at your panties and, with a pull, ripped them to shreds. The sound of the material ripping was harsh and startling but not half as much as the feeling of his hot breath against your pussy, or his tongue finally pressing against it.

‘Fuck,’ you cursed, to which he responded with a muffled moan, of which the vibrations only added to your pleasure. Logan was undeniably in his element at your feet. The intensity of his movements was proof enough that he enjoyed every single moment of it. The taste of your juices was like ambrosia, and he couldn’t get enough.

Your hips bucked up in a moment of his more expressive movements. The broken record in your mouth was stuck on a mix of profanities and his name. You couldn’t stop thinking about the feeling of his fingers on you, how you wished he would have done more than just tease you, but it wasn’t needed for you to feel the tight twist in your stomach. Your whole body began to tense, including your thighs. It took the sound of Logan’s deep groans for you to realise that, in your desperate state, you had started to squeeze your thighs together, practically locking his head in between.

But, unlike your first thought that had made you want to pull away, his groans had not been worrisome. It was full-on pleasure that he was displaying. To set aside any of your doubt in the case, he held on to your leg, keeping it exactly where it was, and when he glanced up, your eyes met that same exact spark you had seen in the bar. That same hunger and insanity of a man in despair.

Immediately, an idea bubbled in your mind. How you had still been able to form any coherent thought was a mystery, and even more, how you had managed to execute it. It was most likely not possible without his help, as you were sure if he was steadfast in his current position, there would be no way of you getting him to move a slight inch, but with a swift manoeuvre, you pulled yourself off the bed, and flipped yourself, as well as Logan, for you to position yourself on top of his lips.

‘You readin’ my mind now, princess?’ the nickname alone brought back the tightness in your stomach, accentuated by the nick of his teeth against your inner thigh after his remark. There was a moment of slightly awkward shuffling as he pushed himself and you up onto the centre of the bed, but once set, there was no going back.

Instincts took over once more as his tongue moved over your folds. For that extra friction, you began to move in tandem over his features, grinding into him in a heat of need. Now, you had been with a number of guys, each freakier than the other, but none of them had ever let you ride their face like a fuck pillow. He would have been obsolete if not for the fact that he was getting off on sucking your clit.

‘So fucking desperate,’ you moaned between thrusts, and since his mouth was a bit preoccupied, Logan’s response came in the form of his hand firmly smacking across your ass. The lingering sting burnt through the rest of you just long enough for you to start missing it and that’s when he struck the sensitive skin again. Your moans turned higher in pitch with each time he did, and the actions of his tongue got more ferocious. Without saying a word, the message was clear: who’s the desperate one now?

And the answer was very simple. You both were. That’s the only reason you had walked into that room together to begin with. Both of you had urges that had gone unkept for too long. Urges where just sex wasn’t enough. There was always something missing. Until now.

All this time he had made sure you stayed right on top of him. Long and tight enough to make you wonder if he had actually had a death wish and was planning to go out in style. But evertime you looked at him, he seemed to almost be at peace, completely focused in the delicious task at hand. When he did finally pull you up from his lips, it was only to introduce the last puzzle piece into the game.

The curses rolled of your tongue as he pushed his fingers into you. Long and thick, already stretching you out. He left kisses up on your clit, sloppy and wet just to keep toying with the nerves. You could feel the callouses on his thumb as he traced and pressed over it.

His other hand was again on your ass, this time digging into the soft flesh to keep you at bay. You were stuck in the rapturous stance, ready to burst at any time.

‘C’mon, baby, fucking cum on my tongue,’ he growled before placing himself right back where his demand would be met and this time, as the tightness pulled at your body, you couldn’t control it. Not a minute later, were you gasping out his name as you let the pleasure take over all of you.

You rode your high out to the final moment where he kissed your thigh again, eyes heavy and faint smile adorned his lips. While both your breaths were evening out, you slipped down over his body to see the full picture. Even in the barely-lit room, you could see how his face was glistening with your juices, and it just kept going down his neck, drenching the top of his tanktop. It was a sight for sore eyes—and legs. What you would do to see it over and over again.

With a soft laugh that only spelled out “trouble”, you started to softly trace the lines of his beard. He looked up at you with furrowed brows, awaiting an explanation to your actions.

‘Told you I could handle it,’ you smiled, smacking his cheek. Not viciously or even that hard, but firmly enough to wake him up from his pussy-drunk state.

And wake him up, you did.

‘They call it foreplay for a reason, sugar.’ He smirked and suddenly you grew very aware of his hold on you. The next second, you felt yourself move through the air as he took his turn in flipping you over. You nearly got the wind blown out of your lungs as your back hit the mattress for the second time that night, this time with his weight on top of you.

There was the sound of a belt unbuckling. Your eyes automatically searched for the source, ready to see what he had been packing below, but Logan was quicker, cupping your face in his hand, squeezing your cheeks so you’d have no choice to look up at him.

‘Eyes on me.’ His voice was as soft as limestone, fine and effervescent in the most rigid fashion. Then his hand moved down, pushing you by the throat into the soft pillow underneath. He leaned forward, placing his mouth over your ear to whisper: ‘Gonna be a good girl for me?’

You nodded as best as you could with the stiff hold he had on you.

‘Use your words,’ he growled and squeezed.

‘Yes,’ you choked out weakly, exactly like he had wanted you to.

The release of his hand reopened the next floodgates in your body. You could still taste the result of the last time on his lips and tongue when he kissed you. But it wasn’t enough. You needed more. And the most painful part of it all was that you knew just how close you were to getting what you wanted. You could feel the loose belt buckle against your thigh.

‘Logan,’ you gasped as an ending to the kiss. ‘Please.’

‘What did I just tell you, hmm?’ And yet, he still pulled at your dress to push it up over your hips. ‘Use your fucking words.’

‘Fuck me.’ You tried to reach for the top of his jeans, but there was no moving from the position he had you in. ‘Need you inside me.’

‘But yeah, I’m the desperate one,’ he mocked before sitting up. You watched with anticipation at how he unzipped his trousers, and pulled his dick out from his boxers. There was no surprise that he was completely hard by now, and even the size, considering the rest of him, was not a revelation. This had been exactly what you had been counting on when you saw him in that cage. Seeing him stroke himself in front of you was nothing but validation.

‘Just look at you,’ he said as he kept his hand on his cock, ‘Opened your legs up for me the moment you saw me.’ His other hand reached for the top of your dress, stretching it down to reveal your breast. ‘Bet you would have let me fuck you in that cage, huh?’

‘Can’t deny, the thought had crossed my mind.’ You admitted, letting yourself think back to how attractive he looked back in there. Drenched in sweat under those cold lights. That animalistic glint in his eyes. Not much different from now, truth be told.

That had been all Logan needed to hear. You hadn’t realised you were holding your breath in expectation until the feeling of him entering you finally took over. Your lips formed a perfectly blissful O as he stretched you out.

‘That’s right,’ he beamed, ‘gonna fill you up. Nice and tight.’ And he didn’t waste any time, pulling back right after he had reached your depths. In seconds, he had a pace going that left you shaking underneath him, the grunts that accompanied his thrusts recoiling through your nerves. You hands clutched around for a something to grab onto as you started to feel like you were going to sink into the bed from the power at which he fucked you—for that’s what it was, nothing but a brutal and rough fuck.

You searched the sheets for grip, but Logan had other ideas. Taking you by the wrists, he pulled your arms up over your head, holding them against the paneling of the bed. The dull banging on the wall could have very well been your own headboard or the angry fists of your neighbours from the other side, but either way, you were too preoccupied to pay them any mind.

This had been what you were waiting for. What he had promised. The untamed animal that worked off of nothing but impulses. Anything to suffice that pure need for pleasure.

His grip on your wrists was tight, and to say it didn’t turn you on even more than anything else he had done before would be a blatant lie, but your urge to touch him was stronger. You tried to wiggle your hands free, but there was no way of doing so. Not with a man like Logan in control, that much he had made clear.

‘This not good for ya?’ he huffed out, but before you could respond, he pulled you up by your arms until you straddled his thighs, chest to chest, an angle which pulled him in even deeper.

‘Oh my god,’ your eyes rolled back at the sensation.

‘No god will help you now,’ he said against your lips before bringing you in for another kiss. You wrapped yourself around him, finding comfort in the softness of his hair once more while he began to guide your hips into a steady motion to fit the pace at which he moved. Testing the waters again, you pulled at the hairs on the nape of his neck. The smile on his face as his head rolled back was unmistakable even in the dark of the room.

You pulled harder and there it was. That pure moan you had been waiting for and once you got a taste of it, you couldn’t get enough.

And neither could he.

With the goal set, you dragged your nails over his shoulders as you let your hips roll over his.

‘Fuck yeah,’ he moaned in ecstasy, ‘use me, baby.’ The words came out airy and made your head spin at their contrast. How could he be acting like your little plaything while still taking full control of you? It made you feel grand and tiny in his arms at the same time, but mostly, it was so incredibly hot.

He hissed at the feeling of your nails digging into his skin. ‘Don’t you dare fucking stop.’ He stressed each word with a thrust, dotting it with a sharp kiss. And so, you did as you told, pushing yourself onto him in all ways you could. You didn’t know if you had it in you to draw blood, but it sure felt close to it. You were waiting for Logan to scream out, pull you off of him, but it only seemed to rile him up more.

That’s a monster. That’s what the man in the bar had called him. Monster. And there was a sense of truth to it. There was a beast hiding inside him, ready to attack. Maybe he thought he had found a victim when he saw you, but as you clenched around his length, you were quite the opposite.

You were no victim. No damsel in distress. No princess.

You were a hunter, and you had just caught your grand prize.

‘I’m gonna—’ you were unable to finish the sentence before the rapture. You screamed his name in elation as the second flush satisfaction washed over you that night but it wasn’t enough for Logan. He kept on rutting into you, his grunts filled the room, until you felt it all spill out of you.

Once he had caught his breathing under control, he sighed out a contented “fuck,” which you wholeheartedly agreed with as you pulled yourself off him. The emptiness you immediately began to feel was disquieting, and you could feel that need for him bubbling up in your stomach again. The only thing that slightly helped was the sight of him when you returned from the bathroom, jeans on the floor next to the pile of clothes you had formed through the night.

You took all of him in with wonder as you slipped your dress off your body.

They shook their heads

Saying, "God help her" when I

Told 'em he's my man.

But your good Lord didn't need to

Lift a finger, I can fix him

No, really, I can.

Woah- Maybe I can't.

You awoke to the sunbeams bursting through the curtains. Sore all over, you tried to stretch across the bed, mindful of the presence next to you.

Except, when you stretched out your hand, you were only met with the soft material of the bedsheets. The mattress had gone cold and reformed back to its natural state, having forgotten any weight that might have laid there the night before. If you had looked outside, you would have seen an empty parking spot beside yours. The only sign of there ever having been someone in that bed with you was the ghostly presence of the smell of cigars and aftershave.

You smiled to yourself, nails digging into the sheets as you let your mind wander back to the realm of dreams.

the end.

thank you for reading 💗

if you enjoyed the fic, please consider reblogging and leaving a comment. or send a message via my inbox with your thoughts. I'd love to hear what you thought of it. requests are also more than welcome. 💗

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nilsavatar · 7 months ago

Text

All's fair in war and love

Parings: Neteyam x Fem!Sarentu

Genre/Warnings: NSFW/MDNI +18, no use of Y/N, ANGST, SMUT in the end, love bites, sexual tension, P in V, manhandling, fingering, praising, cursing, pet names (tìyawn, yantu, yawne, love, sweetheart), dirty talk (Neteyam has a breeding kink as request by Anon), edging (orgasm denial), soft-dom Neteyam. All characters are AGED-UP. Neteyam is a bit cheesy, but from the way he shows how much he cares for his family, it's in character to be a romantic in a love context.

!DISCLAIMER! Presence of dark and sensitive explicit themes: destruction by explosive devices, massacre, and murder (the protagonist and Neteyam kill soldiers). Please do not read if these topics are not for you.

Summary: The story takes place in one of the final stages of the video game Avatar: Frontiers of Pandora, in one of the most poignant and heartbreaking moments of the plot. Following a heavy earthquake at the Well of Souls that hit the Zeswa hunting party, Sarentu, who will take the name Ateyana here, travels to the site in search of survivors. Finding that many have perished, she decides to find the source of the devastating tremors. Quakes that are not of seismic origin, rather human. With vengeance in her heart, she goes to the military outpost seeking justice. There she will be joined by her lover, Neteyam, and together they will fight for Pandora. But also for themselves.

Little note: This story should have come out months ago - many months ago, way too many. Writing it was a source of great frustration for me. I found myself having a precise idea that I couldn't put into words. The biggest challenge was the action scene that you will find as you read, and, honestly, I don't even think it came out that well. It was the first time for me to deal with this type of narrative. Even if I'm not at all satisfied with the result, it feels right to publish it, for those who have been waiting for it. Anon who requested it, those who answered the poll to choose Sarentu's name, @akari-rosefield who DMed me for updates. This fic is for you.

Word Count: 9k

Masterlist - Request a fic

“Yana!”

Shouts. Shouts and gunshots. The alarm siren.

“Ateyana, we must move!”

A male voice. Nor? The noises mingled with the high-pitched whistle that filled her ears, her eyes blinded by too much light blocking her view. A wall of intermittent red cleared up only by the white of bullets and the few monitors still working.

“Telisi, Yefti-.” “Come!”

Somebody pulled her by the arm. Her legs ran as if pulled by a force she thought lost. The images blurred until they took on the contours of a face she knew. Eyes that were large and bright, but distant as if hiding a secret, now wide with terror.

“It’ll be fine. Don’t be afraid. It’s gonna be like falling into a deep sleep. When you wake up, it will all be over.” “It burns.” “I know, dear, it’ll pass now. Just close your eyes and start counting down from ten. Ten... nine... eight... seven...”

The woman’s voice became distant like a ghost's, her eyelids heavy. The fire coursing through her veins gave way to a sudden cold; a searing chill that numbed her feet, then her legs, and slowly worked its way up her entire body.

“... six... five...”

Surrounded by darkness, all she could hear was the capsule hissing shut, protecting her from everything but silence.

Neteyam remembered his first meeting with Ateyana well. The excitement and commotion that her entrance to Awa’atlu had triggered, on a par with a resurrected spirit — the dawn of a new day. It felt like déjà vu, but in reverse: this time, the Sullys were not on the side of the outsiders falling from the sky, and instead of suspicion, there was a mood of celebration. On the back of her ikran, she wore with ease the hallmarks of the clans that had touched her, each symbolizing a stage in her rebirth; the teachings of their ways. The sea breeze sighed through the soft kinglor silk of her robes, the feathers of the stiff Keme’tire cloak vibrated with every breath, while the colors of the Zewsa shone brightly in the sunlight. Her eyes even deeper and more orange by the sharp contrast with the white, purple, and fuchsia that tinged her skin. So unusual was her appearance, yet harmonious, paired with the banshee that sported the same fanciful pattern. “Look! Look at her face!” “The mark.” The young warrior's gaze followed the whispers around him and settled on the girl's left cheekbone, cut by a crescent moon and four drops just below the eye.

Sarentu. The lost clan.

Neteyam had only heard of them in his grandmother’s stories. The old woman had a sad smile as she talked about the lost storytellers, who were distant cousins of the Omatikaya and descendants from Entu, the first Toruk Makto; diplomatic wanderers who preserved the oral memory of clans’ history, carriers of Eywa wisdom. A beloved People whose terrible fate was known to all Na’vi. Exterminated by the RDA. The same organization that kidnapped their children to raise them as deviant soldiers, alienated from the Great Mother, from all that made them pandorians. Kids who disappeared twenty years ago as a result of the attack on the Tree of Souls and the dismantling of the TAP program. Or so they thought, for one of them had just dismounted her dragon, its wings still rustling with the sound of powerful beats.

Making her way through the crowd, the plaintive wails of the baby cradled in her arms acted as a herald of the tsahìk's arrival. Loran, younger brother of Ao'nung and Tsireya, born shortly after the RDA attack that nearly killed the Sullys' eldest son, seemed to have absorbed the heartbreak of his People, the turmoil of those dark times, for relentless was the torment that plagued him until he fell asleep.

The girl stepped forward, kneeling as she made a small bow before her forehead. “Oel ngati kameie, Ronal eo lu Metkayina Tsahìk.” The woman smiled, and her calmness seemed to ease the breathlessness of her son, who stared at the visitor with large, tear-filled eyes. “Ateyana te Hìtaì Kataru’ite.”

For a split second, her gaze flickered. It had been so long since she had heard her full name spoken aloud. The mention of her family, specifically her mother, sent a shiver down her spine. With a long history of being used as an experiment, trapped within the confines of sterile concrete walls, she had come to see herself as nothing but a test subject. A lab rat. A cluster of inconsequential cells employed to experiment with a substance and observe its reaction. Or worse, treated like a monkey that was given logic games to assess its intellectual growth. With each class, each shower in disinfectant, because the stench of Na’vi was unbearable, every trace of her natural self slipped away; depersonalized from everything her name stood for to the point of hating it. Ateyana, Spirit of the Dawn. It sounded like a joke, the sense of hope that her name carried. In the RDA compound, scientists educated Sarentu children in math, English, weapon use, and also introduced them to human literature and history. A series of conflicts, wars, colonization, and destruction caused by the idea of taking things simply because one had the power to do so. Throughout those years, she couldn’t ignore the eerie parallels between them and the indigenous communities who had been eradicated in certain areas of Earth. The name of one population in particular had stayed with her, as it bore a striking resemblance to her own. The Yana, a population decimated by the California genocide unleashed by the Gold Rush, ceased to exist in 1916 when the last descendant perished in a Rancheria.

Right from the beginning, she saw that historical reference as an omen of what was to come for her and her people, now down to just five survivors. Whether through brutal erasure or assimilation into other clans, the Sarentu would disappear. She made a decision that day: to only go by Yana. She abandoned her full name and any other nickname despite her sister’s disapproval, and adopted what everyone now regarded as a diminutive, oblivious to its true status as a legitimate name.

A name that signified the final chapter of their lives. Hers and those who shaped her into the resentment and anger-filled young woman she is today. And with almost absolute certainty of all those who would accompany her in her revenge.

“For a long time, we believed in the defeat of your people, but our hope for your return never wavered. The Great Mother could not fail those she had delivered her word to. We have missed you.” Ronal caressed her cheek, her thumb feathering the raised outline of the mark. A moment of weakness that surprised those present, accustomed to the woman’s stoic and fearless nature. “Come, you need rest. You’ve been through a lot, and your eyes tell me there is much to discuss.”

The girl nodded, her heart full of gratitude at the warm welcome, a gesture she hadn’t anticipated (the tsahìk's reputation preceded her). A fleeting warmth that would soon fade.

2174, PANDORA, RESISTANCE HQ, KINGLOR FOREST

“We have located the epicenter of the quakes near the Celebration Arches”. Priya’s finger pointed on the map to the demarcation point between Aranahe and Zeswa territories; just beyond the network of caves that connected the Kinglor Forest to the Upper Plains.

“Ayvitrayä Ramunong (Well of Souls),” Jake’s voice belonged to a hiss, recalling vividly the last time he had admired the magnificence of rock arches growing up from the underground, driven by the incredible magnetic force. A shell that enclosed within it a dense, lush vegetation protecting the Tree of Souls. Two decades earlier, the RDA had destroyed the Omatikaya’s most sacred site. Although the basin was at the foot of the Hallelujah Mountains, right in the Flux Vortex’s heart, their attack wiped out the clan’s memories and, almost, their spirit. Something similar was happening here. He was certain of it. The tremors recorded were too cadenced and regular to result from seismic activity. Humans orchestrated it.

“Drills.” “That's what we suspect.” “Unobtanium?” “We do not detect a relevant presence of unobtanium in the subsoil that would justify extraction. On the other hand, it is rich in carbon-fossils.” “Oil?” “Let's call it that.” “What's the point of extracting it? We have abandoned fossil energy sources for more than a hundred years.”

We have. At his side, Neytiri clutched the handle of the bow she had not laid since their arrival, her eyes darkened by the battle paint that adorned her face. Sometimes her husband still spoke as if he were one of them. After all, a part of him always would have been. Just look at the military waistcoat he wore like a second skin, the rifle always at hand, despite Eywa's abhorrence of metal weapons. The man spoke before his mate did, “We must act, but we need to be smart.” “Anqa is already on site examining the situation. Yana is with her,” she added, noting the friend's apprehensive look at the mention of one person alone in that dangerous place. “What?” The tone in Neteyam's voice was caustic; a venomous hiss barely vented between clenched teeth, but he did not have time to question the girl's presence in the field any further, as a loud din echoed from the two-way radio on the table.

“Anqa! Anqa, can you hear me? What's going on?” The purple-haired ecologist was terrified. -The RDA… Arches…! Blew up! Zeswa… the signal was disturbed. The hunting party… Everything collapsed. The arches collapsed…- Neteyam snatched the transceiver from her hand to bring it to his mouth with cold timbre and a blank stare. “Where is she?”

No further explanation was necessary for Anqa to understand to whom that male voice, she had come to know all too well, referred. Despite the number of forced interactions with the young Na'vi, despite the operations they had collaborated on side by side, it seemed impossible for her to get used to the chill that ran down her spine whenever she heard him speak with that tone. Especially at times like these. Netayam was frightening when altered, a worthy son of his mother. His lips pulled downward in a thin line, his teeth clenched to the point that his jaw snapped, the tips of his canines showing in tacit menace. His eyes fixed and alert, serpentine, his nostrils flared, and his lungs swelled to a peak and then deflated into severe rumblings in the deepest part of his throat.

-She went looking for survivors.-

Adding nothing more, the young warrior pushed the device against Priya's frail chest, who could barely stand on her own strength, and took wide strides toward his ikran; his parents at his heels. Jake grabbed him by the arm as the boy adjusted the throat-comm around his neck and set it to the frequency matched with his girlfriend's.

“Where you think you’re going?” “To get her.” “You stay here. We’ll go.” The son ignored those words by loading the bow onto the animal’s back. His mother called him back, in tune with his father’s admonition. “I won’t say that again.” “Fine. ‘Cause I won’t sit on my hands while the girl I love is in danger. I’ve never done that with my siblings, and I’m certainly not going to start now.” Jake stepped back as his son pointed his fingers to his own chest, right at the level of the scar that marked him; the everlasting reminder of when he was dying in his arms. “I’m the one who has to keep her safe. I'd never forgive myself if something happened to her.”

“Just as I couldn't live with myself if we lost you.”

Neteyam’s gaze straightened, “I wouldn’t change a thing, even if saving Spider meant giving my life. I am ready to die for those I care about.” “I know, son, that’s what scares me.” He took his face with a palm and brought it close until they were face to face, “Bring her home.” “Yes, sir.” “I expect a mateship ceremony when this whole thing is over.” The boy chuckled, “Yes, sir.”

Yana looked at what was left of the watercourse leading to the heart of the prairie, almost totally dried up except for a few puddles here and there — the water within them of an unnatural greenish hue with purplish reflections and dense consistency. Her vision was blurred by the cloud that had risen after the collapse, and made it difficult for her to breathe; the air tainted by smoke, dust, and pollutants intoxicated her lungs. Around her, the high rock walls were lined with rubble, uprooted trees, and … bodies.

Of winzaw (arrow deer), pa'li and Zeswa.

Most of the hunters had perished crushed by their own mounts, others by boulders or sudden impact with the ground. All were covered in the grayness of ash and death. The only color was the red dye they dyed their hair with, which, mixing with the blood, stained the rocks.

-Tìyawn (love)? Tìyawn, do you read me? “Teyam?” -Thanks, Great Mother, you’re doing okay. Anqa gave us a heads-up about the blast. Where are you at?- “I'm going up the river. There's so much death here. So many killed, so much life…,” her voice died in her throat, ”… destroyed. I'm going up to the drill now. Stop this from happening again.” -No way. Call off the ikran and get back here. Now. We need to regroup. We can't afford recklessness. Do you hear me, Yana? Do not attack!- “I will carry the pain to the ones who caused it.” -Ateyana…!-

Neteyam's inhaled voice died out in the metallic noise of the interference caused by the flow. She was alone. Not that it made any difference. Even though she knew she was hurting him, she would have ignored his intimate but selfish request. She would never have turned back, at the cost of annihilating him in the soul. The Zeswa had welcomed her as a clan member returning from a long, grueling journey. They had raised the festival kites to honor the rebirth of the Lost People; they had taught her their way. She would not abandon them to their grief. The Sarentu were once a peaceful tribe of storytellers and diplomats, they weren't warriors, the Sky People had made them so. Who forced them to take up arms, paint themselves in the colors of war, and swell their chests with battle echoes. If there was one valuable lesson she had learned from human cruelty, it was that there are circumstances in which one must be stained with sin to achieve the goal. Yana was willing to do that, too. She was willing to be abandoned by Eywa and the Na'vi to save Pandora. To give up her integrity and love. To force Neteyam to remain without her. Therefore, even with a grasp gripping her heart, before advancing on the path that had formed in the ruins, besides checking the state of her bow, she counted how many munitions she had in the rifle she carried. As the invaders used to say: all's fair in war and love.

“Fuck!” imprecated Neteyam, pressing the side button to change frequency and connect to Anqa’s throat-comm, his voice sharp. “Anqa, do you copy? I’ve lost signal with Yana. The flux is making the instrumentation crazy.” Static crackled in his ear before Anqa’s voice came through, laced with tension. -Copy. What do you mean, lost signal? Where was she heading?- “She moved into the rubble,” Neteyam said, his frustration barely contained. “Trying to avoid being spotted by soldiers on her way to the drill.”

The woman’s silence spoke more than a thousand words, as heavy as the burden that gripped their hearts. If flux interference was disrupting communication with the Sarentu, it could only mean one thing: she was at the center of it, right in the collapsed area. Then Anqa replied, her tone edged with worry. -Damn, girl. She always does this.-

“I’m not leaving her out there,” he said firmly, his eyes scanning the horizon as he tightened his grip on the banshee's reins. Anqa’s response was swift, resolute. -I’m not suggesting you should. But don’t go in blind, Neteyam. We need you in one piece, too.- “She’s taking out that drill whether we’re ready or not,” the warrior shot back. “You know her—she’ll make the shot even if it kills her.”

A heavy sigh crackled through the comm. -Alright. Listen, head toward the north ridge. The flux is thinner there. I’ll try to guide you remotely with what’s left of the scanners. And, Neteyam?- “Yeah?” -Don’t let her do anything stupid. We need her alive for this fight.- He smirked faintly, though his heart was pounding. “She’s not the only stubborn one here, you know.” -Clearly. Watch your six out there. Out.- The communication fell silent, and Neteyam nudged his mount forward, his gaze narrowing on the jagged horizon.

Flying over the area, he spotted the yellow-and-white-banded Scorpion below him, close to a tall tree growing crooked, almost horizontal, on the top of a hill. A lone stone arch remained intact to shield it. As he imagined, he found the tawtute at the foot of the gigantic tree admiring its leaves turning to fall; the disconsolate expression of someone who had already experienced that same desolation on their skin.

His blood froze when he saw Telisi catch up to her with her typical awkward walk, and rub her muzzle against the woman's cheek as if seeking comfort. Determination burned in his chest as he murmured to himself. “Hold on, love. I’m coming.” With a sharp whistle, his ikran spread its wings, and they dove into the flux-laden skies.

With each step, the dust thickened, and her heart bounced in her chest in rhythm with the increasingly deafening thumps of the drill. Slow and steady, the thuds that sounded by the second seemed to numb her. But even as her feet stumbled over the craggy ground shaken by the vibrations, she did not hint at stopping her progress. Gradually the path became more impassable, where the gorge had filled with giant boulders and uprooted trees, blocking access. She could have scaled what remained of the arches to get an aerial view of the surroundings, but climbing to the top would have meant exposing herself to the aim of snipers and automatic machine guns. Surveillance at that extraction site had to be on high alert, she was certain.

As she advanced, a faint glow hit on her right, warm and clear. Sunlight. A passageway free of disaster. She approached it cautiously. The entrance was just big enough for her to crouch through and gave access to a cave; the ceiling smashed by the earthquake into a natural skylight. Yana hesitated before entering; the air was cleaner but venturing inside a rocky way could be dangerous, even fatal with those continuous tremors running through the underground. A collapsing wall could easily have turned that cave into her grave. But the alternatives were few, and between standing in the mist that prevented her from seeing potential enemies and making her way through the shadows, she chose the one that would give her an advantage. When it comes to Na’vi, the sun is always expected to cast banshee shadows over the heads of their enemies, or the patter of galloping hooves to announce their arrival. It would not occur to anyone to look down, to guard ravines and underground passages to quell any surprise attacks. The People were skilled hunters who never mixed such skills with the art of war. But Yana was not just Na'vi now. Certainly, her DNA was, but a substantial enough part to create ethical contrasts in her person was human.

Penetrating inside the cave, she could ascertain that the main exit had, in fact, collapsed. The only other point of access was the skylight itself, but to reach it she would have to rely on the strength of her arms to climb. With no small effort, she reached the top, and the mammoth, frightening figure of the drill appeared before her, the building structure circling it like a barrier. A stroke of pure luck: as she ascended the passage, she had come right to the heart of the Alpha platform; the auger staring her straight in the face as if to give a defiant welcome.

“Priya? I'm at the drill. Tell me how to tear it down.” -I hear you. Destroying the drill-core will leave that monster useless. It's protected, but cut the control wires, and you should get an opening. Hurry, it's the RDA. Nothing's ever enough.- “Consider it done.” With those words, the tsamsiyu (warrior) took her leave, before turning off the transceiver and penetrated inside the platform, filled with enemies armed to the teeth. But she wasn't afraid. She possessed the skills to accomplish the mission without having to engage in open confrontation. With patience and calculated movements, she would have tampered with that contraption. What could go wrong?

The military base sprawled across the battered terrain like a metallic parasite, its angular structures jutting out from the ground, illuminated by harsh, artificial floodlights. Sarentu advanced through the shadows to make herself invisible, her breathing controlled, every step deliberate. She crouched low behind a jagged fragment of collapsed rock, her body blending with her surroundings. She inhaled deeply, her ears twitching as she listened to the heavy footfalls of a nearby patrol. Her bow was slung across her back, and a quiver of arrows hugged her side, a blade ready in one hand. She slipped between the patrols, weaving through their blind spots, and approached her prey. The monstrous drill, the beating heart of devastation.

The machine seemed alive, a colossus of metal and energy, digging relentlessly. The hum of its turbines vibrated in the air, an almost hypnotic rhythm, but the girl could afford no distractions. The base was heavily guarded; squads of soldiers moved in coordinated patterns, their exosuits clanking softly as they patrolled the perimeter, a mechanical dance of strength and control.

Moving with feline grace, she watched them for several minutes, mapping their movements. Three guards on the raised catwalk, two near the energy core, one stationed at the control room door. The others roamed unpredictably. She’d have to move fast and strike silently. Stealth was the key, and a strategy formed in her mind as she did so, accurate and deadly.

Her chance came when two soldiers paused to speak, turning their backs to her. She darted forward, her feet barely making a sound on the uneven ground. With a lightning gesture, she drew an arrow and stuck it. The string of her bow was stretched in deafening silence. The first shot struck the guard in the throat; the second fell before he could scream. When the third turned too late, her blade flashed, slipping through the crevices of his armor, her palm plugging his mouth before he could react. He collapsed with a muted thud. Yana dragged the bodies into the shadows, methodical despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins. No mistakes, no hesitation.

The main control panel was located in a cabin protected by armored walls and a digital keypad lock, where the last soldier was typing distractedly. Taking cover behind a stack of crates, an arrow flew, quiet as the whisper of the wind. The lone guard fell onto the controls, his hand smearing blood on the screen, as the rustle of the drill grew louder. She pushed him aside to access the panel that displayed data incomprehensible to anyone but a skilled technician, but she had no need to decipher it, SID would have taken care of it—a portable interface capable of decoding the security frequencies of enemy forces.

After a few seconds of work, her eyes lit up as the device emitted a soft beep of success, unlocking the door. The cabin was cramped, lit by cool neon lights, and the control panel dominated the room, its screens and switches monitoring every aspect of the drill.

The hanged plans showed how the core was protected by an electronic security grid, making it inaccessible without a specific command. Quickly, she navigated the panel menus, bypassing the access codes with her device. Her experience enabled her to locate the sequence that activated the turbines' maintenance mode, which was necessary to temporarily expose the core for technical interventions.

The next step required rigor. Yana pulled out a small vibration-cutting tool and began to disassemble the panel's side plate. The metal shell was resisting, but with a sharp blow, she managed to remove it, revealing a tangle of wires and circuits. She quickly identified the wiring for the core cooling system, a critical component in keeping the turbines stable. By cutting a single blue wire and replacing it with a connector she modified, she created a controlled short circuit that sent a false overheat signal to the main panel. The lights flashed, and a low alarm went off, prompting the system to automatically open the bulkheads protecting the drill core to allow for a supposed inspection.

Before leaving the cabin, the girl deactivated the hacking device, automatically erasing all traces of her digital intrusion. She remounted the panel plate and verified that everything appeared intact from the outside. Finally, she slipped between the shadows once again.

With the core now exposed, she could see it shone with an unnatural blue-green glow, pulsing like an alien heart.

“Time to finish this,” she murmured, moving briskly to it. She retrieved a bundle of small adhesive charges from her belt, aware that every second lost could be lethal. She carefully placed them in the most vulnerable spots, her hands steady despite the time pressure. The bomb timers were set on a delay long enough to allow her to move away safely. She was just finishing cocking the last one when a cry rang out behind her. “Intruder! By the drill!”

The searchlights all pointed at her, and the camp exploded in chaos. Cursing under her breath, the girl dived behind a support beam as bullets tore through the air, arrows at the ready. She shot one, then another in rapid succession, each finding its mark. She shot down the nearest enemies, but there were too many reinforcements for her to face them alone.

The situation seemed desperate. Her eyes rested one last time on the drill, then her fingers went to the detonator as she murmured a quiet prayer, ready to make a drastic decision. Just as she was about to press the button, a shadow loomed overhead. A high-pitched whistle cut through the air, followed by the shrill screech of an ikran, its wings slicing through the chaos in a bright trail. Neteyam plunged into the fray, the claws of his beast bearing down on a squad of soldiers. He leaped from his back mid-flight, landing next to Yana with a force that made the platform vibrate.

“What are you doing here?” she asked as she fired another arrow at an approaching guard. “Saving you,” replied her boyfriend, unsheathing his blade, piercing a soldier who came too close in the chest. Sarentu gave him a look full of sarcasm and defiance. Together, they fought their way back toward the drill side by side, their movements perfectly synchronized even in the crossfire. Time was against them; the charges were set, and the girl had the detonator.

“Now or never!” Neteyam shouted, shoving her behind cover as another wave of bullets ripped through the air. She took a breath, staring at the target. Everything came down to this moment. The explosion was deafening, a column of blinding flash of light rising skyward, devouring the drill. The shockwave knocked them both off their feet, flames and debris raining down around them. Yana felt the heat lap against her skin as Neteyam covered her with his own body.

“It’s not over yet!” he shouted, pulling her to her feet as the ground beneath them broke, reacting violently to the destruction. They sprinted toward the edge of the base. The warrior whistled sharply, and his dragon swooped low, its wings slicing through the smoke. He hauled her onto its back and the animal soared as the base sank into the rubble.

As they ascended, the flux pulsed ominously, a deep, rhythmic thrum that resonated through the air. From the sky, as the ikran carried them away, they watched the flames consume the drill. She turned to him, her breathing still labored. “Thank you,” she said, the word full of emotion and relief, while hugging him. He nodded in return, his gaze fixed on the horizon. That was only the beginning. The battle was not over, but for the moment, the drill was gone.

The ikran landed on a rocky ledge hidden in the tops of the tallest trees, a safe place away from the chaos. The wind, charged with the wild energy of the flow, subsided. Neteyam descended first, his movements stiff and charged with tension. When the young woman set foot on the ground, she found him already distant, his back to her.

“Yawntu?” she called, her voice low, almost hesitant. He turned abruptly, and in his golden eyes shone a storm of emotion. His voice, usually calm and reassuring, was broken by a tremor of restrained anger. “What the heck were you thinking?!” She stopped in place, surprised by the ferocity of the tone. “I-”

“You left on your own, you walked into that damn field,” he interrupted her, taking a step toward her. “You were going to-” He couldn’t even say the phrase—You were going to let yourself blow up—, too painful to even think about. The trembling that still shook him was not just a momentary fear: it was a deep-rooted feeling, born of the overwhelming love he felt for her and the horror of seeing the possibility of a future without her. The scene played out in his head repeatedly, like a vortex of conflicting emotions consuming him. Even knowing she was safe now could not quell.

He felt a surge of panic when he realized she would remain in the base, risking her life to destroy the drill even though the bombs were active. His mind, usually clear-headed in battle, filled with chaotic images: her face illuminated by flames, her hands reaching toward him as life left her, the emptiness of a world without the sound of her laughter or the warmth of her gaze. Each beat of the ikran’s wings felt like an eternity, and every second that passed was a weight piling on his chest.

“What was that all about, huh?” His chest rose and fell furiously, his breathing quickened as he drew closer to her again, towering over her with his stature. “Why didn’t you wait for backup? You always want to do everything yourself, you trust no one.” A sequence of questions and statements that sounded as if they meant something else entirely.

You didn’t wait for me. You don’t trust me?

Neteyam fought with himself not to give in to the sense of helplessness, but with each passing moment, the girl’s silence only infuriated his sense that she had consciously chosen to sacrifice herself to destroy the drill. This tormented him, for it meant that she had decided to leave him behind.

“You were ready to die in there! Do you have any idea what that would have meant for me?!” he shouted, and, for a moment, seemed about to burst, but he held back, running a trembling hand through his hair. “I... I can’t lose you, Yana. Not like this.” Those words crashed like waves against a wall, leaving a pain-filled silence. Sarentu stepped forward, her gaze catalyzed on him. “Teyam, listen to me. I had to do it. It was the only way.” “Your life is not an acceptable price!” he replied, his voice louder than he intended. He took a step toward her, his eyes staring at her as if he feared she might disappear. “Not for this war. Not for any war.”She looked at him, surprised by the vehemence of his words. “And anyone else’s life is?” she asked, calm but firm. “If it wasn’t me, it would be someone else. You know that.”

There was nobility in her intent, but Neteyam shook his head nonetheless at her disinterested altruism, his breathing still uneven. Her martyrdom might mean nothing to someone else, but to him, it would amount to the nullification of himself.

“I don’t care about someone else. I-I care about you. More than duty allows, more than I wish sometimes. When I saw you, surrounded by the RDA with the detonator in your hand, crouching in front of the ordnance ...” He shook his head again as if to banish the image, his eyes glazed over. “It was as if a part of me was already dead.” Silence descended. He ran a hand over his face, trying to regroup his thoughts. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, almost a whisper. “When I saw you wouldn’t stop ... I felt my whole world falling apart. You can’t ask me to bear it, Yana. You can’t.”

She looked at him, motionless. His words sank into her heart like knives, but she did not defend herself. Instead, she moved slowly closer until their foreheads almost touched. “You think I wasn’t scared?” she murmured, laying a hand on his chest, where his heart was still beating so fast. “You think I didn’t wonder, every second, if I could come back to you? But I did, Neteyam. I made it. We made it.” Her hands went up to graze his face, her eyes searching his with an intensity that left him breathless. “I wouldn’t be here without you.”

The Omatikaya prince felt the knot of anger and terror loosen inside, leaving a void filled only by his love for her. Saying nothing, he closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers, breathing her own breath. His hands moved to encircle her waist, pulling her against him. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I won’t be so reckless next time.”

The young warrior closed his eyes, lowering his head to leave a kiss on her forehead. “There won’t be a next time,” he whispered. “I’m not letting you do that on your own again.” The echo of his words bounced between them, an even stronger bond forged in the fear and love that united them. “I cannot lose you,” he repeated, his voice an almost imperceptible rustle. “I can’t. You’re my everything.”

Yana replied without speaking, laying her hands on top of his, squeezing them with a gentleness that contrasted with the ferocity of their battle. When she finally lifted her face to his, her lips found his in a kiss that was anything but gentle. It was urgent, desperate, a reminder that they were alive, that they still belonged together.

As they lost themselves in each other, the world around seemed to vanish. There were no more wars, fears, or dangers; there was only them, two souls who had defied fate to find each other once more.

Neteyam broke away from the kiss, his breath short, his face still very close to hers. He looked at her with an intensity that seemed to want to carve that moment in time. “It’s not just fear,” he murmured, his voice rough, as if the words cost him immense effort. “It’s that without you ... I’m nothing.”

She shook her head, her hands rising to clutch the fabric of his warrior belt, pulling him toward her. “Don’t say that,” she replied, her eyes shining. “You are strong, more than anyone I know. But if you think it’s any different for me, you’re wrong.” Her voice cracked as she continued. “Every time I fly with you, watch you fight, hear your voice through the wind... it’s like the world makes sense. And the thought of losing you... it would kill me.” Her words slid between them, breaking down all barriers. Neteyam closed his eyes for a moment, giving her time to see the vulnerability he rarely showed. When he opened them again, there was a warmth in them, a promise that did not need to be spoken.

“We will not be lost,” he said, with a conviction that seemed carved in stone. “No matter what, we’ll always find our way back to each other.” Yana smiled, an expression at once sweet and wistful. “Then never let me go.” Neteyam responded by grasping her face in his hands, his thumbs tracing the contours of her skin as if he wanted to memorize every detail. “Never,” he promised, before kissing her again, this time with a gentleness that contrasted with the desperation of minutes before. The kiss intensified, fueled by something more than desire. A silent communication, a dialogue of souls seeking each other, recognizing each other. Neteyam’s hands came down along her sides, clutching her as if afraid she might fade away. The girl reacted by wrapping her arms around his neck, letting go completely.

Words became superfluous, replaced by the hushed language of their bodies and their gazes. The adrenaline that had sustained them up to that moment transformed into another energy, warmer, deeper. Recognizing their vulnerability, the go-or-nothing gamble they’d taken, they seized the present as if it were their last. They lay down on the carpet of moss that covered the ledge, the sky above them tinged with the vibrant colors of sunset. The sun’s rays streamed through the leaves, casting dancing shadows on their faces. For a moment, the world seemed to slow down, allowing them to lose themselves completely in each other, without fear, without hesitation.

His hands ran all over her body as if to imbue it with his essence. With each caress, a piece of her clothing slipped away. With each kiss, the ornamental paintings faded. “What should I do with you, huh?” He asked. “Do I need to breed you to generate some reason in you?” She chuckled, but then said in a serious tone, “I won’t stop fighting even if you impregnate me.” “I know already, geez. That’s why I’m so into you. I still wanna see your tummy swell with my child, though. Still wanna fuck you senseless until my cum fills you whole.” A shiver ran down her spine until her toes curled, and she could already feel a small knot tightening in her lower abdomen. But her stubbornness, combined with a taste for having the upper hand, kept her anchored enough so that she would not get lost in the glee of carnal sensations. So that she would not say something she did not mean, or make promises she would not keep, in the heat of the moment. “It’s not gonna happen until we get the RDA out of here for good.” Neteyam agreed: raising a child in such a volatile, perilous environment was out of the question, “But we can always train for it. ‘Til we’re one forever.” “You mean in front of Eywa? Are you sure? You want to do this with me?” He beamed, in love. “You’re the only one I want this with. Are you up for it? When all this shit is over-” “Yes!” The Omatikaya prince gasped at the sudden answer to a question not quite expressed. “Yes?” “Yes, I will marry you as soon as all this shit is over. For what it’s worth, you are already my mate, with or without tsaheylu.” Their unconventional, colorful declaration of eternal love, though far from romantic, felt perfect for them.

Neteyam resumed kissing her everywhere. Her eyes, the tip of her nose, cheeks, neck, breastbone. Reaching her flat belly, he lingered there for a long time as if something was already sprouting inside. Strong fingers gripped her hips possessively, sinking into them until they left their imprint, while his nose tickled her navel, followed, then, by his tongue. He traced the outline there, then went up to one of her breasts and sucked greedily, his hand massaging it as if he could stimulate something else besides the nipple’s turgidity. As if he expected nourishment. When he was satisfied so, he gave the other tit the same treatment, and Yana had to bite her lip hard to keep from moaning.

When, at last, the warrior pulled away with a resounding pop, she could sketch out a sly giggle, partly from the ticklish sensation, partly because she knew the source of so much attention. “I love your kinky side.” His face, already flushed from the exertion and impetus that was shaking his insides, turned purple at that joke. This side of him still ashamed him. A side he could not repress. And, to be fair, he didn’t want to erase it either, being linked to the unbreakable connection he had felt with Sarentu from the very first day. The way she held Loran, the way she cradled him, captivated him. The gentleness in her manner, the kindness in her eyes, despite the belligerent times in which they lived, had forged her into resentment and death. Yana exuded a warmth and fragrance that smelled like home. He fell inexorably in love with it and longed to turn the world into a safer place for her. She was his person, he knew it immediately.

She laughed again, her face slightly bent in a canny expression. “It’s cute when you get all bashful.” Stung to the core but refreshed by the challenge, he lifted her legs, spreading them apart just enough to observe how she glistened in the sunset light. A little revenge rattling in his head. “Soaking wet already? Did the raid get you pumped? And you called me kinky.”

With both forearms on either side of her face, one knee crept between her legs to make room for himself, now bent to graze his pelvis, he towered over her in all his majesty. “You keep getting more and more beautiful,” he declared before moistening a finger and bringing it past the edge of her intimacy. His mouth stifled a sigh that faded into his oral cavity as tapering fingers flew over her inner thigh, caressing the soft skin and slowly growing a pleasant warmth. Attentive to her every slightest change of expression. A soft moan fell from her lips as he rubbed her clit, tracing tight circles, eager to make her tremble under his touch. Her hips moved unwittingly against his. She sensed him sneering when his finger probed the dewy soil of her womanhood, the ring of muscle already yearning to capture him inside. “I barely touched you.” Provocation to which Yana couldn’t hold back and, embarrassed, she intimated him to shut up. His phalanges slowly slipped between her folds and plunged inside her, caressing the soft walls. She felt him melt into her passion, wet noises filling their ears with each languid lunge of his digits. Sarentu moved in his grip, stammering his name, her heart bursting in her chest as she closed her eyelids.

“I’m here, sweetheart.” He cuddled her, and she moved closer to his caress, crossing her shins behind his back, her heels wedged into Venus’ dimples, inviting him deeper, harder. “Please don’t stop,” she purred in a moan. The walls sucked him in so deliciously, begging for more, and Neteyam was hardly the type to deprive a woman of her desires. His fingers curled, teasing her most sensitive spot, while his palm rubbed against her agonizing clit, causing an uncontrolled stream of meows. Each more desperate than the last, as they turned into acute wails as she neared orgasm. She gazed at him, her eyes filled with longing, “More,” but his hand retracted, slowing the pace almost to quell the spiral in her stomach, ready to snap. A whimper hovered in the air as he stopped, just a breath away from that wonderful spot that made her toes curl. He stared at her in amusement at the frustration that crippled her delicate facial features, her mouth open at the revelation.

Neteyam was making her pay for it. Whether it was for teasing him just before or for the headshot at the Alpha platform, she couldn’t tell.

“Neteyam,” she admonished him afflictedly. “Beg.” “Wha—” “Apologize for scaring the hell outta me out there.” “Oh, come on!” she begged him, rolling her hips against his fingers, trying to chase the sublime sensation that was slowly withdrawing from her. “Apologize.” “Sorry, okay? Sorry, sorry, I won’t put myself in danger like that ever again,” she said all in one breath, reduced to a mess of sobs and soft grumbles similar to a cat’s purr. “I need you” The man shook his head, still in her hands, and a shadow fell over his eyes. “Promise me.” Yana snorted in disbelief. But if Neteyam needed to hear her say it, to be reassured, she would. “I promise,” she sighed, drawing his face to hers and placing light kisses over his eyes, shining with desire but veiled with anguish. He slid to his side, his forehead juxtaposed against the girl’s. Yana drew the contours of his face. The arch of the nonexistent eyebrows, the feline nose, the line of the lips, the cheekbones so sharp they could slice glass. She rubbed the tip of her nose against his, at the affectionate gesture the warrior massaged her shoulders.

“Roll over your side,” he whispered, and she complied. Once her back matched his torso, his strong arms encircled her, gluing her to him. “I love you,” he claimed, kissing her shoulder blade. His palm traveled all the way down her body to her shanks, his digits again infiltrating her thighs, still finding traces of arousal. His fingertips collected the liquid and moved on to the stimulating lubrication of her intimacy. She trembled under his skilled hand, babbling his name as his fingers crept further, dancing in rhythm with her thrusting hips. She gasped when she felt a bulge rub against her butt. Then, without warning, his searing erection pushed its way inside her. Her mouth opened wide in a silent cry of pleasure, and her eyes rolled back as she bucked against his firm frame. Her mind clouded with the pulsing need to let the lust wash over her like boiling lava, as her vision turned white and her head grew light.

She no longer sensed anything around her. Only Neteyam’s thrusts grew deeper and deeper, kissing her cervix at an ever-increasing pace. This would not last much longer. The man behind her knew well. In fact, his tapering fingers took to torturing her clit in concentric motions, as precise and relentless as his cock paced her back and forth, threatening to come out, but never quite.

“T-teyam,” she uttered, earning a quick bite at the base of her neck.“Let go. Almost there” It was like being bewitched by a spell. The knot that plagued her belly melted away, releasing waves of pleasure so intense they blinded her and pinned her to the bed of moss. There, impaled on her one true love dick. It didn’t take long before the charge with which he poured into her lost its force. Neteyam was close, very close. So close that she didn’t even have time to prepare herself when, with one last, vigorous thrust, he burst free. A grunt rose in the air and an immense heat filled her.

He rested his forehead against her nape as, breathless and with a hint of malice littering his voice, he said, “I got so far down that if we were already mated, I definitely would’ve gotten you pregnant by now.” Yana started laughing in his arms. “You’re obsessed with this stuff, you know that!”He squeezed her tighter, sliding out of her. “How can I not be with a hottie like you?” She turned as far as she could to search into his eyes. Into his beautiful eyes, yellow as the winter sun, soft from exertion and surrounded by the redness of the moment. And he smiled, a full and genuine smile. A smile in love.

They remained hugged under the darkening sky, saying nothing. There was no need. Their hearts spoke more clearly than any words. Neteyam brushed her hair, studying her with a gentleness that contrasted with his usual resolve. “If this is all we have,” he whispered, ”that’s enough for me.” She closed her eyes, a smile that talked of peace and gratitude painted on her lips. “For me, too.” They remained like that, two souls entwined in a world that tried to separate them, but that night failed to do so.

“If this leads to awesome sex, I’m totally down for more trouble!” “Yana!” The sound of their laughter, carefree and light, mingled with the rustling leaves and the gentle breeze, dancing on the wind like a playful melody.

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sinofwriting · 1 year ago

Text

So Many Reasons - Ollie Bearman

Words: 3,344 Summary: She honestly just wants to go to these two races to see her brother so he won’t complain about never seeing her anymore that is it. She has exams, an internship, and a job, she doesn’t have time for any of this. Note(s): Thank you V once again for commissioning the fic! I had a lot of fun writing it and may or may not have spent an hour researching different business degrees and universities and such. Reader is Andrea Kimi Antonelli’s older sister. Age gap of 3 years between her and Ollie. Not good family dynamics between her and Kimi and their father.

Masterlist | Support Me!

“Andrea, no.” Her voice is firm, perhaps harsh but she doesn’t care. She was tired, hungry, and had to stay up for at least another six hours. Her last red bull in her bag sounded better every second.

“C’mon, sorella. It is my first F2 race. You can miss a few classes.”

Her jaw clenches and she forces herself to take a deep breath. Thank god this was just a phone call. “No, Andrea. I can’t. I have exams.”

“Ask for an extension.”

“Andrea,” she snaps. “Does padre know you are asking me this?”

His voice is quiet, “no.”

She sighs, pushing away her work. “How is your school work going?”

“It’s fine.”

“And the sim?”

“Good.”

It’s quiet between the two siblings.

“It’s been months since we last saw each other. Do you not miss me?”

“We saw each other at Christmas.” She reminds him but softens. “Of course I do. But I’m busy. I can’t take a few days away to go to a race, at least not one that’s not in Europe.” She looks at her planner, at the days blocked out with different colors. Purple for exams, blue for classes, yellow for work, green for work and classes, the dreaded orange for when she had both exams and work. It was filled for days, weeks, and months. “I could maybe make it for Imola.” She’d have to talk to her professors, put in her time now for work, but she didn’t have any exams the day after his feature race. “Maybe even Monaco if you can get me a spare pass.” She shouldn’t go to Monaco, not with her final exams to obtain her MBA starting just the day after the race, but she didn’t have any work those days and she could always bring her books with her.

“Really?”

She smiles at the excitement in his voice. “Really. Are you sure you want your big sister around?”

“Yes. It will be nice to have family in the paddock. Someone other than dad.”

She hums, eyes widening as they catch the time. “Let me know about the passes for the different races, okay? As soon as you get them I’ll talk to my professors.”

“I will.”

“Bye Andrea.”

“Bye.”

—

“Mr. Garcia?” She knocks on the door frame. “You asked to see me?”

He smiles, beckoning her in. “Yes. Please sit.” He gestures at the chairs in front of his desk before quickly typing something.

She sits down, smoothing the fabric of her skirt.

“I wanted to talk to you about your plans after you get your MBA.”

“I’d like to get a travel position or be able to work remotely half of the time. Then I think after ten years of doing that, I’d like to take a bigger account or two.”

He hums, looking at her consideringly. “Why the travel position?”

“I like traveling, going to different places, and when I went once before with Maria, I liked what she had to do.”

“You’re also good with languages.”

“Yes.”

“And the hybrid?”

She fidgets a little. “The same reasons really as the travel position and I like the extended hours.”

His lips twitch into a smile, “Maria hated remote.”

She nods.

“She said you’d be suited for it.”

Her leg that had started to bounce stops.

He leans forward, “I’d like to keep you on. I know that your internship with Maria ends the first week of May. And that you’re only supposed to continue to work with us until August. But I’d like to offer you the remote position, starting June 20th.”

She looks at him with a slight open mouth. “What,” she clears her throat. “What exactly would that look like?”

He pushes forward a folder. “All of the details are in there, but there are two important things. There will only be a few days every month that require you in the office. Those days are always made known at least two weeks in advance, some as much as six months.”

She nods.

“The second is you will have strict deadlines. Miss two within a three month period and you will be on probation, meaning that for a time you will be spending at least eighty hours in office for the month, until your probation is up. Look over all the details and get back to me next week.”

“Of course.” Taking the folder, she stares at it before standing. “Thank you, Mr. Garcia.”

“Of course, Ms. Antonelli.”

—

“Andrea!” She calls, seeing him looking around.

His head turns to look at her, a large grin taking over his face. “Sorella!” He calls, jogging over to her. “You made it.”

She rolls her eyes, pushing him away when he tries to give her a hug. “I told you two weeks ago I’d make it to Imola. It’s not my fault, you don’t listen.” She touches her ears before giving him a quick hug. “How are you feeling?”

“Good.”

She hums, following him as he leads her to what she assumes is Prema’s space for this race.

The good was false that was more than clear to see, if she wasn’t his sister, she’d know just by looking at the F2 races so far. Round four with no podiums? Or pole position. Her brother was surely smarting. She wondered if it had hit him yet that he wasn’t the most talented driver in this series yet.

Entering the Prema garage she smiles when Rene immediately greets her.

“How are you?”

“I’m good. Very good. How are you? How is Angelina?”

“I am good, I’m sure you saw the Indycar news.”

She nods, watching as Andrea starts talking to either a mechanic or an engineer. “I did. It sounds amazing.”

“Very amazing. And Angelina, well,” He pauses, turning his head and calling her over.

“Oh, Y/N.”

“Angelina.” She greets back, melting into the hug the older woman gives.

“How are you doing?”

“I’m doing good. And you are well?”

“Of course, it is the season.”

She smiles at her, knowing all too well how much everyone loved the motorsport season.

“Kimi!” Angelina calls and she has to stop herself from flinching at the use of his nickname. “You did not tell me that your sister was coming.”

He shrugs, “She’s coming next race as well.”

“You are coming to Monaco?”

She shrugs, adjusting her purse. “It’s my last free time before my exams and Andrea asked when I was going to come.”

Rene and Angelina share a look but before either can say anything, someone interrupts.

“Angelina, Dino and Antonio are wondering about the next shoot.”

The older woman sighs, “And neither of them could get me themselves.”

He shoots her a grin, and it’s the sight of his grin that makes her realize that this is Andrea’s teammate. “I volunteered.”

Angelina shakes her head, muttering under her breath but leaves the small group.

“Ah, Ollie, this Y/N. Y/N, this is Ollie.” Rene introduces.

She shakes his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“You as well. Are you new to the team?”

“No.” She laughs, pulling her hand from his. “Just a guest for this race and next.”

“Oh.” He looks at Rene questioningly, but the older man is already in conversation with other people. “I could give you a tour, if you’d like.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

He smiles, giving a small shrug with his shoulders. “I don’t mind.”

“Don’t you have race prep?” She can see just behind him, Andrea talking to another two people, their heads all gathered around a tablet.

“I finished mine already.”

Her lips purse.

“At least let me get you a coffee from Ferrari’s hospitality.”

Her nose nearly wrinkles at the word coffee, but Ferrari… She wasn’t into motorsports by choice, but she was Italian. She knew the allure of Ferrari and more so now Charles Leclerc than the team itself better than anyone.

“So, coffee?” He grins.

She sighs but nods. “Just one though.” She doesn’t think she could stomach another one.

“You don’t like coffee do you?” He asks nearly twenty minutes later as she sips at the coffee he got her and she chooses not to think too hard about the money she tried to hand him that he refused.

“No.” She laughs.

“But you like Ferrari.”

“I’m Italian, Ollie. I think I get kicked out of the country, especially this part if I don’t bleed rosso corsa.”

“Yet your brother is a Mercedes junior.”

She pauses, “My brother?”

His eyebrows furrow. “I’m sorry, it’s just Kimi, he has a picture of you. I asked about it once, because I already knew what his girlfriend looked like.”

“I didn’t know that.” She wondered when the picture was from. Not from this Christmas, that was for sure.

Ollie stares at her for a few seconds, something dancing in his eyes before turning the conversation back around. “It is a bit funny isn’t it? An Italian choosing Mercedes, while an Englishman chooses Ferrari.”

“A second Charles Leclerc in the making.” She muses, remembering an article that said it.

He flushes red. “I wouldn’t say that.”

She shrugs, “Then other people will for you.”

Her phone buzzing makes her look away and she rolls her eyes at the text from Andrea. “I have to go back, Andrea is looking for me. Thank you for the coffee.”

He nods, standing with her. “No problem.” He then opens his mouth again, quickly closing it.

She raises an eyebrow and he flushes a bit more.

“Could I get your number?”

“Ah.” She glances down at her phone, another text on the screen. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

She can think of a million reasons. “It’s just not a good idea.” She settles on.

“What if I want it as a friend?”

She sends him a look and he grins.

“I could do friends.”

She shakes her head, “I need to go. Thank you again.”

“Anytime.”

—

“You’re at a race.”

“Padre.” She greets, watching the screens as the sprint race goes into its fifth lap. “Andrea asked me to come.”

“You don’t like races.”

Her lips thin. “No, I don’t. But he wanted to see me, I made time.”

“Have you made time for the interview I want scheduled?”

“No.”

He starts to say her name and she shakes her head.

“No, padre. I’m here for Andrea, to see him. Just like I will be for Monaco, that is it. I have no interest in working for you.”

“For the family.”

“Or that.”

He sighs.

Crossing her arms over her chest, she winces at the way Andrea gets overtaken, can already imagine the way he’ll beat himself up over it if he doesn’t regain the position, especially with the way Ollie is in P2, no battle in sight, as he more than comfortably keeps the place.

An arm wraps around her shoulders and she easily goes into her fathers side. “I miss my little girl.”

She bites back on the words that want to crawl from her throat. “Love you too.”

—

“So,” she startles at the sound of a voice and the owner of it grins. “You don’t like coffee.”

“Hello, Ollie.”

“Hi.” He greets back. “You don’t like coffee.” He repeats.

“I don’t like coffee.” She can’t help but smile at the way he grins at her responding to him.

“What about,” he pauses looking around, before leaning closer and lowering his voice. “Red bull?”

“I’m listening.”

She has to stop herself from giggling as Ollie leads her through Ferrari’s garage. She really shouldn’t be here. And not just because she shouldn’t even be at the race.

Stopping in front of a door, she watches as Ollie knocks, sending her a grin as he does.

“Hello?” The voice is a little confused. “Ollie! Come in, come in.”

And Ollie grabs her hand, intertwining their fingers as he pulls her into the room with him. “Hi Charles.”

Her eyes widen at the name and she quickly schools her expression though neither are looking at her.

“What are you doing here?”

Ollie grins at the older man. “I wanted to introduce you to someone and raid your fridge.”

Charles rolls his eyes. “At least you don’t ask permission anymore.”

The tease makes her stiffen, this was a lot more than she felt she should be seeing or hearing.

“No, I learned.” Ollie laughs and then he’s tugging her closer. “Charles, this is Y/N.” A bit of tension leaves her when he doesn’t say her last name. “Y/N, this is Charles.”

“Bonjour.” She greets, keeping her free hand firmly by her side as she wiggles her fingers in Ollie’s hand, but he just brushes his thumb over her knuckles.

Charles’ eyes brighten at the greeting. “Bonjour. Est-ce un accent italien que j'entends?” (“Hello. Is that an Italian accent I hear?”) “Oui. Je suis italienne et je vis actuellement en France.” (“Yes. I am Italian currently living in France.”) His grin widens. “Oh, très bien. Votre français est bon.” (“Oh, very nice. Your French is good.”) She ducks her head. “Merci.” (“Thank you.”)

“I didn’t know you spoke French.” Ollie says.

She gives him a look. It should make his smile falter a little, but it only grows.

“An Italian living in France. A bit uncommon, no?” Charles asks, handing her then Ollie a Red Bull. Before grabbing one for himself.

“I study there.”

“What are you studying?” Ollie asks, “Ki,” he stops himself. “Andrea never said.”

Her eyes narrow at the catch, wondering why exactly he did it. “Accounting. And I’m not surprised. If it’s not something racing related, my brother has no interest.”

Charles laughs. “I think Lorenzo and you would get along well. Having siblings that live and breath racing while you don’t.”

“Maybe.”

“Are you close to getting your degree?”

“I am actually. My final exams start Monday.”

“And you came to the Monaco Grand Prix?” Charles’ eyes are wide.

“Yes.”

“My goodness.” He looks at Ollie, winking at him. “This one is a keeper.”

“Oh,” she says, feeling blood rush to her cheeks and Ollie is turning pink. “We aren’t.”

He shrugs, taking a drink of his red bull. “Maybe not yet.” His eyes then fall to their still intertwined fingers and she gives another tug to Ollie’s hand, expecting him now to let go, but he doesn’t.

“No, not yet.”

—

“What race are you coming to next?”

Her hand tingles at the sound of Ollie’s voice. “I’m not.”

“What?”

She turns to face him. “Andrea wanted me at the first race of the season, but I couldn’t make it, so I said I’d come to these two.” She doesn’t mention that the want of her coming was because he apparently missed her. She had her doubts about that, especially after this weekend.

“You don’t think he’ll ask you to come again?”

She looks around, seeing no one nearby, she sighs. “Even if he did, I wouldn’t come. I love my brother, but not on race weekends, not during the season. I’ve seen you more than him.”

Ollie’s face that had looked shocked, turns to understanding. “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

She shrugs. “He’s busy.”

Ollie looks like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t.

Instead he leans a bit closer, “so, could I get your number now?”

She laughs, shaking her head. “No. Still not happening.”

“Oh, c’mon. I won today. This is the one thing I want as the Monaco F2 feature race winner.”

She shakes her head. “Maybe, if you actually wanted it as a friend. I’d say yes.”

“And why can’t we be more than friends?”

He’s closer now somehow and she has to swallow around the lump in her throat. “Ollie,”

Her name spills from his lips in a gentle sigh as he leans ever closer.

“We can’t.” She whispers, hand against his chest, holding him in place.

“Why? Give me one good reason why.”

He’s guiding her backwards, down the short hallway and into a room that’s thankfully empty, the door shutting behind him.

“One good reason.”

“You’re Andrea’s teammate.”

“For nine more weekends.”

She lets out a shaky breath, watching as his tongue darts out to wet his lips. “I’m busy with school and work.”

“You have final exams this week, which you’ll pass. And I’m busy with work as well.”

“You’re younger than me. I’m twenty-two, you just turned nineteen.”

He shrugs, her eyes following the strong line of shoulders with the movement. “I’m an adult. And I like you.”

“Ollie.” She breathes.

He’s closer than ever before, their lips nearly brushing. “I’m still waiting.”

Her eyes scan his face, his words full of confidence, his body too, but he’s flushed and his nervousness is easy to read. And she delivers the reason that has to make him see reason. Because she doesn’t know if he stays this close to her if she can stop herself from kissing him. “Your parents,” his throat bobs. “Would never approve.”

He looks at her and she looks back, holding her breath, waiting for him to back away but he doesn’t, and god when does Ollie ever do things she expects. “They don’t need to.” He whispers and then he’s kissing her.

—

“What are you talking about?”

“Andrea,”

“No.” He stops her, shaking her head. “What do you mean, you are seeing Oliver?” He spits the name out.

“Don’t, Andrea.”

“NO!” His face is red and she’s reminded of the times when he wanted candy that she had and threw a fit over not getting it instead. “He is, he is,” he shakes his head. “I don’t even know what he is. He is my teammate, he works in motorsports, you hate motorsports.”

She keeps quiet, watching as her brother processes the news.

“He is younger than you, barely older than me. And you.” He shakes his head again. “Does padre know?”

She scoffs, now shaking her head. “Does padre know? That’s all you care about isn’t it. If our father approves or not, if you know what he thinks, because heaven forbid Kimi,” he flinches at the name. “You think for yourself.”

“That is not.”

“Don’t.” She cuts him off. “Yes, he knows. Don’t worry he disapproves as well. So, you don’t have to think for yourself again.”

She stares at her younger brother, knowing that this is her fault, but she can’t, she still doesn’t have it in her to deal with it, not today. “I will talk to you sometime, Andrea.”

—

“Your fans are lovely.”

Ollie makes a humming sound, half asleep.

She pauses her scrolling on twitter, unable to stop herself from liking the picture of Charles’ dog in his own personal little car. “Your fans. Very creative as well. They can’t call me a gold digger, but a fame seeker? Well, if the shoe fits.”

“They what?”

He sounds so much more awake, it makes her laugh. “It’s just hate, Ollie. I’m an old woman praying on the young. Apparently I’m like Piquet.”

“Ew.” And she can picture his nose wrinkling. “You know you aren’t though right?”

“An old woman?” She jokes.

“A predator.”

She softens, turning in his arms, so that they are chest to chest. “I know.”

“I mean, really if anything I was.”

“You were very insistent.”

He flushes. “Only a little.”

She nods, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Only a little.”

“I know we talked about it before, but are you okay with everything?”

“Yes. I mean, it hurts that Andrea is still not okay with it but my father’s opinion has not mattered to me in a long time. And no matter what the media and fans were never going to give us peace, so I made my peace with that as well. Besides, your parents are okay with it.”

“They love you.”

“Our friends are understanding.”

“They are.”

“And you aren’t about to dedicate any more podiums to me.”

He grins at her and dread starts to form in her stomach.

“Ollie…”

“About that last one.”

“Ollie!”

#ollie bearman x reader #ollie bearman imagine #f2 imagine #f2 x reader #formula 2 x reader #formula 2 imagine #sins fics

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