The first time Mrs. Esposito told you she was closing the dry cleaners, you honestly thought you had misunderstood. In your mind, you translated her words into a temporary break, a well-deserved vacation, a few weeks to recover after years of hard work.
The last thing you would have imagined was that she meant it for good.
“Oh yes, dear,” she confirmed with a smile, that disarmingly gentle one that lit up her face and drew attention to her white teeth—far too perfect to be natural at her age. “I want to spend some time with my grandchildren. So’ ’a vita mia.”
You didn’t quite understand the last part, but the meaning reached you all the same, conveyed by the way she placed a hand over her chest, above her light blue plaid shirt, her fingers pressed against her heart as though protecting something precious.
“Of course. I understand,” you replied automatically.
The truth was, you didn’t. Not at all. You could barely catch glimpses of your own family, squeezed between court hearings, meetings, and work dinners postponed indefinitely. Putting yourself in the shoes of someone who willingly chose to slow down felt almost unreal.
And yet, the news affected you more than you cared to admit. It had taken you years—literal years—to find a dry cleaner that treated your clothes the way they deserved to be treated. Your tailored suits, silk shirts, custom-made coats: every garment always came back immaculate, without a single misplaced crease or that harsh chemical smell other dry cleaners left lingering in the fabric. Mrs. Esposito worked with an almost maternal kind of care, as though every jacket were a child she had to straighten up before sending it back out into the world.
You gathered your clothes from the counter with your gaze lowered, distracted, still trying to process the sudden loss of that quiet little certainty. It was probably that expression that stirred something in the woman’s heart.
“Still,” she added, tilting her head slightly, as though she had read your mind, “there’s a young man a little farther down the street. He opened about a year ago. From what I’ve heard, he’s quite good at what he does. He’s young, kind… and he still does things the old-fashioned way.”
She leaned over the counter with surprising agility for someone her age, rummaged through a stack of colorful slips of paper, and tore off a Post-it with a decisive motion. With a worn-out pen, she scribbled down the street name, the number, and the name of the dry cleaner’s.
You watched her write, unconvinced. You had no idea what “the old-fashioned way” was supposed to mean in that context, and part of you was already bracing for disappointment. Still, you nodded politely and accepted the note she handed you.
You wished her all the best before leaving the shop, your clothes cradled in your arms, carrying with you the quiet certainty that you expected nothing… and, at the same time, already felt just a little disappointed.
Kaminski Kleaners.
You stood still for a few seconds beneath the sign, your brow slightly furrowed as you looked up at the letters painted above the storefront.
You sincerely hoped the K instead of a C had been intentional—a clever play on words to make the name more memorable—because the alternative, a permanent spelling mistake emblazoned across the sign, would have given you a prejudice that would have been difficult to overcome before you’d even stepped inside.
According to the sign posted on the window listing its services, the dry cleaner’s was so close to the building where you worked that you felt almost foolish for never having noticed it.
The alley concealed it well, to be fair. It was narrow, sheltered beneath the constant shade of taller buildings, and the shop occupied a modest, unassuming space. Still, it looked well cared for: spotless windows, light-colored curtains, no clutter visible from outside. There was something quietly dignified about the way it presented itself, as though it didn’t need to shout for customers. It was content with what it had.
You pushed the door open.
The first thing you noticed was the scent. Not strong, not chemical, but soft and comforting. A delicate fabric softener filled your nose and your lungs until, for a brief moment, you could almost taste a gentle hint of vanilla on your tongue.
Then came the muted hum of the machines. It wasn’t the impersonal clatter of a self-service laundromat, but a soft, steady sound—almost reassuring, like a deep breath.
“Mornin'.”
The voice caught you off guard, pulling you back to reality, and your head turned sharply toward it.
Behind the white counter stood a young man. A neatly kept beard framed his face, softening otherwise rugged features, while light brown hair fell messily across his forehead, as though he never really had time to tame it. He watched you with deep gray eyes, waiting, a freshly cleaned dress hanging from the hanger in his hands, likely about to be placed on the rolling rack behind him, already filled with garments neatly arranged by color and fabric.
“Good morning,” you replied calmly, almost professionally, instinctively tightening your hold on the folded clothes draped over your arm before approaching the counter and placing them carefully on its smooth surface. “I was told this place still offers dry cleaning using traditional methods.”
As you spoke, he hooked the hanger onto the rail behind him, guiding it silently along the metal track. Then he returned to you, absentmindedly drying his hands on a clean cloth.
He calmly explained the process: longer turnaround times, separate treatments depending on the fabric, manual inspections before and after cleaning. He spoke without rushing, choosing simple words, as though he felt no need to impress you—only to be clear. And as you listened, you realized he wasn’t trying to sell you anything.
At the end, he gave a small nod, as though suddenly remembering something.
“I’m Walter, by the way. But everyone calls me Lion.”
You inhaled slowly before turning your attention back to the folded clothes in front of you, arranging them neatly so they weren’t stacked on top of one another.
“I do need to be very clear, though,” you began, adopting the professional tone you used whenever you wanted to establish firm boundaries. “I expect my clothes to receive… meticulous attention.”
Lion tilted his head slightly. His expression grew more attentive, but he listened without interrupting.
“They’re all custom-made. Delicate fabrics. Some can’t be treated with harsh solvents, others shouldn’t be pressed at high temperatures. And…” You hesitated briefly, almost annoyed by your own rigidity before continuing, “I prefer every item to be thoroughly inspected before and after cleaning.”
There was no arrogance in your voice, only an almost defensive necessity. Those clothes were armor. They accompanied you into courtrooms, protected you, spoke on your behalf before you ever opened your mouth.
Very few people understood the reason behind your obsession.
Mrs. Esposito had been one of them.
Lion, however, didn’t seem intimidated or irritated. He simply nodded with a calmness that caught you off guard.
“No problem,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.”
You hesitated before adding, “And I’ll need them done quickly.”
Another pause.
“Very quickly.”
He blinked, as though mentally calculating the timing and the process, but he didn’t object.
You, meanwhile, had already looked elsewhere.
You turned naturally toward the small customer area, pulled out a chair, and sat down, crossing your legs. Your laptop came out of your bag in one fluid motion. You opened it, and the screen immediately illuminated your face with rows of documents, unanswered emails, and highlighted legal notes.
Your fingers began moving across the keyboard.
For a few seconds, all you heard was the rapid clicking of the keys and the steady hum of the machines. Then you sensed something.
A presence.
Someone watching you.
You looked up.
Lion was still standing behind the counter, completely still, looking unmistakably uncertain.
“When you say quickly…” he asked, blinking in confusion, “…do you mean right now?”
You looked at him over the top of your screen.
“Of course. Right now. I’ll wait here.” You paused briefly before adding, “If I’m not causing too much trouble.”
The young man’s pale eyes widened at your remark, and you could have sworn you saw a faint blush rise to his cheeks.
“Oh, n-no! Not at all!” he stammered quickly. “I’ll… get started.”
Still looking slightly flustered, he gathered your clothes and disappeared behind the cleaning area, beyond a light curtain that swayed gently in his wake.
Your attention returned to your laptop, and you tried to focus.
You really did.
You opened a complicated contract, reread clauses, revised wording. But something gradually shifted.
The atmosphere of the dry cleaner’s seemed to slip quietly beneath your skin. The steady rhythm of the machines softened your thoughts, while the gentle lighting made even your computer screen seem less harsh.
Your shoulders relaxed without you noticing, your breathing slowed, and the tension you’d accumulated throughout the day—the endless meeting, the phone call with an arrogant client, the looming deadline—began to dissolve, like paper left soaking in water for too long.
Inevitably, your gaze drifted beyond the monitor and settled on a small table behind the counter.
You hadn’t noticed it before.
A simple, store-bought tea set decorated it: a neatly arranged box of tea bags, a small electric kettle, and a plain white mug.
It looked like a tiny private corner he had managed to carve out for himself inside those few square meters already crowded with machinery.
The rustle of the curtain announced Lion’s return, but you barely noticed until he followed your gaze and asked gently,
“Would you like a cup while you wait?”
You looked back at him, surprised by the naturalness of the offer.
Your first instinct was to refuse. To say you were fine and had merely been looking around, but something about the way he looked at you made you reconsider.
“I could really use a coffee…” You barely gave it a second thought, but the awkward way he shifted his weight from one foot to the other softened something inside you. “…but I’d appreciate it anyway. Thank you.”
His face brightened slightly, bringing out the faint, endearing lines across his forehead.
He looked genuinely pleased as he retrieved a paper cup from an unopened package inside a side cabinet drawer, poured hot water into it, and added a tea bag.
Steam slowly curled upward, and the water quickly turned a rich golden color as he gently stirred the bag.
“I’m sorry about earlier,” he said while preparing the tea. “People don’t usually stay. They drop off their clothes and come back later. You caught me a little off guard…”
His last words lingered in the air.
To break the awkwardness, you started to stand so you could walk over and take the cup from him.
He was quicker.
He walked around the counter with surprisingly quiet steps and stopped in front of you, offering you the tea with a careful… yet slightly hurried gesture.
For the first time since entering the shop, you noticed that his hands trembled slightly.
Not an obvious tremor, but a subtle vibration that caused tiny ripples to spread across the surface of the tea.
His fingers were covered with small adhesive bandages, carefully applied but already fraying around the edges, stretching from his knuckles almost to the base of his nails.
Lion seemed to notice where you were looking the very moment you relieved him of the cup’s weight.
He immediately pulled his hands back, almost on instinct, stuffing both into the pockets of the heavy hoodie he was wearing like a boy caught doing something wrong.
For a moment, the urge to ask what had happened swept through you.
Asking questions, looking for details, piecing together the whole picture—that was second nature to you, an occupational hazard.
But something about the way he’d hidden his hands made you keep quiet.
It wasn’t a secret that wanted to be questioned, so you let your curiosity pass.
“I was told you only opened recently,” you observed instead, steering the conversation back to neutral ground.
You blew gently across the tea and tried to take a sip, but immediately pulled back with an automatic little movement.
It was still too hot.
“Yeah,” he replied, leaning lightly against the edge of the counter while keeping a respectful distance. “I saw an opportunity and took it. The rent isn’t too expensive, and I didn’t have to make many changes to the place besides buying the machines…”
His eyes wandered briefly around the shop, as though seeing it alongside you.
There was no showy pride there.
Only a quiet sort of affection.
“And how’s business?” you asked, absently studying the rows of garments hanging behind him. You’d had your doubts when you’d walked in: the alley was hidden, the location easy to miss. Yet there were quite a few clothes waiting to be collected.
“The beginning wasn’t exactly great,” he admitted with a crooked smile. “But… I think I’ve built up a loyal customer base now. Around thirty people come at least once a week, maybe twice. The rest are occasional customers.”
“And is that… enough for you?” you asked, unable to hide all of your skepticism.
Lion didn’t answer immediately.
He genuinely seemed to think about the question, as though he’d never considered it in those terms before.
“It is,” he finally said simply. “I’m not looking for a life I have to keep chasing. I did that for a long time.”
You frowned slightly.
It was a concept you simply couldn’t understand.
Your life had always been about the next goal, the next important case, the next achievement to reach before someone else did.
You had always been locked in a relentless battle against time.
And yet he spoke of that choice as though it had set him free, not held him back.
You remained silent for a while, watching the thin steam rise from the tea before dissolving into the warm air of the shop.
You couldn’t remember the last time silence hadn’t made you uncomfortable.
Usually, it meant someone was waiting for a brilliant answer from you, or that you needed to fill it with arguments, numbers, solutions.
Here, nothing was expected of you.
Lion didn’t seem in any hurry to speak, nor did he feel the need to entertain you.
He simply remained by the counter, present yet unobtrusive, as though sharing the same space was already enough.
You tried the tea again.
This time, it had cooled enough to drink, and its delicate flavor slowly spread across your tongue.
It wasn’t anything sophisticated, probably just an ordinary commercial blend.
And yet it warmed you more than any drink ever served in an elegant conference room.
The sound of a machine in the back caught both of your attention at the same time.
“Those should be yours.” He gestured over his shoulder. “I’ll just…”
The unfinished sentence sounded almost like he was asking permission to excuse himself.
You smiled faintly at his excessive politeness and nodded.
Lion disappeared beyond the light curtain leading to the cleaning area.
Almost at the same moment, you drifted into a kind of pause.
Your shoulders slowly sank against the back of the chair, losing their invisible tension, and your legs relaxed, your foot finally stopping its nervous bouncing.
You simply stayed there.
The laptop remained open on your lap, its screen now gone into standby.
Just like you.
Your eyes settled on an indistinct spot on the wall—a tiny imperfection in the plaster you’d never noticed before—and stayed there.
You weren’t thinking about the files waiting for you the next day.
Or about anything else, really.
For the first time in (you couldn’t remember how long), you weren’t thinking about anything.
The sensation was so unfamiliar it was almost dizzying.
As though your mind, stripped of its constant background noise, had suddenly become weightless.
For a moment, you felt as though you were floating, suspended in a quiet place where time was in no hurry.
You couldn’t have said how much time had passed.
“They’re ready.”
Lion’s voice returned softly, drawing your attention back.
You looked up and watched him lay your clothes on the counter one by one with precise, careful movements.
The jackets were perfect.
The creases were crisp.
The fabrics gleamed exactly as only Mrs. Esposito had ever managed before…
and now, not only her.
You closed your laptop and slipped it back into your bag before standing and approaching the counter, your credit card already between your fingers.
“I hope the wait wasn’t uncomfortable,” he said cautiously, as though worried he’d wasted your time.
You looked at him for a moment before letting out a small breath that almost sounded like a restrained laugh.
“It’s the first time I haven’t thought about work for more than half an hour,” you admitted.
Lion lowered his eyes slightly, visibly embarrassed.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured immediately, extending the card reader so you could tap your card against it.
You shook your head.
“There’s no need to apologize.”
Your voice was softer than you expected, interrupted only by the beep confirming the payment.
“I meant it in a good way.”
It was Thursday when you came back.
You knew it more from the weight of the day than from the calendar. Difficult weeks weren’t measured in days, but by how much of them still clung to you by evening—and the following morning. And this had been one of those weeks.
A complicated case. An impossible client. Nights that were too short and mornings that came too quickly. You had handled it well—of course you had—but there had been no satisfaction in it, only the feeling that you’d clawed your way through it by sheer force of will.
So it wasn’t a surprise when, after arriving at the dry cleaner’s and finishing your cup of hot tea, you drifted into a deep sleep in the chair.
Lion watched you longer than he would have watched anyone else.
At first it was only a distracted glance while his hands were occupied elsewhere, but slowly his attention settled on you, held captive by the peaceful expression on your face.
The tension that usually defined your features—that faint crease between your brows, your jaw always held just a little too tight—had melted away.
For the first time since he’d known you, you weren’t on guard.
You almost looked… at peace.
He noticed the way your body, despite your composed posture, began to betray you in tiny ways. Your head tipped slightly to one side, as though searching for an invisible support, and stayed there for a few seconds before some instinctive reflex pulled it upright again.
It didn’t last.
Only a few breaths later, the cycle began again, and your body leaned farther and farther, completely yielding to gravity.
Your head slipped sideways, your neck gave way without the quick correction you’d managed before, and Lion held his breath as he hurried toward you, counting silently.
Six seconds.
Seven.
Eight.
You didn’t straighten up.
When he reached you, he cautiously extended his bandaged hand, as though stepping into a space that wasn’t entirely his, even if this was his own shop, and gently caught your shoulder, stopping your fall.
Lion felt the exact moment sleep left you.
His fingers had only just tightened slightly around your shoulder when your eyes flew open and locked onto his, piercing straight through him.
He pulled away immediately. His fingers curled into themselves, and he took half a step back, instinctively putting distance between you, as though afraid he had crossed a line.
“I’m sorry—” he blurted out at once, too quickly, his voice tighter than he’d intended. “I didn’t mean to wake you, but you looked like you were in an uncomfortable position.”
The words tumbled over one another, betraying genuine concern.
His gray eyes stayed fixed on you, alert, searching for any sign of annoyance, irritation—anything that would confirm he’d done the wrong thing.
But you didn’t react that way.
You simply blinked several times, as though trying to piece the world back together. Your gaze moved slowly from him to the room around you, lingering on the shop as if seeing it for the first time, before you raised a hand to your face.
“Fuck…” you muttered, your voice still thick with sleep. “How long was I out?”
Lion relaxed, just a little. Not much, but enough to let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
“Only about half an hour,” he replied gently, trying to ease any possible embarrassment.
He watched you absorb the information.
You didn’t seem upset.
More like… surprised.
Maybe you were human after all, he thought.
“…I’m sorry,” you added.
That made him hesitate.
Lion tilted his head slightly, confused.
He didn’t understand why you were apologizing. You hadn’t done anything wrong.
He opened his mouth to tell you so, but you continued before he had the chance.
“When I’m here…” you said, slowly sitting up straighter. The movement was controlled, though noticeably less rigid than usual, as though sleep had loosened something inside you. “…it’s the only time my work life ever allows me to relax.”
Lion remained silent but not out of awkwardness.
He was simply listening.
He watched you draw in a slow breath, as though trying to explain something you yourself hadn’t fully understood.
“It doesn’t happen anywhere else,” you continued more quietly. “Not even at home.”
Something warm settled inside him at those words.
His gaze dropped for a moment before returning to you with renewed attention.
He must have done something right if someone like you had felt safe enough to fall asleep here.
A faint smile touched your lips, and Lion found himself watching your white teeth for a brief moment.
“I think it’s the smell,” you added with a lightness that couldn’t quite hide the truth. “The fabric softener. It’s… ridiculously relaxing.”
Lion couldn’t help smiling in return.
“I’ll make sure I never lose that supplier, then,” he replied, joining in on your joke.
He watched you straighten your jacket and smooth away the wrinkles before the question escaped him almost on its own.
“You work at the law firm across the street, don’t you?”
He saw you hesitate, only for an instant, but it was enough.
Then you nodded.
“Something like that,” you admitted.
A moment later, with carefully measured wariness, you asked,
“What gave it away?”
Lion took a second before answering.
Not because he was choosing his words, but because he was trying to translate a feeling into them.
“I don’t know…” he admitted at last. “You all have the same look about you.”
One of your eyebrows rose slightly.
“Diligent and serious?” you guessed, your sarcasm light.
Lion answered without thinking.
“Tired and sad.”
Your reaction was immediate. Not obvious—not something anyone else would have noticed—but Lion, quick as a boxer, caught it anyway.
For the briefest fraction of a second, your expression lost its balance, as though something beneath the surface had cracked.
Your eyebrows shifted. Your jaw tightened. Then, just as quickly, you became unreadable again.
“I mean—” he hurried to add, suddenly feeling the need to tidy up a sentence that had become too true far too quickly. “That’s just what I’ve heard… A lot of you complain whenever you stop by.”
You frowned.
“Oh? And what do they say?”
Lion hesitated.
He wasn’t used to repeating customers’ conversations, least of all to someone directly involved.
Then he gave up.
“They just say that one of their bosses is kind of a sadist who’s willing to do anything to win a case… even if it means torturing everyone who works for her.”
He spoke more quietly, almost embarrassed to repeat it.
He watched you afterward, expecting a stronger reaction. Instead, there was only silence.
Then…a faint smile.
“How… charming,” you commented.
Lion let out a small sigh, unsure whether things had gone better or worse than expected, scratching the back of his neck before letting his hands fall to his sides.
“You seem like one of them,” he said eventually. “But you don’t seem like someone who complains.”
You tilted your head, studying him from the tips of his shoes all the way up to his hair, making him feel thoroughly observed—and openly judged.
Then you spoke.
“Anyone who’s unwilling to give absolutely everything for the profession they chose should probably give it up and do something else. I’m proud of what I do, even if it consumes all of my time.”
Your words lingered between you for several long seconds.
Lion didn’t answer immediately.
Not because he hadn’t understood them, but because he seemed to need time to set them somewhere inside himself, the way one carefully places something fragile without quite knowing where it belongs.
He had only just opened his mouth to respond when you were already moving.
You stood, walked past him toward the counter where he’d left your clothes before waking you, and he hurried after you to process the payment.
He stepped behind the counter, still searching for a proper response to what you’d said while entering the amount into the card terminal, when the shop door opened.
The bell chimed softly.
Two young people walked in, chatting to each other.
The moment they crossed the threshold, however, their voices died instantly.
Their shoulders stiffened.
“Good evening, boss.”
Lion heard it clearly.
The respect.
The fear.
Without meaning to, he looked at you.
“Good evening,” you replied without hesitation, casting one last glance over your shoulder before turning back to Lion.
You placed your card against the terminal he’d set on the counter and looked up at him.
Under different circumstances, you probably would have laughed at the expression of pure shock painted across his face.
He seemed mentally trapped between two points: you and the customers who had just walked in.
His gray eyes darted back and forth, now fully aware of the situation.
“The receipt, Mr. Kaminski,” you said, extending your hand.
The way you pronounced his surname snapped him back to reality.
Lion blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then he moved.
“Right—yes.”
His fingers worked a little faster than necessary, and when he handed you the receipt, he couldn’t avoid meeting your eyes.
A flash of amusement lit up your gaze.
Then, as though nothing at all had happened, you turned on your heel with your clothes in your arms and walked out of the shop, leaving him wondering whether he’d just accidentally set off a bomb.
When you returned to the dry cleaner’s on Monday evening, the exchange between the two of you was brief.
You dropped off your clothes without lingering and went to your usual seat, pulling out the book you’d left half-finished the previous evening, just before you’d drifted off to sleep.
From the moment you’d walked through the door, though, you’d been aware of Lion’s gaze on you—persistent and tense.
When the silence seemed to have stretched on long enough, you decided to put an end to it.
“I can feel your nerves all the way over here, Kaminski. They’re making it difficult to concentrate.”
An amused smile curved your lips.
He startled, as though you’d caught him red-handed.
He was still standing behind the counter, his hands resting on its surface as he smoothed the same wrinkles for what must have been the tenth time. The warm LED lights illuminated half his face, emphasizing his short beard and the faint dark circles beneath his eyes—the kind earned by someone who’d been working all day.
“I… I, fuck… about the other day… I’m really, really sorry,” he stammered, finally letting out all the anxiety and self-doubt that had hounded him throughout the weekend. “I didn’t know you were the person they were talking about… I never would’ve said those things if I’d known—”
“And why not?” you interrupted calmly.
You closed your book with measured care, keeping one finger between the pages to mark your place, as though you weren’t quite ready to abandon it.
“You were only repeating other people’s opinions,” you continued, lifting your gaze to him. “We live in a free country, don’t we?”
Lion swallowed.
His gray eyes were wide, painfully sincere. He looked more like a child being scolded than a grown man running his own dry cleaner’s.
“Are you… going to do something to them?”
You slowly raised an eyebrow, letting the silence linger just long enough to watch him blush all the way to his ears.
“Are you asking because I’m a sadistic woman?”
“No! No, I don’t think that! I—”
You let out a laugh.
A real laugh.
One that surprised even you.
That man had an uncanny ability to draw the most genuine reactions out of you.
“Relax, Mr. Kaminski,” you said, shaking your head. “I’m teasing you. Do you really think this is the first time I’ve heard someone call me a bitch behind my back? Do you think I’d be where I am today if comments like that could provoke me?”
He hesitated, assuming it wasn’t really a question.
But when the silence continued, he answered anyway.
“No, ma’am.”
“Exactly.”
You absently toyed with the book’s cover, curling its edges beneath your fingertips.
“Life is made of constant battles and sacrifices.”
With a small tilt of your chin, you gestured toward his hands.
Embarrassed, he quickly shoved them into the pockets of his hoodie.
The bandages had been changed, but the scars were still visible: pale lines, thick calluses, marks left behind by a life entirely different from yours.
“I imagine you understand that,” you allowed yourself to add.
He briefly looked away toward some indistinct spot on the counter.
“I do…”
Then, as though a sudden wave of curiosity had struck you, you closed your book completely and rested it across your lap, giving the young man your full attention.
“What do you think of me?”
His beautiful eyes lifted to yours, caught off guard.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Lion ran a hand through his messy hair.
He seemed to search for the right words on the floor, on the machines, anywhere but your face.
“I think… you’re a woman who enjoys the silence and the peace of my shop.”
“That’s all?”
He looked as though he wanted to add something.
You saw him bite the inside of his cheek—a tiny gesture that drew your attention to how full his lips were, how strong the line of his jaw looked beneath his beard.
Then he chose the safer path.
“That’s all.”
“Hm.”
Your gaze drifted back to his hidden hands.
“Are you the type to get into fights?”
“Why?”
“Your hands,” you explained, raising your own—immaculately groomed, coated in clear polish, without a single visible imperfection.
“Oh!” He laughed, genuinely amused by your observation. “No, nothing like that. The calluses split during training.”
“You’re a boxer,” you concluded.
“I was. Professionally. Now I just do it in my spare time… for fun.”
You studied him for several seconds before slowly shaking your head with genuine bewilderment.
“I’ll never understand why people insist on practicing sports like that.”
Lion blinked and offered a faint, bittersweet smile as he absentmindedly adjusted one of the wraps around his little finger.
“All I can tell you is that it pulled me out of a very dark period in my life.”
Then he looked at you with a disarming gentleness.
“It’s therapeutic for me.”
You stared at him, surprised.
Despite your bluntness, there wasn’t the slightest trace of accusation in his eyes. Only quiet acceptance, as though he was used to being seen exactly as he was, without filters.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
He shrugged.
“You know… it might help you let off some steam too.”
“You think I’m someone who needs to let off steam?”
He didn’t answer right away.
The answer was so obvious it didn’t need to be spoken.
Instead, he smiled, enough to light up his eyes in a way that suddenly made you feel… entirely too seen.
“What do you say about tonight?” he asked. “I won’t be closing the shop late today.”
You froze for a moment.
“T-Tonight? Kaminski, tomorrow I have a—”
“For once,” he interrupted gently, “try breaking formation.”
A small smile tugged at his lips.
“Seriously, what could possibly happen?”
You weren’t entirely sure how it had happened.
Four hours earlier, you’d walked out of the dry cleaner’s with your heart pounding from nerves and the gym’s address scribbled on a Post-it tucked inside your bag. And now, here you were, in an alley parallel to the glass-and-steel building where you worked, standing before an unremarkable door beneath a faded sign that read: Boxing & More.
The smell of rubber and polished wood hit you the moment you stepped inside.
The gym was tiny: four makeshift rings, a couple of heavy bags hanging from the ceiling like silent sentries, and a handful of weight machines and benches scattered around.
Lion was already waiting for you in the nearest ring, throwing punches at his sparring partner.
He left you speechless.
Literally.
He was wearing black boxing shorts, snug around his hips and loose around his thighs, a pair of worn training shoes, and… nothing else.
His bare, smooth torso gleamed beneath the harsh fluorescent lights, probably from the sheen of sweat covering it. It wasn’t the overinflated physique of a fitness influencer; it was lean, functional, long muscles moving beneath his skin like taut cables.
When he turned toward you, you caught sight of a curious tattoo—a large cross decorating one side of his torso.
It suited him.
He’d always carried an air of quiet devotion.
His hair was damp, brushed back with his fingers, and when he saw you walk in, he stopped abruptly, as though he’d momentarily forgotten what he was supposed to be doing.
Your throat suddenly felt dry as your eyes traced the line of his shoulders, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his narrow waist disappeared into the waistband of his shorts.
Heat climbed from your neck to your ears.
You weren’t used to this kind of attraction.
It was primitive.
Physical.
Almost animalistic.
It caught you so off guard that, beneath the young man’s delighted gaze, you forced yourself to say the first vaguely sensible thing that came to mind.
“I’m telling you right now—I have no intention of taking off my shirt.”
You tugged lightly at the hem of the oversized gray hoodie you’d hurried home to grab. Underneath, you wore nothing but a sports bra and leggings, and you already felt exposed enough as it was.
He smiled faintly, a brief flash of white canines, and shook his head as he hopped lightly out of the ring, landing soundlessly on the wooden floor.
“I never would have asked you to,” he said, his voice rough with the dryness of someone who hadn’t had water in hours.
You walked over, and he glanced around until his eyes landed on what he’d been looking for.
A pair of boxing gloves lay abandoned on the edge of the raised ring.
Lion studied them for a moment, assessing their condition before turning back to you.
He held them out with an uncertain look.
“I didn’t think to buy a new pair, but these should be okay…”
“They’re perfectly fine, Kaminski,” you replied, hoping to ease his anxious expression as you took your new equipment from his hands.
You slipped them on without much trouble.
They felt at least a size too big, your hands moving a little too freely inside them.
Not that you were an expert.
As you began wrapping the hand wraps around your wrists, the sound of someone clearing their throat drew your attention back to the young man standing in front of you.
“What?” you asked.
“You’re doing it wrong…” he corrected gently, pointing at the way you’d twisted the wrap around your left wrist. “May I?”
You frowned but shrugged, raising your hands straight out in front of you.
You couldn’t exactly object.
You knew how dangerous it was to box without proper support.
His rough, scarred hands brushed yours as he unwound the fabric and rewrapped it correctly around your skin, tightening it with meticulous care, though surprisingly quickly.
From this close, the scent of his sweat reached you immediately.
It was almost completely masked by deodorant.
Who wore deodorant to the gym?
He stepped away before you had time to think of an answer and moved toward the small training area where several large black heavy bags hung from the ceiling.
You followed hesitantly, flexing your hands inside the oversized gloves and feeling the wraps prevent your wrists from bending awkwardly.
Lion rested one hand against a heavy bag and stood beside it, watching you approach.
“We can start here,” he said, giving the bag a firm smack. “Don’t worry about perfect technique for now. I just want you to hit it.”
You felt ridiculous in your oversized hoodie and gloves that were too big, but Lion’s steady confidence made it easy to trust him.
You planted your feet the way you’d seen people do in movies, drew a breath, and threw your first punch.
It was weak.
Almost timid.
Your wrist nearly buckled from the impact.
The bag barely moved.
Lion didn’t laugh.
He simply looked at you, determined.
“Again. Harder. Don’t let your wrist go soft when you hit.”
The second punch was better.
The third, better still.
With every impact, you felt something inside you begin to loosen: the frustration of the week, the tension trapped in your shoulders, the voices of your clients that had been echoing relentlessly inside your head.
The heavy bag began swinging harder.
So did your breathing.
Lion circled around you, correcting you in a low, patient voice.
“Turn your hips. Shift your weight. That’s it. Again.”
Your arms began to burn, heavy as lead, and every punch seemed to pull another piece of strength from your body.
Sweat trickled down the back of your neck, slid between your shoulder blades, followed the curve of your spine, and collected between your breasts beneath the now-soaked fabric of your shirt.
Your hair clung to your temples and forehead.
You didn’t care.
There was only you…and the bag.
After several minutes, your breathing became shorter, more ragged.
Your shoulders protested every extension of your arms.
Your forearms trembled with fatigue, and your knuckles throbbed warmly inside your gloves.
Just when you thought you’d reached your limit, Lion caught the bag with both hands.
“Okay.”
His voice reached you, distant but amused.
“You’re doing great so far.”
So far?!
You looked at him with one eyebrow raised.
Your chest was still rising and falling rapidly, and you weren’t sure you had enough oxygen left to form a proper complaint.
Instead, you shot him a look that clearly said: Don’t tell me that was just the warm-up.
As though he’d read your mind, Lion turned toward a nearby bench, picked up a pair of focus mitts, and slipped them on with quick, practiced movements.
Then he came back.
He planted his feet on the mat, bent his knees slightly, and raised the padded mitts to chest height.
His entire demeanor changed instantly.
Less relaxed.
More focused.
“Good.”
He gestured with one mitt.
“Now hit wherever I tell you. Left. Right. High. Low. And don’t think.” His eyes stayed locked on yours. “React.”
You stared at him for a long moment, still bent forward with your gloved hands braced on your thighs while trying to catch your breath.
Then you let out an unenthusiastic laugh.
“Kaminski…” You inhaled deeply. “…I appreciate your enthusiasm…”Slowly straightening up, you nodded toward the mitts. “…but I’m not trying out for the national boxing team.”
For a brief moment, Lion’s expression changed.
The timid smile faded from the corners of his mouth, and he instinctively lowered the mitts.
“Are you tired?” he asked with disarming sincerity. “Do you want to stop?”
The question hit you harder than it should have.
Something tightened in your stomach.
Stop?
No.
You had never quit anything in your life.
Not during your studies. Not at work. Not when everything seemed determined to stand in your way.
And you certainly weren’t about to start because of a pair of focus mitts.
Before you even realized it, your fist was already moving.
It wasn’t the hardest punch you’d thrown all day.
Far from it.
It was tired, weighed down by exhaustion…but sudden.
Thump.
Your glove struck the mitt Lion had lowered.
He blinked in surprise before slowly lifting his eyes to yours.
“Let’s keep going.”
At first, you followed his instructions with complete concentration.
Left.
Right.
High.
Left-right.
The rhythm was steady.
Your gloves struck the mitts with a satisfyingly dull smack, and Lion moved lightly on the balls of his feet, absorbing every punch with apparent ease.
After a few minutes, your brain registered the repetition and switched to autopilot.
That was exactly when you lost focus.
Instead of listening to his calls, you found yourself watching him.
Under the gym’s fluorescent lights, Lion Kaminski looked like an entirely different person.
He moved with a confidence you’d never seen in him before, his weight perfectly balanced, his feet always ready to change direction.
His shoulders and chest tightened and relaxed in one continuous flow, while a thin sheen of sweat slid down his neck and over his collarbones.
His gray eyes remained focused on your movements.
There wasn’t the slightest trace of the almost chronic awkwardness he carried behind the counter at the dry cleaner’s.
He wasn’t stammering.
He wasn’t looking away.
He wasn’t hiding his hands.
He was in complete control.
It was difficult to reconcile this man with the young guy who, only a few days earlier, had nearly spilled an entire cup of tea because he’d been so nervous.
For one absurd moment, you even wondered whether he had a twin brother you didn’t know about.
What did you actually know about him?
Who was his family? Did he have a girlfriend? A boyfriend? Who was Lion Kaminski?
Your distraction cost you.
“High right.”
You heard the command a fraction of a second too late.
You twisted your torso too aggressively, trying to make up for the lost time, but the mitt was no longer where you’d expected it to be.
Your punch missed completely…
and landed squarely on his chin.
The sound was sharp.
Brutal.
“Fuck!” you gasped, your eyes widening in panic.
You closed the distance between you immediately, trying unsuccessfully to pull your gloves off as you hurried toward him.
“Kaminski, I’m so sorry… let me see.”
Your gloved hands rose instantly to his face, gently pushing his own hand away from his mouth as you tried to inspect the damage.
He didn’t resist.
He let his arm fall back to his side and remained perfectly still, allowing you to come close.
With the padded glove, you gently tilted his chin toward the light.
His skin was only slightly reddened.
But a small cut had opened along his lower lip, and a thin line of blood had already begun to trickle down.
“Shit…” you murmured, a knot tightening in your stomach.
You leaned even closer, trying to get a better look, and a warm breath stirred the loose strands of hair that had fallen across your face.
Only then did you realize how close you were.
Both of your labored breaths filled the narrow space between you, breaking softly against each other’s skin.
Your glove froze instinctively, unwilling to break the moment you were suddenly sharing.
His gray eyes remained fixed on yours.
Then they drifted ever so slightly lower…coming to rest on your lips.
All at once, you became aware of every detail of his closeness.
The warmth of his body.
The steady rhythm of his breathing.
The rise and fall of his chest only inches from yours.
Then, as though you’d burned yourself, you jerked backward, taking a quick step away.
“I… sorry,” you murmured, lowering your hands and looking away.
What the hell were you apologizing for?
For punching him in the face or for practically throwing yourself at him like a woman driven by desire, falling straight into the oldest cliché imaginable?
Lion wiped the back of his hand across his lip, cleaning away the thin streak of blood, and shook his head, uncertainty returning to his expression.
“It’s nothing, really. Nothing for you to worry about…”
Then, eager to break the tension, he added quickly, “You’ve got a hell of a right hook.”
Despite everything, the comment made you laugh.
You shook your head as you finally managed to pull one glove off.
“You should put some ice on that, Kaminski,” you suggested, still avoiding his eyes.
“Lion.”
“Hm?”
You looked up to find him watching you intently.
“After taking a punch to the face from you, I think formalities are unnecessary.”
A faint smile tugged at his split lip.
“Call me Lion.”
After that first training session, it became surprisingly difficult to say no whenever Lion suggested a sparring session.
Not that you ever really tried.
Besides the dry cleaner’s, the gym became your safe haven.
What had started as a way to release tension soon turned into a regular appointment. A couple of times a week, you found yourselves at the gym: a few minutes of warm-up, focus mitts, a few rounds of light sparring, and almost always a conversation afterward, sitting on the edge of the ring or on a bench, still slightly out of breath.
With him, you felt comfortable in a way you hadn’t experienced in months.
There was no need to weigh every word or maintain a certain image of yourself. You could show up nervous, in a bad mood, exhausted, and he seemed to accept it without making a problem out of it. He listened, asked the right questions at the right moments, and when he spoke, he never gave the impression that he wanted to fix your life or tell you what you should do.
So, almost without realizing it, you had started telling him everything.
The days spent in court, the hearings that left behind a kind of exhaustion that was difficult to explain, impossible clients, relatives who never gave you a break, nights spent tossing and turning in bed, and so on.
You poured every thought crowding your mind onto him, and you weren’t afraid of his judgment simply because it seemed like there wasn’t any.
He just listened.
It was only after a few weeks that you realized something.
You were an open book to him, while Lion remained a mystery to you.
Every time you tried to ask him something about his past, his family, or even just how he had ended up running a dry cleaner’s and training like a professional boxer, the conversation changed direction with an almost suspicious ease.
Sometimes he answered with a joke.
Other times with a vague sentence.
And other times still, he smiled and asked you a question instead, completely turning the conversation around.
He was good at listening.
But much less skilled at letting himself be known.
He seemed like a door that was always slightly ajar—open just enough to make you believe you could step inside, but never truly wide open.
At least, not until that day.
It was a late afternoon when, after finishing a particularly complex case report, you returned to the dry cleaner’s to drop off a couple of pieces you would need for the following week.
It was raining.
Outside, the sky was a uniform gray, the water fell heavily onto the sidewalks, and the sound of the rain mixed with that of cars driving through puddles.
You could have brought the clothes the following morning before going into the office, but a part of you wanted to return to relax in that small, safe space.
When you opened the door, the bell chimed as always.
The smell of detergent and clean fabrics welcomed you along with a wave of warm air. A customer was about to leave, her shirts neatly wrapped in plastic, and she gave you a distracted smile as she tucked her umbrella under her arm.
You returned the same polite greeting before she left and placed your closed umbrella in the umbrella stand near the entrance.
“Hey, finished early?” Lion asked from behind the counter as he watched you approach and leave the suits on the surface for him to take.
“Today, yes. Lucky day.”
Unlike usual, Lion didn’t stop to chat but quickly picked up the clothes and passed through the curtain separating the work area from the customer area, leaving you alone.
You assumed he was particularly busy, so you decided to sit at the small table near the window, which Lion had set up in recent times after realizing you would be visiting him frequently.
You opened the tablet you kept in your bag and opened the shared file you had edited most recently. You tried to focus on it, but as usual, the calm and relaxing atmosphere of the dry cleaner’s took over your senses.
You were about to close your eyes and let yourself drift into a nap when a metallic, echoing noise exploded through the shop.
Before you could react, another dull crash followed, like something heavy falling onto the floor, accompanied by a barely audible sound: a strangled cry of pain.
The tablet almost slipped from your hands as you shot to your feet.
“Lion?”
No answer.
You abandoned your tablet and bag on the table and crossed behind the counter without thinking, throwing open the dividing curtain.
The scene in front of you stopped you for a moment.
Lion was kneeling on the floor, surrounded by shirts and coats that had fallen from the rack. Several heavy metal hangers, probably torn loose from the support, were scattered beside him.
He had clearly tried to stop them before they fell.
The sharp edges of the metal had cut through the gauze wrapped around his hands, and blood was already seeping heavily through the white fabric.
“Hey!”
You immediately knelt beside him and noticed the way he hid his hands from your sight.
“Let me see.”
Lion remained crouched down, shoulders hunched, arms wrapped tightly around his stomach.
“Lion, let me see,” you repeated, your tone firmer as you took his arm and pulled it free from his position, even though you probably shouldn’t have.
You quickly removed the stained bandages from his skin to assess the damage, and once you did, your breath caught in your throat.
His knuckles were swollen and trembling uncontrollably.
Not because of the minor cuts he had just sustained, but because of years of inflammation. The joints of his fingers were thickened, slightly deformed, the skin stretched unnaturally.
It only took you a moment.
Arthritis.
The realization hit you like a punch to the stomach.
That was why some mornings it took him longer to open the shop. That was why, sometimes, you saw him tense slightly before lifting a laundry basket or gripping something heavy. That was why, without ever really noticing, he almost always kept his hands hidden: in his pockets, beneath the counter, inside boxing gloves, wrapped in gauze.
He wasn’t trying to protect them.
He was trying to hide them.
Lion followed your gaze and immediately understood.
The color drained from his face.
Instinctively, he curled his fingers closed, as if he were still in time to take them away from your sight, but it was too late.
“I… it’s just…” he tried to say.
The words died in his throat.
He lowered his eyes to his own hands, unable even to look at you. His shoulders hunched further and further, as if he wanted to disappear from the face of the earth.
It was the first time you had truly seen him without defenses.
The man who moved confidently in the ring, who always seemed to have control of the situation and who, with a single look, managed to make you feel calm, was trembling in front of you now.
A tear slowly traced down his cheek.
He quickly wiped it away with the back of his hand, almost annoyed by that betrayal from his own body, but it didn’t matter.
Another followed.
Then another.
He tried to turn away, to breathe, to pull himself together like he always did, but something inside him gave out.
The crying came freely, broken by uneven breaths and muffled sobs that seemed to belong to someone who had held everything inside for far too long.
There was no anger in those tears.
Only an immense exhaustion.
That was why you didn’t even think for a second.
You gently took his wrists, careful not to brush against his injured joints, and guided him toward you.
“Hey…” you whispered. “It’s okay.”
For a moment, he remained completely still, almost unsure whether he was allowed to let himself do that, but then he stopped resisting.
He let himself fall against you with a trust that tightened something in your chest, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. You felt his body tremble, his shoulders shaken by sobs, his broken breathing muffled against your collarbone.
You held him gently, as if one wrong movement would be enough to break him.
“It’s okay, Lion…” you murmured.
One hand moved up to slowly caress his back, following slow, steady motions, while you used the other to support the back of his neck, your fingers lightly running through his short hair.
You stayed like that for a few minutes, helping him let everything out and guiding him back toward a calmer, steadier state. His sobs became less and less frequent until they disappeared completely, and you didn’t let him go until he was the one who pulled away from the embrace first, albeit hesitantly.
His gaze fell on the lapel of your jacket, now stained with his tears.
His cheeks flushed red.
“Sorry…” he murmured, barely above a whisper. “I made a mess.”
You lowered your eyes as well, looking distractedly at the damp fabric.
“It doesn’t matter.” You looked back up and gave him a calm smile. “You’ll wash it anyway, won’t you?”
For a moment, he seemed unable to understand.
Then a short laugh escaped him, still thick with tears.
“Right…”
The embarrassment didn’t disappear completely, but it eased enough to make his shoulders relax slightly.
You took his hands gently, although this time not to examine them, but simply to hold them between yours.
You smiled to yourself.
They had stopped trembling.
“The wounds aren’t deep. I’d say we can put on some disinfectant and redo the bandages. What do you think?”
Lion shook his head slightly.
“I can do it myself…”
“I don’t mind.”
You interrupted him naturally, not giving him time to insist.
You gestured toward the chair at the table he used when he was probably inspecting clothes for imperfections.
“Sit there.”
He obeyed without arguing.
Near the wall was the small first-aid kit, the one every building was required to keep available. You opened it, taking out disinfectant, sterile gauze, and a couple of clean bandages.
When you returned to him, you knelt slightly in front of the chair and held out your hands, prompting him to do the same.
Lion took a breath and offered you his hands, in a sort of reversed version of when he was the one wrapping your boxing gloves around your wrists.
You touched them carefully, trying not to put pressure on the swollen joints while you finished removing the old bandages you had never had the chance to touch before.
For a few minutes, the only sounds in the room were the rustling of gauze and the click of the disinfectant bottle.
He was the one who broke the silence.
“When it rains…” he said quietly, continuing to watch your hands at work. “It seems to get worse.”
You lifted your eyes slightly.
“Arthritis?”
He nodded.
“Yes… a form of osteoarthritis.”
“I understand.” You simply observed.
“They’re horrible.”
The words came out almost spat, filled with an anger that didn’t seem directed at anyone in particular except himself. He continued staring at his own hands as if he couldn’t look at anything else.
“I hate them.”
Your fingers didn’t stop moving. You continued wrapping the bandage around his knuckles with the same care as before, smoothing the fabric to avoid folds that could bother him. Only when you reached the end did you slowly lift your gaze.
You looked at him with such a serious expression that he almost felt intimidated.
“Don’t say that.”
Lion lowered his eyes with a tired, bitter smile.
“But it’s true.”
You shook your head slightly.
You finished the last turn of the bandage around his final finger and secured the end with a small piece of medical tape.
“Well…” you said, still looking at that hand between yours. “I don’t hate them.”
He let out a short, humorless laugh.
“You’re just saying that.”
Lion looked away, convinced you were only trying to comfort him out of pity. It was an expression he knew well, the one people had when faced with something they couldn’t fix and tried, at least, to make it easier to bear with a kind lie.
You, however, continued looking at his hands.
They were large, strong, worn down by work and by years spent hitting bags and jaws. And yet, as you held them in yours, you couldn’t see anything repulsive about them.
You saw only everything they had endured.
With extreme delicacy, you took one of his hands between both of yours. You turned it slightly, observing the back of it, tracing the outline of his swollen knuckles with your thumb.
Then, as if it were the most natural gesture in the world, you leaned down.
Your lips brushed against his skin.
It was the lightest kiss, barely there, warm more than anything else. It lasted only a couple of seconds, but it was enough to make Lion tense.
You felt the muscles in his hand instinctively tighten beneath your fingers.
When you pulled away, he was still motionless.
He looked at you with wide eyes, unable to hide his astonishment. It was as if his brain had stopped working, unable to make sense of what had just happened.
You held his gaze without any embarrassment.
“I never say anything just for the sake of saying it, Lion. Believe me.”
With that, you turned around and bent down toward the fallen hangers and scattered clothes, beginning to pick them up silently.
And while you focused on that, Lion slowly lowered his eyes toward the hand you had kissed, as if he were seeing it for the first time.
His fingers moved slightly, uncertain, brushing over the back of it, and you missed the moment when his lips touched the exact spot where yours had been.
The alarm clock started vibrating at exactly six thirty, with that metallic and insistent sound that Lion had been promising himself he would change for at least a year.
He opened his eyes slowly, without making the slightest attempt to turn it off immediately. He remained still, still wrapped in the warmth of the blankets, his gaze lost on the ceiling of the apartment built above the laundromat.
The silence was unusual. For days, it had been accompanied by the constant tapping of rain against the windows and the roof, a sound that had kept him company but that, at the same time, had made every awakening a little heavier.
That morning, however, there was only quiet.
He turned his head slightly toward the window.
The clouds were still there, thick and gray, but a pale light filtered through them, hinting at a sky that seemed willing to grant a reprieve.
He slowly moved his fingers beneath the blankets.
The joints were stiff, but not like the day before. The pain was still there, a dull ache that seemed to have permanently settled inside his knuckles, but it was bearable.
It had been a week since he had been able to go to the gym, but today seemed like the right day.
He sat on the edge of the bed and remained there for a few seconds with his forearms resting on his knees. Only then did he begin the small ritual he now knew by heart: slowly opening and closing his hands about ten times, bending his fingers, rotating his wrists, waiting for the tendons to stop protesting.
It was at that moment that he thought of you.
It happened almost every morning by now whenever he started his exercises.
Only a few weeks had passed, yet the memory remained incredibly vivid.
He saw your hands again as they patiently loosened the dirty bandages, your attention to detail, the gentle yet firm way you handled them.
And then he remembered the rest.
The moment when everything he had held back for years had exploded with no possibility of stopping it.
He still felt embarrassed at the mere thought of it.
He had never cried in front of anyone except Stan and Sky. It had seemed so unnatural to do it with someone else now.
He closed his eyes for a moment.
He remembered perfectly the feeling of your embrace. The warmth of your neck against his forehead. Your hand slowly caressing his back, without rushing, giving him all the time he needed.
And then there had been that gesture.
His gaze automatically dropped to his right hand.
His fingers moved slightly, as if he could still feel it.
Your lips. So light they had almost seemed imaginary.
He ran a hand over the back of his neck, almost embarrassed that he had thought about it again. It was already over, and you had never brought up the subject again. You had probably already forgotten about it.
And he should have done the same.
Too bad he couldn’t.
Throughout the day, thoughts of you returned several times: while he folded shirts, while he loaded a machine, while he changed the bandages on his hands. Every now and then he smiled to himself without realizing it, happy that he would finally be able to spend time with you again after training, after more than a week of nothing but fleeting glances and quick conversations while you waited in the laundromat, interrupted by customers.
That evening, at Boxe & More, the air was filled with the smell of sweat and rubber and the background noises of the other guys who continued their training.
You had finished yours a little while earlier.
Lion leaned against the ring ropes, a cold protein drink in his hands, trying to recover.
You had walked down toward your gym bag a few meters away from him.
You had insisted on adding just one last set of abs and a few minutes of shadow boxing, ignoring his protests that you had already done enough for the day. At that moment you were breathing deeply, your hands resting on your hips, your chest still rising and falling with the rhythm of exertion.
Lion, distracted as he watched you like he had other times, saw you grab the hem of your wet shirt and pull it upward in one fluid motion. Underneath, you wore only a tight black sports top that left most of your back and shoulders exposed, their skin gleaming with sweat. The muscles of your arms and abdomen were damp with sweat, your skin flushed from the workout.
Lion felt his throat go dry despite having just hydrated himself.
He couldn’t look away as you grabbed the towel and ran it over your neck, your collarbone, between your breasts. Every movement was natural, unconscious, and he felt a sudden heat rise from his neck to his cheeks. The fire quickly moved lower, concentrating insistently between his legs. His body reacted before his mind could stop it.
He gripped the bottle tighter, trying to focus on the cold plastic against his palm.
At that moment, you turned toward him.
“Lion, do you have a protein bar or a gel? I must have finished mine.”
Your voice violently pulled him away from his thoughts. With an almost desperate reflex, he lowered the drink in front of his crotch, covering himself casually while pretending to check the label.
“Yes… give me a second.” he replied, his voice rougher than usual. He cleared his throat and quickly turned toward his bag, giving you his back to hide the redness coloring his face and the obvious bulge in his shorts.
While rummaging through his things, he tried to steady his heartbeat and adjusted his pants into a position that made the protrusion at the front less noticeable.
He needs to calm the fuck down.
He grabbed a protein bar and turned back toward you, trying to maintain a normal expression.
“Here.”
“Thank you.” You smiled at him, grabbing the snack and shaking it victoriously.
Lion snapped back almost instantly, as if someone had just elbowed him in the ribs.
“I… I’m going to take a shower.”
The sentence came out faster than expected. He didn’t even wait for your answer: he picked up his bag from the bench and headed toward the locker rooms with a pace perhaps a little too quick to seem natural.
When he came out, about twenty minutes later, he felt much more clear-headed. He looked around, checking whether you were waiting for him in your usual spot, but there was no sign of you.
You were obviously still in the locker room.
The young man let himself drop against the brick wall just outside the gym doors and waited, wrapping himself in his padded hoodie. The evening was dry, without humidity, but no less cold for it.
He unlocked his phone and began absentmindedly scrolling through his Instagram feed, without actually looking at anything. He was hungry and didn’t feel like cooking. Should he order takeout? Stan wouldn’t have been happy about it. He always said junk food did nothing but worsen his performance.
“Hi.”
A female voice made him look up. In front of him stood a girl with brown hair tied into a high ponytail and a youthful face. She looked very young.
“I’ve seen you here often.” she continued with a smile.
Lion blinked, surprised. “Ah… yeah.” He returned the smile out of politeness. “Are you a member?”
“Yes.” She adjusted the bag on her shoulder. “It’s just that, because of work, I always used to come a little earlier. I would leave and you would come in. I think we crossed paths a couple of times.”
“Probably.”
A brief silence followed.
“Do you like it here?” he asked, more out of courtesy than genuine curiosity.
“Actually, I do.” She nodded. “Although it would be helpful to have someone guide me a little. Or even just someone who could stop me from spending half my workout wandering around the gym pretending I know what I’m doing.”
She laughed.
Lion smiled as well. He liked knowing that people were enthusiastic about the gym. That would lead to more memberships and maybe even better equipment and more advanced machines.
“You can ask at the front desk. They have some really good personal trainers.”
For a moment, the girl looked at him as if that answer wasn’t exactly what she had expected.
“Actually…” she hesitated with a slightly more shy smile. “I was thinking about you.”
Lion tilted his head slightly.
“Me?”
“Yes.” She shrugged a little. “I always see you training. You seem… good.”
He remained genuinely confused.
“Thank you, but I’m not a personal trainer.”
Another silence.
The girl lowered her eyes for a moment, then smiled again with a hint of embarrassment.
“No, I meant… maybe we could train together sometime.”
Only then did Lion begin to understand.
Wait…
Is she hitting on me?
The realization left him almost stunned.
He was searching for an answer that wouldn’t sound rude when, over his shoulder, the door to the women’s locker room opened.
You stepped out, absentmindedly running a hand through your hair while searching for something in your bag with the other, still unaware of him. Lion’s gaze was completely drawn to you.
Everything else suddenly seemed to lose importance.
The girl in front of him, the conversation, the gym, the sound of weights.
For a second, he simply stared at you.
It was a sudden feeling, almost overwhelming in its simplicity.
It wasn’t just the fact that he found you beautiful. It wasn’t only desire. It wasn’t even just the gratitude he felt for everything you had done for him.
It was the way he searched for your face whenever he entered a room. The way his days always seemed a little better when he knew you would train together or that you would stop by the laundromat. The fact that, without realizing it, every happy thought he’d had lately inevitably ended up with you at the center.
The realization hit him with an almost disarming clarity.
He was in love with you.
Not maybe. Not he could be.
He was.
The girl’s voice brought him back to reality.
“So…” she said with an uncertain smile. “Do you want to exchange Instagram?”
Lion looked back at her, and this time the answer seemed incredibly simple.
“I’m sorry.” He smiled kindly. “But I’m not interested.”
She nodded, trying not to let her disappointment show too much.
“I understand… no problem.”
It was right at that moment that you reached them.
“Everything okay?” you asked, looking first at Lion and then at the girl with a hint of curiosity.
“Yes.” he answered almost immediately. He took a step toward you and, in a gesture so spontaneous it surprised even himself, gently grabbed your wrist, guiding you along with him.
“Shall we go?”
Then he gave the girl one last polite smile.
“Have a good workout.”
She returned the greeting with a small wave, watching the two of you walk away together.
Only when you were far enough away did Lion realize he still hadn’t let go of your wrist. He released it almost abruptly, feeling himself blush.
“Sorry…” he murmured, using the same hand to lift his bag into a more comfortable position on his shoulder.
You, however, seemed not to have given it any importance. In fact, your thoughts seemed to have wandered elsewhere…
“She was pretty.”
“What?” he asked, caught off guard.
“The girl. She was pretty.” You said it without turning around, your gaze fixed ahead, your tone neutral.
Lion swallowed. You seemed completely uninterested, as if the matter didn’t affect you in the slightest.
Of course, he thought with a tight feeling in his chest. How could someone like you care about someone like him? You were just being kind.
“…I guess so.”
The answer came out almost automatically.
You nodded slightly, as if commenting on the weather.
“Did she ask you out?”
He grimaced.
“Something like that…”
“Well… I guess she’ll have to wait, then.”
Lion stopped dead.
You took a couple more steps before noticing that he was no longer following you. You turned around and found him standing still in the middle of the sidewalk, with an expression so confused it almost made you smile.
“What do you mean… by she’ll have to wait?”
The smile that appeared on your lips was different from usual. More shy and vulnerable than normal.
You stepped closer, slipping your hands into your jacket pockets.
“Well…” You lowered your gaze for a moment, almost searching for the right words. “I saw you first, after all.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Lion said nothing, didn’t even blink. He simply kept looking at you.
It was that very silence that began to crack the confidence with which you had said those words.
Your smile faltered slightly, and you felt the heat quickly rise to your cheeks.
“Oh my God…” you laughed nervously, shaking your head. “I mean… if that’s something you’d like!” The words started pouring out like a flood, overwhelmed by the embarrassment of your mistake. “It was stupid to say that, what I meant was—”
“Fuck yeah!”
Your voice died at his sudden exclamation, and your smile quickly returned, making you shine beneath the streetlight above you.
A/N: my good friend @crows-plague likes to drop nuggets of vampire lore and ideas on me at random that she knows will drive me into feral insanity, so you all have her to thank for this. My brain went in the direction of "what if instead of erogenous biting, you manually stimulated a vampire orally but in a submissive kinda humiliating way?" I DON'T KNOW, MY MIND IS IN THE GUTTER. Sorry you’re getting Remmick oral fixation fang smut before camboy!Cook pt. 2 LMAO
The heavy wood of the door, slots carefully into it's worn, splintered frame as Remmick steps over the threshold. He tries to be quiet as he makes his way through the kitchen, taking extra care not to wake you, who he thought was upstairs fast asleep. Tucked into bed just like he had left you.
Tracking blood down the hallway and towards the stairs.
The light at the bottom of the stairs flicks on, and highlights his guilt in it's spotlight.
His eyes close in defeat, and he huffs in realization that he's been caught, "Shit."
Your sleep soft voice meets his ears and his guilt multiplies as you make your way down the staircase, "Rem, what have I told you about leavin' your boots at the door. You're trackin' blood and dirt through the house an- oh." You stop in your tracks, bare feet halting on the hardwood floor, hand not left the railing yet, eyes darting from the mess he's made in the kitchen to the mess that stains his clothes and pale skin.
In the time that you had been with him, Remmick had been extra careful as to make sure that you didn't see him like this. Covered in blood and viscera. The spoils of his hunt painting his skin a different shade altogether. He had made sure you didn't see the way his fangs filled his mouth, taking up too much space to be human, or the way his digits grew like long talons rather than fingers. He hadn't wanted you to see all of that. See what a monster he turned into when you laid your head on your pillow at night to rest. You were too sweet. Too pure. Hadn't been exposed to the horrors the world had hid away from you the way that he had. He wanted to keep it that way. Make sure you weren't tainted by him.
"Darlin', I don't want you seein' me like this." His words come out muffled by the teeth that push against his gums and crowd his mouth. His hands fumble to clasp behind his back, like you hadn't just seen the way they stretched longer than their last knuckle.
"Oh Rem, I ain't a 'fraidy cat like you are." you yawned and chuckled, taking a step closer to him. He meets your step forwards with a step back of his own, trying his best to distance himself from you in this form.
"I know you ain't darlin', I just.. there's some things a lady shouldn't see." A clawed hand comes up to shield his mouth from you, drool beginning to collect at the corners of his lips like a dog.
You give him one last look before closing the distance and taking his blood coated hand in yours, not even flinching at the slick feel of it against your palm, "C'mon, let's getcha cleaned up so you can get some beauty sleep. Lord knows you'll need the rest when it comes time for your punishment for this damned mess."
He snorted and smiled as you lead him to the kitchen, urging him to take a seat at the table while you filled a bowl with warm water and grab a clean dish rag. You set it on the table beside him, and stand between his spread legs, wetting the corner of the cloth and bringing it up to his stained cheek. His big, clawed hands came up to gently rest on your hips as you work. Red iridescence lingers in his irises, his gaze slowly roaming over your features that focus on cleaning up his mess, while your fingers gently swipe the warm rag at the congealed blood on his chin, softly wiping at his neck and down the line of his throat.
"'Yer real pretty, ya know that?" he murmurs through the barrier of his fangs and past his pink, swollen lips.
You smile, just a twitch at the corner of your mouth, focus never straying from the work at hand.
"You never let me forget it." you say, just as quietly. Your fingers stop their cleaning, and your eyes meet his. You take in his features. The way his eyes glow slightly, like a wild animal. The way the points of his fangs peek from between his lips. Feel the way his claws dig just a little bit into the meat of your hips whether he means for them to or not.
You should be afraid of him. Afraid of the fact he could tear you apart with just his bare hands and teeth. The thought of getting as far away from him as you possibly can, sits at the back of your mind, but that self preservation instinct has yet to truly kick in when it comes to your Remmick. You still didn’t see him as the predator he so very clearly is.
His tongue darts out, swipes across his bottom lip, as his eyes land on your mouth.
Before he can lean up to kiss you, you speak, "Wanna look at your fangs. Really look at em'. Never really got to see em' like this." A fingertip drags lightly across his lip, urging him to open his mouth.
He hesitates, but ultimately obliges, jaw slowly opening to reveal the fangs crowding his mouth.
You don't realize the quiet gasp that leaves you. The sight of just how sharp his teeth are shocks you for a moment, a chill running down your spine at the thought of the damage they could truly inflict. He could so easily kill you. Tear you to absolute shreds... yet he doesn't. For some reason, he has restraint when it comes to you.
Your thumb prods gently at the sharp point of one of his incisors, making sure not to nick yourself, before running the tips of your fore and middle fingers upwards, pushing his lip up. You rub along his gumline, his eyes closing as he inhales deeply through his nose.
"Hmmm, are they sensitive?" you ask even though you can already guess the answer, opposite hand coming up to rest on his stubbly cheek that’s now flushed red.
Remmick sits transfixed by your touch. He nods, drool gathering at his bottom lip and spilling over, a whine catches in his throat when you rub at the gum of his incisor.
You pull your hand away slowly, "Do you want me to stop?" You ask him so sweetly. So innocently. Like you have no idea what it’s doing to him.
It makes him groan.
Low and throaty and desperate.
He shakes his head, eyes shut, and when he opens them to look at you, they’re glossy with need.
“Please darlin’, don’t stop.” He mumbles, clawed hand gently grabbing your wrist and lifting your fingers to his mouth.
You nearly choke on a breath when he takes your middle and forefingers between his lips and sucks, forked tongue swirling around the digits lewdly, drool coating them.
Your gaze doesn’t miss the obvious strain of his hard cock against the stiff fabric of his pants as he moans around your fingers.
"Awww," you coo, fingers pressing down on his tongue, "Are you getting hard just from this?"
He nods, a muffled sound leaving him as you inch your fingers towards the back of his throat. Drool pools from the corners of his mouth, dripping down the sides of his chin.
You pull your wet fingers from his throat and tilt his chin up, his wet eyes locking on yours, "Want you to take your cock out, can you do that for me?"
His hands are at his belt buckle, unfastening and unzipping his pants before he could properly answer with a mumbled, "Mmmhmm."
Remmick's cock slaps against his belly as he shuffles his pants just enough past his hips. The tip flushed red and angry, already leaking precum at the slit and dripping down the shaft. He takes himself in his palm, fingers wrapping in a tight grip as he spread the wetness over the length.
You run the pad of your thumb along his swollen bottom lip, before pushing it forwards into his mouth. The sound of him eagerly sucking on the digit, tongue lathing up the skin, pairs filthily with the symphony of slick that comes from his hand languidly jerking up and down his cock.
"That's it Rem, get it nice and wet." you praise him, moving to rub at his gums again, thumb rubbing right where the incisor met the soft pink tissue.
His eyes close, jaw going slack, hand faltering a bit.
"Right there." he whines, hand twisting a bit when it reaches the head.
Your thumb rubs back and forth, matching the rhythm of his hand.
You see the way his thighs tense with each upstroke, the way his chest catches at each sensitive touch.
Spit continues to travel down his chin in rivulets, catching in his collarbones and further wetting the collar of his blood soiled shirt. He's an absolute wreck, and putty in your hands.
"Want you to come for me, you can do that, can't you Rem?" you bring up your other hand, rubbing at the opposite incisor in tandem.
He tries to nod against your hold, eyes squeezing shut in pleasured agony, and he picks up his pace, chasing his end.
With one last swipe to his gumline, the muscles in his abdomen tense, and a breath he doesn't need catches in his chest, cum painting his stomach with every twitch of his oversensitive cock.
You wipe the drool from his chin with your thumbs and press a kiss to his cleaned cheek as he collects himself and grabs the rag you were cleaning him off with.
"Now don't go using this information against me." Remmick jokes, cleaning himself off and resituating his pants.
"You seemed to enjoy it too much for it to be a punishment." you quip back. "Your real punishment for makin' such a mess, is gonna be all the wash you're gonna have to do without my help."
"And what are you gonna be doing while I'm doing all that?" he asked, brow raised.
"I'll be planning the ways to use this newfound information against you."
it's so funny how i can genuinely read filthy nasty jaw-dropping smut and remain expressionless but the moment i dare to read some fluff i just start giggling and kicking my feet and twirling my hair uncontrollably
prompt : finding a somewhat private area at a fancy party to fuck (coat closet, empty office, secluded corner on the big balcony, hedge maze if we wanna get dramatic, etc)
RAHH FARMER REMMICK yes yes yes. i did change it from a hedge maze to a corn maze to fit the scene !
ᰋ ˓ . contents. semi-public sex / risk of getting caught, oral sex / messy blowjob, throatfucking, gagging, spit, cum swallowing, size kink, shy!remmick, whiny!remmick, praise kink, light teasing. mdni 18+
“Darlin’—fuck, darlin’, your mouth,” Remmick whines, way past holding his tongue on curses, his big hand trembling against the side of your face as his cock slides heavy over your tongue, the broad head drooling a steady pulse of salty precum that coats your tastebuds.
Which, first of all, is rich coming from him.
This is the same man who had spent most of the afternoon standing around his folks’ backyard barbecue looking like he had never had a filthy thought in his life.
All shy smiles, pink ears, work-worn hands wrapped around a sweating glass of sweet tea while his mama told somebody from church that her boy was still “a little bashful around pretty girls.”
A little bashful.
Cute, really.
Especially considering that same bashful boy is currently tucked between two rows of tall corn with his jeans shoved open, belt hanging loose, shirt rucked up just enough to show the dark trail of sweat-damp hair under his belly button, and his cock forcing your mouth open so wide your lips feel stretched to their limit.
Very wholesome. Very family barbecue appropriate.
The corn maze was technically for the kids, but in your defense, the kids were busy throwing bean bags by the porch, and Remmick had been looking at your mouth across the yard like he wanted to climb out of his own skin.
You could only be expected to behave so much.
There were paper plates, folding chairs, somebody’s aunt fanning herself with a napkin, his daddy manning the smoker, and Remmick turning red every time your tongue slipped over your straw.
So, really, who could blame you?
Not you, that’s for damn sure.
Now you’re on your knees in the dirt, one hand wrapped tight around the thick base of his cock, the other curled around his tense thigh as spit slicks down your chin and makes a mess of your chest. You still can’t take all of him without your throat fighting it, and he keeps trying to apologize for it like that isn’t half the reason you dragged him out here in the first place.
“I’m sorry,” he pants, voice breaking as the head of his cock nudges the back of your throat. “Shit, baby, I’m sorry, you’re just—ohhh fuck, you’re takin’ me so good.”
The praise makes you hum around him, and Remmick nearly loses his knees.
The pride of somebody’s little southern town, reduced to gripping corn stalks because your lips are wrapped around his cock ten yards away from the potato salad. His hips twitch forward before he can stop himself, pushing in deeper, and you gag so prettily around him that his whole body jerks.
“Oh, Christ,” he chokes, looking down at you with wide eyes.
The second you blink up at him through watery lashes and deliberately relax your throat to take him deeper, Remmick makes a noise so desperate and broken it belongs in a confession booth.
His thumb strokes your cheek like he’s trying to be sweet about it, like there’s anything sweet about the wet, choking sounds your mouth is making or the way your throat keeps tightening every time he slips too far.
You pull off just enough to breathe, strings of spit clinging from your swollen lips to the flushed head of his cock, and his eyes drop to the mess with a look so stunned you almost laugh. His cock bobs in the air between you, heavy and angry-red, another bead of precum welling at the slit and sliding down the veined underside while you stroke him slow with your spit-slick hand.
“Look at you all shy,” you murmur, stroking him slow with your spit-slick hand.
Remmick’s face goes so red you’d think you’d slapped him. “Baby,” he whines, and there’s something so good about hearing that soft, embarrassed plea while his cock twitches in your hand.
“What?” you hum, batting your lashes like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing. “You want me to stop?”
His answer comes too fast, too honest. “No.”
You smile, and take him back into your mouth before he can feel too embarrassed about admitting it.
His hand finally settles at the back of your head, resting there with his fingers shaking like he wants to guide you and is too polite to be honest about it.
So you make it easy for him.
You press forward until your throat works around the head of him, gagging softly as your nose nearly brushes the hair at his base. He smells like sun-warmed skin and barbecue smoke and pure, desperate arousal, and it makes your head spin. Remmick’s hips buck, rougher this time, and the sound of your throat catching around him goes straight to the heat between your thighs.
Somewhere beyond the corn, someone laughs loud enough to remind you both that his whole family is still eating barbecue in the yard.
That should probably slow you down, but it doesn’t. If anything, the risk makes it hotter, makes you hollow your cheeks and suck harder, bobbing your head in short, sloppy strokes that have spit bubbling at the corners of your stretched lips.
Remmick realizes it too, because his grip tightens in your hair and his gaze darts toward the open end of the row before snapping back down to you, flushed and panicked and so turned on he looks like he might cry.
“Gonna get us caught,” he breathes, even as his hips rock forward again.
You hum around him again, and that’s the last of his manners.
Remmick starts fucking your mouth in short, desperate little thrusts, messy enough that your throat keeps catching around him and your eyes keep watering.
Your hand works what you can’t fit, slicking him up with every stroke, and his cock feels impossibly heavy on your tongue, pulsing every time you gag. His balls are drawn up tight, tapping against your chin on the deeper pushes.
“Good girl,” he whimpers, and then seems personally embarrassed that he said it so loud. “Sh—I’m sorry, I just—your mouth feels so good. So good, darlin’, you’re perfect. You’re perfect.”
Remmick’s hand tightens on your nape, his stomach flexing hard under the bunched-up hem of his shirt, and his hips stutter like his body is trying to decide between pulling away and burying himself deeper.
He chooses wrong. Or right. Depends on who you ask.
You take him until you gag again, and his cock throbs hard against your tongue.
“I’m gonna come,” he gasps, voice cracking into something downright pathetic. “Baby, wait, I’m—oh God, don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
You hollow your cheeks, stroke him faster, and look up at him just in time to watch his face fall apart.
Remmick comes with a broken, keening whine, hips jerking forward in short, uncontrolled spasms as the first thick, hot spurt of cum hits the back of your throat. It’s a lot—pent up from hours of teasing and shy looks across the yard—and it floods your mouth in heavy, salty pulses.
You swallow around him greedily, throat working to milk every drop, sucking through every pulse, tongue pressed flat against the underside of his cock, until his thighs are shaking violently under your hands and his breathing has gone ragged and broken.
He tries to pull back out of some last-minute gentlemanly panic, but you don’t let him. For a man who was worried about being heard, he’s doing a terrible job of being quiet.
You keep your mouth sealed around him, sucking him through the oversensitive aftershocks until he’s whimpering softly, his cock twitching weakly against your tongue as you lick the last dribbles from the slit.
When you finally let him slip from your mouth, he stares down at you like you’ve ruined his life in the best possible way.
Your lips are swollen, your chin is wet, and there’s dirt on your knees while his cock gives one weak little twitch against your palm like it is just as stupid as the rest of him.
You wipe at your mouth with the back of your hand, smiling up at him. “You good?”
Remmick swallows, glancing toward the barbecue like he only just remembered his mama exists.
“I’m gonna need a minute,” he rasps, voice hoarse and fucked-out.
You glance pointedly at his still-open jeans, then back up at his wrecked face. “A minute to tuck yourself away, or a minute because you’re gonna get hard again if I keep looking at you?”
His blush comes back immediately.
God bless him.
“Both,” he mutters, and somehow, that might be the filthiest thing he’s said all day.
thinking about sex pollen with patrick.... he's a doctor..... of course he knows exactly what to do to make it better....👀👀👀👀👀👀👀
patrick sumner x f!reader
wc : 1.2k
prompt / trope : sex pollen
patrick and sex pollen i’m hard asf…
ᰋ ˓ . contents. husband!patrick, sex pollen / aphrodisiac pollen, begging, multiple orgasms, vaginal fingering, unprotected p in v, overstimulation, praise kink, creampie, desperation. mdni 18+
By the time Patrick gets you upstairs, your knees have gone so unreliable that he has to half-carry you through the bedchamber door with one arm locked around your waist and the other hand pressed firm to your belly, as though he can hold all that awful heat inside you still by sheer medical authority.
Which, to his credit, he is attempting.
You had only meant to spend a harmless quarter hour in the conservatory before dinner, trailing your fingers over ferns and glass-warm leaves while Patrick spoke with the old gardener about some imported specimen with a Latin name you could not pronounce if a pistol were pressed to your temple.
There had been a pale yellow bloom tucked low beneath a curl of greenery, sweet-smelling and damp with pollen, and after that came the itching warmth beneath your stays, the clumsy pressure between your thighs, and the mortifying discovery that every brush of your husband’s hand against your back made you want to climb him like a fever-stricken animal.
“Breathe,” he says now, voice low and steady, though his own composure is suffering in small but satisfying ways.
His collar is undone, his dark hair mussed from where your fingers had caught in it on the stairs, and his eyes have sharpened in that physician’s way that would be very reassuring if you were not currently trying to rub yourself against his thigh like a woman without a shred of upbringing. “There now, my love. Let me see what this has done to you.”
“Patrick,” you gasp, because his hands are already at the buttons of your bodice, quick and practiced, and there’s something terribly indecent about being undressed like a patient when you are wet enough to ruin your stockings.
He glances up at you, mouth stern, eyes not stern at all. “Tell me plainly. Do you want my help?”
You nearly laugh at him, except the sound catches in your throat when his knuckles graze the swollen peak of your breast through your chemise. “If you ask me that again, I shall bite you.”
Patrick’s expression changes only slightly, but you know him well enough to see it.
The doctor has not gone. The husband has simply stepped forward beside him, hungry, fond, and very aware that whatever strange botanical curse has taken hold of you is no match for a man who knows your body better than he knows his own name.
“On the bed,” he says, soft enough to be kind and firm enough to make your stomach turn over.
You obey with embarrassing haste. Your skirts are pushed up before you can make any show of modesty, petticoats gathered high around your hips while Patrick kneels between your parted legs.
The cool air touches the damp heat of you, and you hear him inhale through his nose, quiet and rough, as he sees exactly how badly the pollen has undone you.
Your drawers are wet through, clinging obscenely, and when he hooks his fingers into the slit and pulls the fabric apart, the sound that leaves you is not fit for any respectable house in England.
“Oh,” he murmurs, and the single syllable has enough satisfaction in it to make you want to kick him. “Poor thing.”
“Do not poor thing me.”
“I shall poor thing you as much as I please,” Patrick says, thumb pressing just above your clit, not enough to help, just enough to make you jolt. “You are shaking.”
He lowers his head and kisses the inside of your thigh, bearded jaw scratching your skin while his fingers part you with clinical patience and marital indecency.
The sight of him there, broad shoulders between your legs, eyes fixed on your cunt like the answer to the whole affliction is written in the slick shine of you, nearly finishes you before he has properly begun.
Patrick slides one finger inside you, slow, and your back arches so sharply the bed ropes creak beneath you.
“There,” he breathes. “That eases it, does it not?”
You would like to answer with dignity. Truly, you would. Instead, you grab at the coverlet and whimper because his finger curls, pressing into that soft, wicked place inside you with such calm accuracy that you understand, quite suddenly, why people trust physicians with their lives.
The man could be insufferable, blunt, bad-tempered, and far too pleased with himself when he was right, but dear God, he knows exactly where to touch.
A second finger joins the first, stretching you open while his thumb begins to circle your bud.
The relief is immediate and not nearly enough.
Your hips chase his hand shamelessly, cunt clenching around his fingers, slick dripping down to his knuckles as the terrible heat rolls through you again.
“Please,” you gasp, and there goes the last of your pride.
Patrick looks up at you from beneath dark brows.
“Please make it better.”
His hand stills just enough to make you sob, and the sound seems to break something in him. He leans over you, fingers still buried deep, and kisses you with such tenderness that you taste your own desperation on his breath.
“I will,” he murmurs against your mouth. “I have you. You need not be brave with me.”
The first orgasm is dragged out of you on his fingers, hard and wet and loud, your thighs closing around his wrist while he talks you through it in that rough, steady voice.
You come so hard your vision blurs, but the relief lasts only long enough for you to draw one trembling breath before the heat surges back worse than before.
Patrick feels it happen around his fingers.
His jaw flexes. “Again, then.”
“Patrick, I need you inside me.”
He swears under his breath, restraint worn dangerously thin. His clothes come off with far less patience than yours. You see him hard and heavy between his thighs, flushed dark at the tip, and your whole body clenches around nothing.
“If I am to treat this properly, you will tell me if it pains you,” he says, taking himself in hand and stroking once as he settles over you.
“It already pains me,” you say, reaching for him. “Patrick, please.”
The head of his cock presses against you, and for one dreadful, heavenly instant he only holds there, letting your slick spread over him while you squirm beneath his weight. Then he pushes in, slow and thick, filling you until your mouth falls open and your nails bite into his shoulders.
Patrick groans against your throat when he bottoms out, his body hot and solid over yours, his composure finally cracking at the feel of your cunt gripping him like it intends to keep him there. “Christ,” he mutters, drawing back before thrusting in again hard enough to make you cry out.
The singular word makes you wetter.
Patrick thrusts into you like he’s curing you, which is to say with purpose, stamina, and a concentration so intense it would almost be funny if you were not coming apart beneath him.
Each thrust drives the breath from your lungs and draws a creak from the bed, his cock dragging through the mess of you while his hand slips between your bodies to rub your clit again.
He watches your face the whole time, noting every tremor, every gasp, every clench, using all his awful knowledge against you until you are begging without words.
The second orgasm breaks over you faster than the first. The third is worse. By then there is sweat at Patrick’s temples, your thighs are slick against his hips, and the room smells of crushed flowers, linen, and sex.
He keeps praising you through it, voice hoarse and affectionate, calling you his sweet girl, his poor love, his beautiful wife, until you are half convinced the pollen will kill you if his mouth ever stops.
When his rhythm finally falters, you feel the change in him: his thrusts grow rougher, less measured, his forehead lowering to yours as your cunt pulses around him yet again.
You wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer.
Patrick comes buried deep inside you with a low, broken groan, his hips pressing tight to yours as he spills into the same aching heat he has spent the last hour trying to soothe.
The mess of it is immediate, filthy and warm, leaking around his cock as he gives you a few slow, involuntary thrusts that make both of you gasp.
Afterward, he doesn’t move away. He stays over you, breath heavy, one hand smoothing damp hair back from your face while the other rests over your racing heart.
You should feel cured, calm, any number of proper, ladylike things. Instead, your hips lift faintly against him.
Patrick’s eyes close as if he expected this and still hoped, foolishly, for a different result.
“Oh, my love,” he says, voice worn thin with fond exhaustion, “what a very troublesome flower.”
Can you please do these in one if you can but w roy goode
1) overwhelmed, but happy crying during sex
6) marathon session (they just fucking keep going, babyyyy)
6) accidental i love you’s during sex
.
roy goode x f!reader
blurb (-1k)
prompt : marathon session (they just fucking keep going, babyyyy)
okay so i’ve already gotten requests from other characters with both 1 & 3, and i didn’t want to write the same for two characters so i did marathon sex for roy 👩🏾💻 i hope that’s fine and you can still enjoy !!
Roy is underneath you, naked, sweaty, and already looking half-ruined by the time your hips start moving over his cock again.
Which is a little dramatic of him, if you’re being honest.
The man had been the one to pull you back into his lap after you both swore you needed to catch your breath, his hands sliding over your bare thighs like he had every intention of behaving until you settled over him and felt him hard against you all over again.
Now the room is hot enough to feel mean about it, the sheets are twisted beneath both of you, and Roy’s head is tipped back against the wall with his jaw tight as you ride him slow enough to make his restraint everybody’s problem.
California has the nerve to stay warm even after sundown, and Roy Goode has the nerve to look pretty with sweat sliding down his chest.
You’re naked in his lap, knees pressed into the thin mattress, body sore in ways that should probably make you quit but only make every roll of your hips feel filthier.
His cock fills you with that deep, aching stretch that keeps making your thighs tremble, and because you’re a terrible person, you keep grinding down just to feel the way his breath breaks when your cunt squeezes around him.
“Darlin’,” he warns, voice rough and low, one hand gripping your hip while the other spreads warm across your lower back.
You look down at him, mouth swollen from all the kissing, skin damp, pride absolutely undeserved considering your legs are seconds away from giving out. “What?”
Roy’s eyes drop between your bodies, watching himself disappear into you again, and whatever decent thought he had leaves his face immediately. “You keep doin’ that, I ain’t gonna last.”
Which is bold, really, considering he’s already come twice and still has the audacity to be buried inside you like neither of you have learned a single lesson all night.
You sink down slowly, taking him until your hips are flush with his, and Roy groans like you’ve finally managed to shoot him properly.
His fingers dig into your waist, his stomach flexing under your hands, and when you start bouncing on him with what little strength you have left, he tries to help you without making it obvious he’s losing his mind. His hips rise into you in short, rough thrusts, then harder than halfway, until the rhythm turns sloppy while he watches your tits bounce with each lift of your hips like it might fix something in him.
The whole thing is too much: his cock, the heat, the wet sound of you taking him, the way his eyes keep moving over your naked body like he can’t decide where to look first.
Apparently, Roy decides the safest option is nowhere at all, because he kisses you hard and slips out from under you before your cunt can finish milking him empty again.
You whine at the loss, embarrassingly loud, but the sound catches in your throat when his hand wraps around his cock.
Roy sits there between your spread thighs, flushed and breathing heavy, stroking himself with rough, lazy pulls while his gaze stays fixed on the mess between your legs.
His cock is slick from you, flushed and thick in his fist, and you would be more offended about being left empty if he didn’t look so good jerking himself off in front of you. His thumb drags over the tip, his jaw flexes, and you watch his self-control crumble by inches.
“Well,” you breathe, smiling even though your body feels wrung out, “don’t stop now.”
Roy gives you a look, dark and almost amused, hand still moving. “You tryin’ to kill me?”
“Maybe.”
Roy leans forward and kisses you hard enough to steal whatever smart thing you had waiting, his bare chest pressing to yours as he pushes you down with more hunger than grace.
The mattress gives beneath you, damp sheets sticking to your skin, and by the time your head hits the pillow, he’s already between your thighs again, guiding himself through the slick mess you’ve both made like his self-control died somewhere around the second round and nobody cared enough to bury it.
Roy hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, kisses the inside of your knee like he’s sorry in advance, and thrusts back into you so deep your mouth falls open with nothing useful coming out.
The angle is downright evil. His cock presses exactly where it shouldn’t, and you feel every inch of him because there’s nothing between you but sweat, skin, and the filthy stretch of him filling you again.
“Oh, there?” he breathes, quiet as ever, but there’s enough smugness in it to make you want to bite him.
You settle for clawing at his arm while he fucks you into the mattress, both of you messy, sticking together everywhere your bodies meet.
His chest brushes yours with each thrust. Sweat drips from him onto your skin. The room smells like heat and sex, and the bed creaks loud enough that you’re half sure the whole boarding house knows Roy Goode is not nearly as polite as he looks.
When you come again, it’s not graceful.
Your hands grab at his shoulders, his wrist, the sheets, anything you can reach while your cunt pulses around him and your leg trembles against his shoulder.
Roy drops his forehead close to yours with a rough groan, his rhythm faltering as you clench down on him again and again, milking every ounce of restraint right out of his body.
The man never stood a chance.
He comes buried deep, hips pressing hard between your thighs as he spills into you with a shudder, one hand gripping your raised leg while the other braces beside your head. He stays there afterward, breathing heavy, cock still twitching inside your sore, messy cunt like he hasn’t learned a single lesson all night.
You turn your face against the pillow, smiling even though your body feels entirely wrung out. “You done?”
Roy lifts his head just enough to look at you, cheeks flushed, hair damp at his forehead, mouth swollen from kissing you, and there’s something almost innocent about him right up until his gaze drops between your naked bodies.
His hips give one slow, mean little roll that makes you gasp.
Prompt list 2: 5) filming it, either for private purposes or because they’re amateur pornstars with Lion so he can have something to watch when he’s away from reader… PRESS RECORD UH UH UH
lion kaminski x f!reader
blurb (-1k)
prompt : filming it, either for private purposes or because they’re amateur pornstars.
i’m a SUCKER for sex filming…
ᰋ ˓ . contents. established relationship, sex filming, doggystyle, messy sex, protected p in v, light size kink, teasing, dirty talk, very light overstimulation. mdni 18+
The wet sound of Lion fucking into you fills the room, loud enough that you almost forget the phone is propped up on the dresser, recording every slick thrust of his condom-covered cock stretching you open from behind.
Your face is turned toward the camera, cheek pressed into the mattress, eyes heavy and mouth parted around these breathy little sounds you can’t keep to yourself. One hand is tucked beneath your belly, fingers moving between your thighs, rubbing your clit in messy circles every time his hips snap forward and push you harder into the sheets.
Lion isn’t saying much, not at first.
He’s too busy trying not to look at the phone.
It had taken forever to convince him to do this, mostly because he kept getting awkward whenever you brought it up, laughing under his breath and acting like the thought of watching himself fuck you later didn’t make his cock twitch in his boxers.
He wanted it—you knew he wanted it.
He just didn’t know what to do with himself once the little red light was on and suddenly everything was being saved.
Unfortunately for him, he looks good like this.
A little flushed. A little overwhelmed. Hair falling into his eyes, chest rising too fast, hands gripping your hips because he needs somewhere to put them.
His movements aren’t shy at all, even if his face is. Every thrust is rough, his thick cock dragging in and out of you until your thighs start shaking and your fingers slip uselessly over your clit.
“Fuck,” he breathes, almost embarrassed by how loud it comes out. “You’re making this so hard.”
You laugh into the mattress, but it breaks into a moan when he thrusts deeper. “You’re the one fucking me like that.”
Lion gives a nervous little huff behind you, something caught between a laugh and a groan, and his fingers flex against your waist. “Yeah, well—shit, baby, you feel so good.”
It’s sweet, somehow. Sweet in the most obscene way possible, with him buried inside you and your slick making a mess of your fingers.
You keep your face angled toward the phone because you know he’ll look eventually, and when he does, you want him to see exactly what he’s doing to you.
His hips start to lose their rhythm after that, still rough, just not as controlled.
The bed creaks under you, the dresser gives a tiny rattle, and your eyes flutter when the head of his cock hits that spot that makes your whole body go loose.
You rub your clit faster, whining openly now, not caring that the camera is catching your ruined face and the drool at the corner of your mouth.
Lion looks, and you can tell the exact instant it happens because his thrust catches inside you.
His gaze flicks to the phone screen, and there you are in the little frame, fucked-out and trembling with your face pressed into the mattress. Your eyes are half-lidded, your lips shiny and parted, your hand working desperately beneath you while he pounds into you from behind.
“Oh, fuck,” he groans, voice cracking.
Lion shoves in deep, hips pressed flush to your ass as he spills into the condom with a rough, broken sound, his hands tightening on your waist while his cock pulses inside you.
He tries to keep quiet, tries to tuck his face down like the camera won’t catch how wrecked he is, but there’s no hiding the way his body shudders behind yours.
You’re still touching yourself, peering up at him from the corner of your eye, still fluttering around him, and the overstimulation makes him gasp.
“Baby,” he mutters, breathless and shy now that he’s finished too fast. “Don’t—don’t look at me like that.”
You smile against the mattress, dragging your fingers over your clit just to feel him twitch inside you again.
“Like what? Like I know you’re gonna watch this every night you’re gone?”
Lion glances back at the phone, then at you, cheeks pink and eyes dark. And the answer is clear as day on his face.
He’s definitely going to ask to make another sometime soon.
Lemme get a ummm Lion fic...sex pollen or fucking in the bar bathroom and being too drunk to care about being quiet...with some subby Lion if you please.
(Hi Lyriccc how are youuu?)
lion kaminski x f!reader
wc : 1k
prompt : fucking in the bar bathroom and being too drunk to care about being quiet
OOH YESSS also HII RIN 💗🤭
ᰋ ˓ . contents. drunk sex, semi-public sex (bathroom stall), risk of getting caught, reader and lion are having a moaning contest, subby!lion, nipple sucking, unprotected sex, creampie, public indecency, someone walks in on them. mdni 18+
Lion is fumbling with his zipper, fingers clumsy and urgent, while you’re already hooking your thumbs into the waistband of your panties and dragging the soaked scrap of fabric down your thighs in the tight stall.
Both of you are drunk enough to be giggling under your breath, reckless and flushed hot from whiskey, but nowhere near drunk enough to miss what it means when you kick the damp panties down around one ankle and leave yourself bare.
Which is, in hindsight, probably not what the owner of this bar intended for the women’s bathroom.
But alas.
The night had been doomed the second Lion started looking at you across that sticky little table, cheeks flushed from whiskey, hand tucked between your thighs like he still had any business pretending to behave. He’d barely touched you at first, just enough pressure to make you spread your legs wider while he nodded through conversation like he was listening and not thinking about fucking you before last call.
Sweet of him to try, really.
Now his jeans are shoved open, his cock thick and flushed in his fist, the head shiny and leaking a steady bead of precum that drips over his knuckles while he stares at you in the harsh light like you’ve personally ruined him just by lifting your skirt and letting him see how your cunt is glistening
“Fuck,” he breathes, voice already shaky. “Baby, you’re soaked.”
“And you’re leaking,” you hum, glancing down at the flushed head of his cock.
His face goes red, but his cock twitches like it has no respect for his embarrassment, and before he can say anything stupid or sweet, you pull him in by his shirt and kiss him hard enough to make his back hit the stall door.
The latch rattles but neither of you care.
His mouth is messy immediately, open and hot and tasting like whiskey. His hand slips up under your shirt with a needy little groan, cupping your breast through your bra before he gets impatient and tugs the cup down, sucking your nipple straight through the thin fabric of your shirt. The wet heat of his mouth makes your back arch, fabric clinging and darkening around his lips as he sucks harder, tongue dragging slow, filthy circles over the stiff peak until your cunt clenches around nothing.
“Oh my god,” you gasp, fingers tightening in his hair as his tongue drags wet circles over you.
Lion moans around your nipple like he’s the one being touched, sucking harder when your hips jerk against him. By the time he pulls back, the fabric is wet and clinging, his lips are shiny, and his eyes are so dazed you almost feel bad for him.
Almost.
“Lion,” you say, trying not to laugh even though your thighs are already trembling. “Are you gonna stare at me or fuck me?”
The sound he makes is pitiful.
In the best possible way.
“Y-Yeah” he says quickly, nodding like he needs to reassure both of you. “Yes.”
Adorable. Also deeply concerning, because the second he gets one hand under your thigh and lines himself up, all that sweetness burns off into him shoving inside you with a groan so loud you have to slap a hand over his mouth.
His cock stretches you open in one rough push, thick and hot, sliding into you with a wet sound that echoes in the cramped stall. Your head knocks back against the divider, your leg hooks higher around his hip, and Lion’s eyes roll like he’s fighting for his life not to finish on the spot.
“Ohhh fuck,” he groans against your palm, muffled and desperate. “You feel so good. Shit, baby, you feel so good.”
You pull your hand away just to kiss him again, swallowing the next moan as he starts fucking you standing up. HHis hips are too eager, his hands can’t decide where to hold you, and your bodies keep bumping the stall wall hard enough that anyone nearby could probably connect the dots with very little imagination.
Still, the man is putting in work.
Lion grips your thigh and lifts it higher, pressing you back while his cock drives into you at a mean angle that makes your toes curl inside your shoe. Your slick is everywhere—coating him thick and shiny, smearing between your thighs, dripping down to soak into the waistband of his boxers. The wet slap of his hips against yours, the squelch every time he bottoms out, the way your cunt grips and flutters around him like it’s trying to keep him buried deep.
“Right there,” you pant against his mouth. “Don’t stop.”
“I won’t,” Lion gasps, immediately sounding like he might not have a choice anyway. “I won’t, baby, I swear.”
The sweet little promise does not match the way he’s fucking you.
He’s loud, messy, panting into your mouth and groaning every time your cunt clenches around him. Then his next thrust slips wrong, his cock popping out of you with a lewd, wet sound that makes both of you freeze. Your pussy flutters around nothing, a thick string of your combined wetness stretching between your stretched hole and the shiny head of his cock before it breaks and drips down your thigh.
Then you both start laughing like idiots.
“Fuck, sorry,” he pants, forehead dropping to your shoulder while his cock slides slick against your inner thigh. “Sorry, baby, I—”
“Put it back in,” you whisper, still breathless.
Lion lifts his head, face flushed dark, and wraps a trembling hand around the base of his cock. He rubs the head against your entrance once, twice, dragging it through your soaked folds on purpose now, smearing your slick all over himself, nudging your clit with every pass until you’re squirming.
Either because he can’t aim or because he’s drunk enough to forget he’s supposed to be shy.
“Lion,” you warn.
“I know, I know,” he pants, then pushes back inside you with a rough thrust that wipes the laughter right out of your mouth.
After that, he fucks you harder, like the slip embarrassed him into proving a point. His hand grips your ass under your skirt, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he drags you onto every thrust, cock slamming into you with wet, filthy sounds that fill the stall.
He kisses you sloppily, all tongue and teeth and helpless little noises while your skirt stays rucked up around your waist and his jeans rub rough against your thighs.
When someone walks into the bathroom and turns on the sink, Lion’s whole body stutters, hips faltering for half a second.
You bite his lower lip and squeeze around him again.
“Baby,” he groans, hiding his face against your neck while still fucking into you. “They’re gonna hear.”
“They already hear,” you murmur, pulling his hair just enough to make him whimper. “So you might as well continue.”
Lion’s hips go sloppy immediately, thrusts losing rhythm as he chases it with no dignity left at all. He’s panting hard, groaning into your skin, one hand gripping your thigh hard enough to bruise while the other braces against the stall wall.
“Fuck, fuck, I’m gonna come,” he gasps, voice breaking. “I’m gonna come so hard, baby, please—”
He comes with a loud, wrecked groan that he barely manages to bury against your mouth, hips jerking hard as he spills inside you. His whole body shakes with it, cock pulsing deep while his hands cling to you like he’ll collapse if he lets go.
From the sinks, someone clears their throat.
Lion’s eyes go comically wide, still buried inside you, cock twitching with the last weak spurts of cum as embarrassment crashes over him.
You bite your lip to keep from laughing while he’s still inside you.
“Do you think they heard?” he whispers.
A hand dryer starts outside the stall, loud and merciful.
You pat his cheek, smiling sweetly. “Baby, people in the parking lot heard.”
Lion groans, drops his forehead to your shoulder, and somehow still gives one tiny little twitch inside you like embarrassment does absolutely nothing to help him behave.
Yesterday I went in and got my final fitting for my wheelchair, they had to adjust my backrest a little and teach me how to adjust things myself if needed.
My insurance covered everything and I am so so fucking grateful I can't even put it all into words, this changed what I expected my quality of life to be forever.
I don't know why I tortured myself for so long trying to deny that I needed mobility aids, normal functioning people don't dream about them and I should have accepted my needs sooner.
Anyways, I'm still deciding on a name for her but here she is!!
“No way,” Cook says, voice muffled against your mouth before he pulls back just enough to stare down at your chest like he’s been personally wronged by the universe for not knowing sooner.
His hands are still shoved under your shirt, palms hot and greedy against your ribs, fingers digging in like he’s trying to keep you pinned there even though you haven’t made a single move to get away. Not that you could anyway, not with him sprawled over you on your bed.
He’d only come over to “hang out,” or at least that was the bullshit excuse both of you pretended to believe when he showed up with messy hair, red-rimmed eyes, and that shit-eating smirk that always made you want to slap him.
Now his knee is jammed between your spread thighs, your shirt rucked up under your chin, and Cook is eye-fucking your pierced nipples like you’ve just handed him the meaning of life and a loaded gun.
“You’re joking,” he mutters, except there’s zero joke in the way his thumb drags slow and heavy under one tit, lifting the soft weight so the little silver bar catches the light.
His mouth parts, and his eyes flick from one stiff nipple to the other with this stunned, filthy awe that makes your stomach tighten. “Nah, you’ve been walking round with these under your clothes, yeah? Just out there? In public?”
You try to laugh, but it comes out a shaky, needy whimper when his thumb strokes right over the piercing. The metal shifts and tugs through your stiff nipple, sending a hot spark straight to your clit, and the way your face twists must be obvious because Cook’s grin turns mean and hungry. He’s always been a loud, obnoxious prick, but right now he looks like he wants to devour you.
“Oh, you like that?” he says, dragging the pad of his thumb over the bar again, lighter this time, just to watch your lips part. “Course you do. filthy, ain’t ya?”
You’d tell him to shut up if his mouth didn’t get there first.
Cook licks a slow, sloppy stripe over one nipple, tongue catching the cool metal before swirling hot and wet around the tight, sensitive bud. Your fingers fist tight in his hair and he groans loud against your tit, the vibration shooting through you. He sucks the piercing into his mouth with obscene care, lips sealed tight while his tongue flicks and toys with the bar, sucking hard enough to make your back arch clean off the bed.
“There we go,” he mumbles, lips wet against you as his hand slides up to your other breast, squeezing until the second piercing presses against his palm. “Knew you had something mad hiding under all that.”
His teeth graze the metal just enough to make you jolt, not enough to hurt, but enough to send a hot, sharp tug straight down between your legs. Cook laughs into your skin like an absolute bastard, then licks over the same place as if he’s apologizing with his mouth instead of words.
By the time his hand starts wandering down your stomach, your panties are already damp enough to embarrass you if Cook wasn’t currently sucking on your nipple like a man with no morals and even less shame.
His fingers dip under your waistband with no ceremony, no smooth little pause, no asking like he isn’t already sure you want it. And God help you, you do, because your hips lift into his hand as soon as he slides lower.
“Fuckin’ soaked,” he says, sounding genuinely thrilled. His fingers drag through your messy folds, spreading your juices everywhere before he starts rubbing tight, filthy circles over your swollen clit. “All this from a bit of mouth on your tits? Babe, that is dangerous info to give me.”
You make some half-formed complaint that doesn’t survive the next stroke of his fingers, and Cook, because he’s Cook, takes that as encouragement.
He keeps his mouth latched to your nipple while he touches you, tongue working the piercing in slick, lazy flicks as his fingers rub you through the slippery heat between your thighs. One hand in your panties, one hand kneading your tit, mouth hot and wet on the silver bar, hips grinding down against your leg because apparently he’s enjoying himself enough to make it everyone’s problem.
When he finally pushes two fingers inside you, your cunt tightens around them, warm and dripping.
Cook makes a noise against your chest that’s more animal growl than human, his knuckles grinding deep as he curls those fingers and watches your face from under heavy lashes.
The smugness is still there, obviously—because he’d probably find a way to be cocky at his own funeral—but something darker and hungrier burns underneath when your slick coats his hand and the wet, obscene squelching of your cunt fills the room with every thrust.
Every curl of his fingers forces your thighs wider apart, and every time you try to clamp them shut, he shoves his knee in harder like he owns that sloppy, dripping space between your legs.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, kissing messily across your chest until his mouth finds your other nipple, giving it the same nasty treatment. His tongue swirls around the piercing, then tugs it between his lips while his fingers keep pumping into your soaked hole, rubbing that spot inside you until your brain goes stupid and your cunt gushes around him.
You’re pretty sure you say his name, call him a dick, and beg all in the same broken breath, but none of it matters because Cook starts rubbing your swollen clit with his thumb at the same time his fingers curl up hard and mean.
The pleasure slams into you so fast it almost pisses you off. Your legs shake violently around his arm, your fingers yank hard at his hair, and he moans loud against your nipple like the pain is making his cock throb.
His mouth doesn’t stop, not even when your tits start feeling raw and oversensitive, not even when you squirm and whine because the piercing is dripping with his spit and aching from how greedily he’s sucking it.
“Cook,” you gasp, trying to shove your hips away even though your greedy cunt keeps rocking down onto his hand, fucking yourself on his fingers.
He lifts his head with shiny, spit-slick lips, hair wrecked from your grip, eyes dark and wild. “Nah, don’t run from it now,” he says, far too pleased with himself as he presses his palm harder against your throbbing clit. “You’re right there, I can feel it.”
And unfortunately, he can.
Your orgasm rips through you wet and filthy, hips jerking off the bed as your cunt spasms and gushes hard all over his hand. You soak his fingers, his wrist, the sheets underneath you, and Cook actually freezes for half a second, eyes wide.
The low, wrecked sound he makes should embarrass him, but shame has never lived in this man. He stares down between your spread legs like he’s witnessing a miracle, then immediately starts fucking you with his fingers again, drawing out every sloppy pulse.
“Oh, that’s fucking unreal,” he says, laughing under his breath while you squirm beneath him. “Did you just—nah, you did.”
“Cook,” you whine, dragging his name out because he hasn’t stopped. His fingers still buried deep in your oversensitive cunt, every curl making fresh sparks shoot up your spine and making your thighs twitch helplessly around his arm.
He looks up at you with the most evil, delighted grin you’ve ever seen, then drops his mouth back to your nipple like he’s found the switch that ruins you.
The piercing is soaked and shiny from his tongue, your skin hot and slick, and when he flicks the bar again your whole body jerks violently against his hand. The overstimulating feeling crashes through you in a nasty, overwhelming rush, making your toes curl and your eyes squeeze shut while he keeps rubbing your swollen clit with his thumb—slower now, meaner, dragging out every tiny, devastating movement.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, almost tender if his fingers weren’t still knuckle-deep in you and his mouth wasn’t busy making a sloppy mess of your tits. “Look at you, babe. All fucked up and I’ve barely started.”
You hate when your cunt answers with another helpless, wet clench around his fingers, and Cook groans like he’s the one about to lose it.
His hips grind hard into the mattress, cock obviously leaking and desperate in his jeans, but he refuses to pull his hand out of your ruined panties.
He doesn’t stop playing with your piercings, doesn’t let you come down. He just keeps dragging it out until the pleasure turns thick, syrupy, and cruel, until your gasps melt into broken, slutty moans and the sheets are soaked under your ass where his wrist keeps grinding.
When he finally pulls his dripping fingers free from your fluttering pussy, you’re panting like you’ve run a marathon. Your shirt is still shoved up, nipples puffy, stiff, and glistening with his spit, silver bars shining under the lamp.
Cook sits back on his heels to admire his work, hand absolutely drenched in your cum and fluids, mouth glossy and wrecked, looking so proud of himself you’d slap him if your bones hadn’t gone useless.
“Mate,” he says, staring at your tits like he’s about to build a shrine to them. He drags his soaked fingers slowly up your thigh instead of wiping them off, leaving a shiny trail of your own slick, then leans down to press one last filthy, open-mouthed kiss to your nipple piercing. “I’m never leaving this room.”
You laugh, shaky and breathless, pushing weakly at his shoulder as he grins against your chest. “You’re disgusting.”
Cook hums, completely unbothered, and gives the piercing another slow, teasing lick just to make your hips jerk. “yeah, well,” he says, crawling back up to kiss you deep, his tongue still tasting like metal and your skin, “you’re the one with pierced nipples and ruined knickers, so I reckon we’re both doing quite well.”
