DARIA!

she/they | 18+ blog. minors get out! | poc | active rookie blogger

[dariarot]

come doe-eyed, come hungry .ᐟ

looking for someone to rattle with? or maybe just foraging for alfalfa? either way, i'm sure you'll make a home range out of me, yet

eric love. starred up

james cook. skins

walter "lion" kaminski. jungleland

patrick sumner. the north water

kyle budwell. money monster

remmick. sinners

seasonal collection.ᐟ

A Little Hot and Heavy for a Cool Tape | feb.

'about me' section below ⋅ ॱ ˙ ॱ ⋅ . ✶

my name is daria. | twenty-three. | poc. | she/they. | pansexual. | anti-ai writer. | 18+ writer. minors get out! | leftist.

✦ . ⁺ some housekeeping...

if you would like to reach out, please do!

⋆ all feedback– questions, comments, and critiques are welcome here! ⋆ i am in love with the community aspect of the fan fiction scene on tumblr and would love to get more in touch. anon submissions are on if you feel more comfortable interacting that way. ⋆ writing is not only a hobby, but a passion! i'm always looking to build that skill in any way possible ⋆ you can reach out via the 'let's be pals ⋆𐙚 ̊.' button on my page

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⋆ i'd love to hear about them! ⋆ please keep in mind that i write exclusively for jack o'connell characters. ⋆ if you see that i haven't written for a character he's portrayed but you really really want to see, i am absolutely open to your ideas! ⋆ you can reach out via the 'let's be pals ⋆𐙚 ̊.' button on my page

deer header for abt me sec. cr.: @/ivy-vinezz scissor divider cr.: @/strangergraphics book collage cr.: @/png-portal deer gif.: @/smashing-peaches pomegranate png cr.: @/thepngpixie

[lousolversons]

“I know you have suffered, Patrick. I know you’ve suffered a very great deal.” Jack O'Connell as Patrick Sumner in The North Water

[jetix]

A Kermode Bear goes hunting, 2021/10

[bloodsuckingfiends]

Maw

Summary: while cleaning Remmick up when he comes home from a particularly messy feeding, you discover just how sensitive he is in this form.

Pairing: Remmick x f!reader

Warnings: oral fixation, drool, I’m a forked tongue Remmick truther, finger sucking, monsterfucking, blood, pathetic subby Rem🤭

Word count: 1.7K

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."

[ocnnellz]

confidential checkup

husband!patrick x wife!reader

patrick sumner masterlist | main masterlist summary: reader coaxes patrick to open up to her about his past, a checkup at the doctors’ ensues… warnings: 18+ explicit, patrick after the events of tnw, established relationship (married), shy patrick, perv patrick?, perv in the 19th century that is, both reader and patricks thoughts, bit of corruption kink if you squint, improper medical practices (can you guys tell i dont go to the doctors that often oops), patrick wears glasses briefly yum, awkward and bashful, fingering, edging, teeny bit of praise, unprotected p-in-v, rushed ending (how do you end a fic…) word count: 6.6k a/n: hi sorry i fell off the face of the earth my mental is crazy but im back hi. can you tell ive been playing a lot of stardew valley and my favourite bachelor is harvey…? medical men with moustaches am i right? dividers: @bonnieknowsbest

Berlin, Germany, 1869. After the events of The North Water.

Patrick stepped out onto the cobbled pathway, seeing his breath in the air as he pulled his gloves on. You stepped out next to him, dressed in your warmest skirts and coat. He peered down at you in his peripheral but was displeased to find your face was obstructed by your hat.

He had insisted on you staying home while he ran his errands, but you were far more insistent, going on about how you “needed the air” and “wanted to spend time with him.” With one more glance at you when you took his arm, he led you down the dampened pathway.

The two of you had been married for two years now, rounding on your third, and Patrick was a quiet lover. Despite the years knowing him, he was still quite stiff and reserved when it came to speaking about himself or showing affection. Still, he had his ways of showing he cared. Even if that was by minute squeezes he gave your arm before you crossed a road or leaving an extra strudel for you at breakfast.

The only thing you couldn’t crack about him was his past. You were both two of few English speaking people in your town, though Patrick was decent in Deutsch, so you figured he had come from elsewhere.

“Just down here,” he tugged your arm gently, leading you to what looked like an apothecary. He didn’t see the way your brow lifted, removing his hat as you both stepped into the building.

You let go of his arm to give him room to roam but still stayed close by. The owner of the apothecary was an old man who eyed you suspiciously to which you lowered your head, choosing to stay close to your husband.

Patrick looked around on the shelves before addressing the owner, “four ounces of the laudanum, please.”

You watched as his hand clenched into a fist on the counter, bouncing it absentmindedly. You were well aware of his indulgence and you also may have snooped around in his study, finding many empty vials of the substance.

He looked over at you as the owner riffled through the supply, smiling shyly as if you had caught him red-handed.

The owner wrapped the bottle up while Patrick paid for it, offering his arm once more as you both left the apothecary. The cold bit at your nose once you stepped out and you wished you had brought a scarf. You squeezed your husband’s arm lightly, letting him guide you to where else he needs to go.

“You should’ve brought a scarf,” he murmured as if sensing your discomfort. “It’s awfully cold out.” He steered you around for quite some time, buying a couple things for his studies as well as some ingredients for the house. Despite your protests, he even bought you a fresh new pair of slippers as your old ones had started to fray.

As soon as you both arrived home he had you sit down so he could unlace your boots—just one of the many ways he showed his affection.

While he quietly undid the laces of your boots, your mind began to wander over to the paper bag which contained the laudanum, and how much time he spent in that study of his. You knew he must’ve had some medical background since there were many anatomical texts in his study, and not to mention how trivial he was about your health.

“What did you do before coming to Germany?” You asked tentatively, noticing the way his fingers paused for just a second.

Patrick was always honest with you, but it was rather he held information back. He sucked in a breath before continuing his ministrations, “must you be so curious?”

“Well, sometimes I feel you know me better than I know you.”

He hummed quietly at that. It wasn’t a jab at him and he knew it. It was simply a fact, one that he felt bad about constantly. He slipped your last boot off before rubbing your ankle, his thumb smoothening over your stocking. He stood before you, picking up the paper bag which held his personal purchases. “Come.”

You watched him walk off for a moment before rising to follow, placing the bag of groceries on the counter on your way. He led you into his study. You’d been in here countless times before, most of which you had snuck in to ponder about his texts. You rounded his desk to take a seat while he looked around on his bookshelf before meeting your curious gaze.

“I was an army surgeon back when I lived in London,” he explained slowly, as if debating whether or not to tell you the full story. When your curiosity remained unwavering, he resumed, but not before staring at your fingers as you shed your gloves. “I was stationed in Delhi, but to spare you the details, I was soon cashiered and left with nothing but a limp…”

His eyes flicked back up to yours but quickly avoided your sympathetic look and reached for a worn journal on the shelf, fingering through the pages. “I eventually boarded a ship, the uh- The Volunteer. Horrid things, horrid times.” He practically shuddered as he recalled the events. His gaze returned to you with a deeply furrowed brow, “the things that happened were much too vile for a lady like you to hear.”

“Why haven’t you told me about this?” You frowned not out of contempt, but sadness for making him feel like he should withdraw this information from you.

“It’s not that simple,” he sighed before pushing the journal back onto the shelf, “I had done things and well, I had to flee London essentially.” He looked at you nervously, frowning back at you. “I had to make sure I could trust you.”

“Patrick…” your shoulders slumped. You had figured he was hiding things from you for good reason, but you hadn’t expected him to assume you’d rat him out on whatever it was he did.

“I know,” he sighed and walked over to where you were sitting, dropping down onto his knees and lying his head down on your lap. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Another part of me also wanted to leave my past behind and start anew.”

You weren’t upset by his admission, just sad he had kept it hidden for so long. His head remained in your lap, only turning slightly once your fingers started through his hair.

“An army surgeon, hm?” You started more lightly, “much more qualified than I thought.”

He froze slightly, lifting his head to glare at you in mock offence. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Here I thought you were just a physician, turns out you served as a surgeon.” A grin tugged at your lips upon seeing him pout, “what else have you been hiding from me?”

Patrick couldn’t keep his sulking up for long, not when his beautiful wife was getting a kick out of teasing him. His hands rubbed at the sides of your hips, shaking his head. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

He rose to his feet with an audible grunt, turning to put his earlier purchases away. But you weren’t quite done, still wanting to know more.

“You know a lot then?” You hummed softly, trying to sound casual as you leaned forward in the chair with a hand on your chin, playing with a pen.

“You could say that,” he rumbled absentmindedly.

“So, you could give me checkups?”

He looked over his shoulder with a furrowed brow, “that, I could… why?”

You leaned back in the chair, stretching out with a cheeky grin. “Just wondering. It’s always good to go to the doctor’s, and seeing as you were one, it’s more convenient.”

“I suppose you’re right…” he squinted at you suspiciously before returning to his organizing. Just as you had composed yourself, he murmured, “what are you getting at, honey?”

The endearment sent a pang of warmth to your chest. It wasn’t often that he used them on you, but each time was a pleasant surprise. You offered a gentle hum in wonderment, shrugging even though he couldn’t see it. “Nothing, just making sure you’re alright with me asking.”

“Are you hoping for a more… confidential checkup?” The way the question came out, you wondered if he meant to say it aloud, due to the way his shoulders tensed and his ears reddened. You also froze at the implication and didn’t respond save for a small gasp. “Sorry- That wasn’t what I-”

“What would that entail?” You asked despite yourself, somewhat curious as to what a ‘confidential checkup’ looks like.

Patrick said nothing for a long while, staring off into the abyss as he struggled to find an excuse to his unintentional innuendo. “It’s not inherently sexual,” his eyes darted over to you for a split second before looking back at the wall, “but it may involve… intimate procedures.”

“Oh,” was all you could say. The room quickly filled with tension, the awkwardness was suffocating. Intimacy was never an issue for you two but perhaps one was more shy than the other. And you weren’t the one. “We could do a confidential checkup, make sure nothing is wrong with me, yes?”

Patrick fidgeted with his hands, pursing his lips to the side until his eyes met yours. “Of course, it would warrant that there are no issues.”

“Shall we do it after dinner?” He answered with a slight nod and kept his head bowed as you got up to leave the room.

As soon as the door shut Patrick finally let his shoulders relax. Unbeknownst to you, he was being driven crazy. He let out a deep sigh and ran his fingers through his hair, doing his best to compose himself. He’d been doing his best to keep his needs tame throughout his time with you. You, his poor, dear wife had no idea how much he wanted you.

The floorboards creaked under his feet as he walked towards his desk, picking up your discarded gloves. He thumbed over the fabric, letting himself feel the softness that enveloped your hands everyday. He imagined the warmth and possibly even sweat that seeped into the gloves.

Before he knew it, he lifted the gloves up to his nose, closing his eyes to inhale your scent deeply. Something sweet, a tinge of musk, and irrevocably you filled his senses. And now, all he could think about was where else smelled like that.

“Over here, honey.” Patrick guided you over to the chaise with a hand on your lower back, not fully pressing, but enough for you to feel the heat seep through.

You sat down tentatively and watched him carefully as he walked around to grab his dog-eared journal. He took a seat across from you and slipped his reading glasses on before draping his stethoscope around his broad shoulders. You’ve seen his medical instruments before, some of which he let you tinker around with.

He looked so focused in his seat—glasses framing those ice blue eyes as they squinted at his notes, suspenders sitting pretty on his shoulders, and fingers lightly tapping a pen against the leather journal. The journal was soon abandoned as he rolled his seat closer to you, taking the stethoscope into his hands.

“Undo your bodice, please.” His voice was a low murmur, as if embarrassed to ask it. Your hands moved delicately to unlace the front of your bodice to create enough space for him to perform his procedures. Patrick took a sparing glance at you but just as quickly looked away, “actually, remove your bodice completely.”

Your cheeks warmed immediately upon his request but did so without a word, leaving yourself in your skirts and a thin chemise. Despite being married and having had seen you in far less clothing, he kept his gaze respectful as he put the eartips of the stethoscope into his ears.

The cool metal pressed over your chemise which sent a shiver down your spine from unexpectedness. Patrick leaned a bit closer but still had his eyes averted to keep your modesty. He dragged the chestpiece over your heart and paused for a moment to listen to your pulse. He hummed in satisfaction before moving it down to your sternum, sliding his free hand onto your back.

“Breathe in for me, slowly.” He rumbled, listening as you did. “And out.” He moved the chestpiece around a couple times—just underneath your breasts and back.

He pulled away with an approving nod which could only mean that your lungs and pulse were in good shape. You sat awkwardly as he wrote in his journal, still improper in just your chemise and skirts.

The checkup resumed in bashful silence. Patrick moved about doing the necessary routine checkups—blood pressure, reflexes, and strength tests. You saw how relieved he seemed to be after seeing no abnormalities in your results. Patrick often worried about you, though he didn’t show it as to not worry or annoy you.

“Perfect,” he murmured as he looked over his notes and scribbled more onto the worn paper. You smiled triumphantly and reached for your bodice, wanting nothing more than to cover up. “Hold on,” he stopped you with a raised hand, “not quite done yet.”

“Oh?” You almost pressed on why you were not done, but then remembered his earlier words—how it may involve intimate procedures. “Oh.”

Patrick allowed himself to take a gander at you, shamefully dragging his gaze down your half-clothed body. His ears warmed and he cleared his throat before snapping up to look into your eyes. “It won’t take long, much of it is just to determine there’s no cancers and that your… receptors are in working condition.” He stumbled over his words as he fought to maintain eye contact, overcompensating by adjusting his glasses multiple times. You weren’t sure what he meant by receptors, but you had a feeling you’d be well aware soon.

He got up to grab gloves before returning at your side, snapping the latex against his wrists. Patrick was internally fighting himself to be respectful. Throughout your marriage he remained nothing but sweet and respectful, always making sure you were comfortable. The fact that he still had to proceed with these routines made it so much harder for him, and he wished he kept this side of him hidden from you a while longer.

“For this examination, you’ll have to remove your chemise.” He murmured as calmly as possible. He observed the way you perked up in shock but moved without a word, like always. He admired your resilience and how despite the awkwardness, you followed his commands without complaints. He wondered what else he could make you do. As you undressed further, he turned away to give you privacy, though it wouldn’t matter much sooner.

You murmured a soft confirmation for him to turn back around and the sight almost ended him as he faced you once more. You were sat straight and proper, skirts tousled and breasts out for his eyes only. The standard procedure would usually involve feeling the breasts under a fabric to keep propriety, but of course Patrick took advantage of your home examination to see your body in all its naked glory.

“I’ll just be feeling for any abnormal bumps or lumps,” he explained while fixing his gloves, mentally thanking the latex for hiding the sweat gathering on his palms. He knew this was an innocent procedure. It was checking for breast cancer for god’s sake, but he couldn’t deny the stirring in his gut as he began to reach for your breast.

Your breath hitched as his hand cupped the swell of your breast, holding the tissue for a moment. A slight shiver ran through you which resulted in your skin pebbling, and your nipples hardening. It had been a while since Patrick had touched you and even though this was strictly medical, his fingers sent a little flutter in your lower stomach.

His fingers started groping and feeling around, squeezing and prodding. You felt as though these gestures were beginning to feel less innocent once he kept it up for longer than you assumed it’d take. Your breathing became laboured in turn, your skin warming as the heat bloomed deeper.

Patrick suddenly switched to the other breast, giving a not so unintentional swipe over the peak which punched out a moan from your mouth. His hand stilled as he realized what he had just done.

Neither of you verbally acknowledged what just happened and Patrick continued the examination with more careful hands. It was hard not to squirm and even harder to keep your hands to yourself. You wished you could touch him the way he was touching you, but you didn’t want to scare him after he was vulnerable enough to share his past, and again, this was a medical exam.

He released your breast and turned to his journal to jot down some notes before clearing his throat gruffly, “no issues there.” His hands were tingling, warm from touching your skin and sweaty under the gloves from how flustered he was getting. Without missing a beat—and without looking up—he ordered, “remove the rest of your clothes.”

“What?” If you could feel any more humiliation, you’d combust, but something in your gut made you want it. “Is that necessary?”

Patrick snapped his head up, seemingly realizing his rashness. “I- Well- Uh- Yes, it’s extremely important you’re bare for the next examination.” He stumbled over his words, wiping his gloved hands on his trousers as if that could remove the sweat clinging to his palms.

With a moment’s hesitation, you removed your skirts and petticoats, and finally, your drawers. Patrick held his breath as he watched you, hiding the way his eyes darkened by pretending to fix his gloves and glasses. You laid down on the chaise and placed your hands over your stomach in an attempt to retain the propriety you carried.

“Part your legs for me,” he placed his hand on your knee gently. He caught the way your eyes widened in horrified shock and explained, “it’s to ensure your pleasure receptors are responding.” Patrick knew he was making things up, there were no such things, but he did not have the guts to admit he just wanted to touch you.

“I’m sure I have no issues there,” you attempted to get out of the situation, but to no avail as he tugged your knees apart. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to go through with the examination, the issue was that you were absolutely soaked.

He gave you no reaction as he eyed your moist center, but a twitch at the corner of his lips gave him away.

“Stop it,” you scolded bashfully, “it is perfectly normal, a woman’s body will do many things.”

“Oh, I know.” He allowed himself a bit of smugness into his tone, proud that his plan was working. His stool slid along so he was positioned by your legs, dragging a finger up your calf and admiring the way your skin pebbled so easily. “Your body is responding. A good sign.”

He bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smirking. Judging by your lack of questioning, he knew you believed him in performing this pseudo-examination. His fingers continued their path up your leg, tracing over your knee, and then your inner thigh. He could see the hair on your legs stick up and the pulse between them.

You let out a shuddering breath as the tip of his finger met your puffy clit. It didn’t move or even push, it just rested over the needy thing. Patrick’s eyes gazed intensely as your walls clenched around nothing. All attempts at propriety were thrown out the window as you squirmed in frustration, bucking your hips to feel something more than just pressure.

He awarded you with gentle circles over your clit, two fingers swirling in tandem with each other. His eyes flicked up to your face, observing the way your eyes fluttered shut and the way your lips parted. “Now, your body is definitely responding.” Before you could snap at him, the pads of his fingers pressed down harder, tracing harsh circles now.

“Patrick,” you couldn’t help but moan, “is this really an examination you’ve done with other patients?”

“No,” he admitted, no longer ashamed now that you were unravelling. “This is just for us.”

The usually quiet office was now filled with the obscene sounds of your slick and breathy moans. Patrick was breathing almost as heavy as you were, lips parted while his tongue darted out every so often to wet them.

You bit your lip as you watched his dark, hungry eyes, his glasses had slipped down his nose a bit. He’d never looked at you this way before—so irrevocably infatuated with how wrecked you’d become. Your clit was pulsing with need as his fingers rubbed back and forth over it, the sensation burning down your calves. Moans wretched themselves from your throat and your hips bucked in an embarrassing cry for more and less at the same time. Patrick was glaring down at your center, blue-grey pupils barely noticeable. Your legs shifted in an attempt to hide yourself from him, but his other gloved hand reached up to pry a leg away.

A wet whine left your mouth as he suddenly pulled away. You’d fallen out of the daze to realize that your eyes were wet with unshed tears, the pleasure was overwhelming. Your husband looked down at you with a tinge of guilt, his hardened features softening.

“Oh, honey.” He whispered, leaning down to nuzzle along your hair line, pressing kisses there. “You okay? I’m sorry.” You responded with a meek nod, nuzzling back against his face. He shifted in his chair, no doubt adjusting himself. His warmth left you once he leant back on the stool, “for the next examination, I’ll have to remove these, is that okay?”

You looked to him after blinking back your tears, his hands were gesturing to his gloves. Your mind was still swimming somewhere high above you which made you unable to think for a moment. You almost forgot that this was a checkup, an examination of your responses. Beneath the softness however, there was hunger in his gaze. And yet, you nodded.

“I’m afraid I’ll need verbal confirmation.” He suddenly switched back to that authoritative “doctor” voice he had on before, all the tenderness he just showed was gone.

Your cunt clenched around nothing, mouth opening and croaked, “yes.”

He efficiently discarded the gloves before moving closer once more, positioned side by side with your hip before moving his hand over your core. His middle finger gathered the slick that dripped from your hole, lubing the digit up before pressing in slowly. A low groan left his lips as he felt you contract around the thick finger, rubbing against your walls. Your eyes rolled back as he explored you with little shame, the pad of his finger rubbing hard against the ridges inside of you.

“Nothing unusual,” he rasped, very clearly trying to stay composed but failing. His finger prodded around a bit more, not yet thrusting, just wiggling around and rubbing. He made a face of disapproval and your heart lurched, “but very tight.”

A cry tore out as he shoved a second finger into you without warning. No gentle, slow press like he did with the first. Just a dull pain as your hole stretched to fit his fingers. They twitched as he heard your cry, but didn’t pull them out. The digits rested and let you adjust.

His tenderness returned as he planted a soothing kiss on your jaw, the scratchiness of his facial hair distracting you from the throb down below. His fingers drew back slowly, your hole instinctively closing around them. “Shh, relax sweetheart.” He cooed into your ear while his free hand stroked your knee.

You turned your head to rub your head against his cheek, like a cat seeking warmth from its owner. The soft praises and encouragements helped you relax and his fingers began moving, slowly. In and out the two thick digits went, a sticky sound escaping every time they withdrew. Your legs grew less tense as he worked you slowly and you could feel the knot in your gut grow tighter.

“Patrick— I’ll—” Your back arched off the chaise as you warned him of your incoming release. Much to your displeasure, he removed his fingers with an audible ‘shlick.’ His brow twitched as you let out a soft keening sound before bringing his soaked fingers up to his lips.

“Not yet,” he chastised, licking your slick off his flesh. You watched with hunger and a tinge of disgust as he savoured your taste, wondering if he liked it or if it was horrible. A groan escaped him as he licked more and more off his fingers, eyes fluttering shut as he cleaned them off. “Good, your pH balances are perfect.”

His eyes blinked open and you could now see how wide his pupils were blown. You swallowed thickly, both eager and nervous to see what the next examination would be. His eyes bored into yours to the point you felt almost bashful to be looking at him directly. You could tell he was still holding back by the way his fingers clenched into his trousers and how he shifted in his seat to relieve the aching bulge that was hidden beneath them.

It was getting hard not to just take you as he pleased, but Patrick was a gentleman, and he knew you were fragile. If he were to act without thinking he knew he’d break you. As much as he’d like to see that, he knew he had to tread lightly, take it one step at a time. Which is why he chose his next words carefully.

“Our final examination is to make sure you can reach your peak,” his voice was getting rougher by the second, the lust coursing through his veins as his eyes wandered in places that would have him shanked if you were not his wife. “While I don’t doubt that you can, you’ve almost proved it just now, I must find a specific spot to help bring you there.” You watched him lick his lips as he zeroed in on the tuff of hair between your legs, “I would use my fingers, but I have something better.”

Your skin was already plastered in a sheen of sweat, your baby-hairs sticking to your forehead. The implication was made clear once his hands moved to his belt, those thick fingers that were once in you were now moving to reveal something even thicker.

A lump formed in your throat as his hands pushed down his trousers. His cock sprung out, thick and flushed at the tip. He ran a palm up the length of it, brushing over the head to wipe away precum. Patrick sucked in a breath at the way you ogled him. The sight wasn’t new to you, but the nature of this encounter was.

It was confusing in all the right ways—an innocent doctor’s checkup turning into something so vile and lewd, wrong but right.

The chaise groaned under his weight as he climbed on, pulling your legs around his hips. He lowered himself over your body, hands on either side of your face as he rested his forehead against yours.

For a moment you two just breathed each other in, lips parted and brushing. He reached up and removed his frames, tossing them aside where they clattered somewhere on the floor. His lashes dusted your cheeks as he leaned down while his thumbs came up to rub along your jaw. While the moment was lovely, all you could focus on was the heavy weight resting on your lower stomach.

Patrick knew it too, you could tell by the way it twitched against you. He tugged your bottom lip down before kissing your firmly, moaning lowly into the kiss. It broke off with a loud smacking sound and his hands crawled down your sides until they reached your hips, squeezing once. His eyes flicked between yours and where his cock rested against your belly.

His panting was barely audible as one hand left your hip to grab his cock, thumb rubbing along the base. You shifted your hips in quiet impatience to which he tutted and slapped his shaft on your stomach gently. “Patience,” he rumbled, “it’ll come soon.”

Your head fell back in frustration and you huffed at the ceiling. He watched you in this small act of defiance, admiring the arch of your neck as you exposed your throat to him—bare and sticky with sweat. Before you knew it, his nose was prodding along your neck, his sniffs tickling you just the slightest bit. He took one long inhale and groaned, twitching his hips. With a final kiss to your throat, he leaned back to look down between you two again.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. “The female body—your body—was always fascinating to me.” He dragged a large palm from your chest down to your waist. “Your reactions especially. You’ve always wanted me, no doubt about that, but seeing you, so raw, so… so vulnerable…”

He shook his head and reached down to position himself properly. He pushed forward without warning, making your breath catch as he sheathed himself inside in one go.

The pain was immediate—burning through your hips and locking up your legs. You jolted as your core clenched around him tightly. It felt like an electric shock and you hissed through your teeth.

Patrick leaned down upon seeing your discomfort, peppering kisses on your face while rubbing your thigh in an attempt to soothe. “Shh,” he hushed before kissing you firmly, “it’ll be alright. The pain is just as important for the examination.”

A tear slipped down to your temple, but his lips quickly found it and pecked along your sweaty hairline. For a moment, you just laid there panting while your body adjusted to the feeling of him inside. It had been a while since the last time you both coupled, so it was almost as if your body forgot how it felt. Almost.

As soon as you began to loosen up was when he started to move. It started off with short, shallow jerks, moving just enough that you could feel it. Nothing pleasurable yet, just the feeling of being full. His thumb pressed into the side of your jaw so he could force you to look at him. You were letting out soft puffs of air, legs trembling where they rested over his thighs. His hands pressed into the soft cushion beneath you, being very conscious not to crush you.

After ensuring you were no longer in pain, his thrusts became more deliberate and drawn out. A slow press in until he was seated fully, and then a slow pull back—not all the way, no, just enough to watch the way your hips chased after him. He repeated the motion a couple times, observing your reactions closely. However, it was hard to when you were throbbing around his length and whimpering like a pup.

The soft, breathy whimpers that left your lips had him straining. He was already pushing himself throughout this entire checkup that he had to keep his hands clenched by your sides in order not to grip bruises onto you. He ducked his head down to rub his nose into your cheek, panting hotly as he slammed his hips harder.

The room filled with the sounds of your panting, his groans, and the wet slap of his balls against your ass. He moved his hips in a way that let you feel every inch of his cock, scooping upwards in search of something. Your walls constricted in response, throbbing like you wanted to swallow him whole.

“Perfect,” he groaned, his head now resting against your collarbone. “Your body is responding excellently.” Another hard thrust and a moan slipped out, earning you a soft bite.

Patrick’s attempts at keeping his hands off your body proved unsuccessful once the passion burned hotter. He cupped your ass in both hands and squeezed as he pulled you in in tandem with his thrusts, the head of his cock hitting even deeper than before.

He could tell he was getting closer to that spot by the way your moans turned needy and breathier, so he honed in on that spot and went harder.

You clenched around him as your back arched, pushing your breasts into his chest. He sighed softly at the contact and almost melted, rubbing his head against yours like a cat wanting attention. His cock was relentless, pulsing into you at such a fast pace that you could hear the slosh of your shared fluids.

It was then that you felt it—the rush of pleasure and the settling of this inner ache as he finally found that spot. Your eyes rolled back into your head and your moan was cut off, leaving your mind reeling in pure bliss.

Above you, Patrick watched in a mix of awe and affection. He licked his parted cracked lips, wanting to let you feel out this moment for yourself, but also wanting to ruin you further. Instead, he maintained his speed and pressure and brought his hands up to your ribcage.

“Good,” he whispered once you could see again, grunting a little as he snapped his hips. “That proves the spot does exist.” He said that mostly to himself, but even in your blissed out daze did you pick up on it.

You moaned out again as he hit the spot over and over again. The beginning of your end was soon arriving as the tension in your belly grew tighter.

Your hands didn't know what to do. You’d been as modest as you could be throughout the encounter but now you were completely debauched—hands scrambling over his back and into his hair, tugging enough to send the man above you whimpering into your shoulder. The sweat in his hair coated your fingers which slid down to his neck, pressing into his skin as you pulled him into a heated kiss.

He groaned into the kiss, his teeth and tongue clashing with yours. His own hands slid under your head and into your hair, holding you still unlike his hips moving below.

The heat was reaching an all time high. Every part of your body was dripping with some sort of fluid—sweat, slick, and saliva. You were burning all over, deliciously so. The ache in your cunt was starting to feel almost uncomfortable and you broke the kiss to let out a soft keening noise. Patrick’s eyes widened immediately and his first instinct was to peck your cheeks.

“’m okay,” you mumbled hoarsely, throat sore from all your cries. “Just so… close…”

“I know,” he cooed, licking the sweat off your neck. His pace didn’t change, maintaining those steady, deep thrusts. “You feel perfect… so pretty…” His praises egged you on, making your walls throb and close around him rhythmically.

You weren’t the only one close to your breaking point. It was evident in his actions that Patrick was there too. His hips stuttered every so often, his cock pulsing angrily at the sound of your moans and the feeling of your warm flesh. He panted heavily into the crook of your neck and let his whole body sink down onto yours, ensuring you were flush against him.

“You’re still… wearing all your clothes,” the revelation came to you as soon as you felt him all over. He had removed his waistcoat earlier so his shirt had since been wrinkled and damp, and his trousers hung loosely around his thighs.

“Taking them off would be…” his voice came out as a whisper. He was straining to hold off his release, wanting to come with you. “…well, it’d be unprofessional. Wouldn’t it?”

You felt the cheeky grin against your collarbone and clenched around him in revenge, “you’re ridiculous.”

He shuddered in response and nibbled your neck, “your cunt seems to like it.”

Before you could snap at him for being so vulgar, the head of his cock punched your sweet spot, knocking a loud cry out of you. He didn’t tease, too busy trying to make you both come to make fun of your attempts at propriety.

“There you go…” he whispered as a hand slid down to the curve of your ass, “take it, sweetheart.”

You were uncomfortably hot—feeling the sweat drip down your temples and pool between your breasts, but the pleasure just kept building. You were beginning to lock up and tighten around him, bucking yourself up to chase that friction.

With a few more pumps, you were sent over the edge. Your thighs trembled with the shock of overwhelming pleasure coursing through you. Your eyes rolled back into your head as a shaky cry escaped you, grasping onto his shoulders while he kept moving to coax you through it.

Patrick pushed himself up to gape down at you, bringing a hand up to brush away your sweaty hair from your face. He liked seeing you like this, fully debauched and wrecked. The sight—along with the way your walls fluttered—had his hips stuttering and he soon followed you over. You felt his head drop and the warmth flood your insides.

The moment you came back to earth, you went limp. Patrick’s lips grazed your shoulders while his fingers traced gentle shapes into your skin. He let you bask in the silence and bliss, pecking the softness of your jaw.

The tension still hung in the air, the room heavy with the scent of sweat and sex. You blinked away the haziness and caught your breath, feeling lighter than you had before.

Patrick withdrew from you with a slick sound and sat back to button his trousers. You just laid there and watched him with half-lidded eyes, no longer worried about covering up. He turned to look at you and his eyes landed right between your thighs where the evidence of his release leaked from your cunt.

“Christ almighty,” he shuddered and turned away to rub his eyes as if that could wipe away the sight of that. He rose with a grunt and walked out, leaving you completely bare and lewd in his home office. You didn’t make any attempt to move since the tremble in your legs was still very relevant, and because you knew he’d return soon.

A soft sigh left your lips as you closed your eyes, feeling that post-coital drowsiness that always took over. It wasn’t until you felt the warm press of a wet rag did you realize Patrick was back, but you didn’t open your eyes. Instead, you let him wipe you down, feeling the wet washcloth slide from your neck, between your breasts, and then between your legs.

He pressed a soft kiss on your closed eyelids after he was done pampering you, coaxing your eyes open with a gentle nudge of his head. “Are you feeling alright?”

You met his tender gaze with a yawn, earning a squeeze to the thigh. “Feeling really good.”

“Yeah?” He chuckled softly and covered you with a thin blanket, “that wasn’t too much for you?”

“Not at all…” you smiled sleepily, still feeling light and dazed. “I think we should make these checkups weekly.”

Patrick barked out a laugh before kissing your cheek, shaking his head. “Weekly might be much… but I won’t turn down any requests for an intimate checkup.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

He smiled at you and then stood to gather his things, flipping through his journal. “Safe to say you have no issues or complications. Everything is in order, now get some rest.”

You watched his back as he walked to his desk, blinking drowsily as the feeling of sleep slowly took over. “Yes, doctor.”

hope you enjoyed! likes, comments, & reblogs greatly appreciated :)

[remmickssugar]

[meluneira]

[porcelainbae]

[aurora-rph]

reblog this if you're fine with your mutuals sending you asks unprompted

[spellboundprudence]

Legit going to lose my shit with all of you "writers" using ai in fics. FUCKING STOP! or have the goddamn decency to tag it as such so we don't have to deal with it, because it's so fucking obvious!

[bluesycatharsis]

Okay, I’m not super into Eric love but that secret situationship moodboard is doing something to me🧍🏽‍♀️ I gotta know what pet names Eric would call you infront of your brother and behind closed doors PLS

Heyy, Luna ☺️👋 It's always so lovely to have you here. I'm such a fan of your writing — yes, I have to say that every time lol — and I'm still screaming at your Spiderman! Lion, by the way! Just so you knoww 😗

Well, I'll add some more context to this scenario I was visualizing in my mind when I made this moodboard, if that's okay.

I don't think Eric — or his female version in this case, since I kind of did a genderbend there, but both work equally well with this idea!! — would be happy to keep the relationship a secret. That wouldn't be his decision, but entirely yours. You don't want your brother to give Eric a hard time, or worse, for their long-standing friendship to be "affected because of you". Although I can imagine Eric trying to convince you that it's not that serious and that your brother will eventually understand (even if he's kinda overprotective), you'd still feel quite hesitant about it. Probably because I imagine you as that typical good girl who hates causing trouble and is always trying to avoid conflict, while Eric is the complete opposite.

He'd be so clearly in love with you and would want everyone to know you're his, no matter the mess it might cause. He'd probably be so tired of having to pretend he doesn't care about the other band members "enthusiastically" praising you all the time (when your brother isn't around, of course!) and there's nothing he can do about it other than just be quietly sulky every time it happens. There's no way for him to just say you guys are together or else you'd get mad at him for exposing everything like this without your consent.

So, finally answering your question, I think a little bit of teasing would start at some point. There's always this crazy tension about your brother finally putting all the pieces together, since he's already somewhatttt suspicious about it, so I can picture Eric doing certain things on purpose. For example, constantly complimenting you and obviously checking you out in front of the other band members. Getting kinda touchy with you when your brother is around just to see you squirm and panic. Calling you "his pretty girl", "angel" and "princess", then playing dumb when someone finally asks what the hell is going on between you two. Playfully glaring at you from across the room and silently asking with his eyes: "Would you like to answer that, sweetheart?"

I mean, if you're not going to tell your brother and Eric simply can't do it for you, then maybe just let your brother figure it out on his own. Of course, you always try to deflect the questions with your sweet, fake innocent giggles and say that "Eric is nothing more than just a good friend to you". Still, later on, he'd be making you say that you're his and only his. His girlfriend. His plaything. His pretty, dirty little liar. You know what I mean by that, don't you? He'd certainly enjoy seeing you make a lot of noise for him, just to punish you for not answering the questions the way you should have. He's a drummer, after all. You can be sure he has reallyyyy skillful hands.

But anyway, that's just a silly idea lol sorry for rambling!! Just wanted to explain a little bit more of what I initially thought since you gave me the opportunity ☺️ I don't plan on writing about this concept because I'm already busy with another silly idea and I'm unfortunately a full-time lazy procrastinator, but, if anyone is interested, feel free to get inspired. That's why I make the moodboards, after all!!

Thank youuuu for the lovely ask, Luna!! I loved yapping here and I hope this was a good answer, queen!! 💘

[dariarot]

I’m so obsessed with this concept!!!!!!

[mingapace]

𝕊𝕥𝕒𝕪 - 𝕀

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴡᴀʟᴛᴇʀ "ʟɪᴏɴ" ᴋᴀᴍɪɴꜱᴋɪ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴘʟᴏᴛ: ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ʜɪꜱ ʙʀᴏᴛʜᴇʀ’ꜱ ᴀʀʀᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ʜɪꜱ ᴠɪᴄᴛᴏʀʏ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʀɪɴɢ, ʟɪᴏɴ ꜰɪɴᴀʟʟʏ ᴍᴀɴᴀɢᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴏᴘᴇɴ ʜɪꜱ ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ ᴅʀʏ-ᴄʟᴇᴀɴɪɴɢ ꜱʜᴏᴘ — ʜɪꜱ ᴏᴡɴ ᴋɪɴɢᴅᴏᴍ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴇᴀᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ Qᴜɪᴇᴛ. ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱᴀᴍᴇ ᴘᴇᴀᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ Qᴜɪᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ, ᴀ ʟᴀᴡʏᴇʀ ᴀᴛ ᴏɴᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴘʀᴇꜱᴛɪɢɪᴏᴜꜱ ꜰɪʀᴍꜱ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄɪᴛʏ — ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴅᴀʏꜱ ᴍᴀʀᴋᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴅᴇᴀᴅʟɪɴᴇꜱ, ᴛᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴅɪꜰꜰɪᴄᴜʟᴛ ᴅᴇᴄɪꜱɪᴏɴꜱ — ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ɪᴍᴀɢɪɴᴇᴅ ꜰɪɴᴅɪɴɢ.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴀᴜ-ᴘᴏꜱᴛ ᴍᴏᴠɪᴇ, ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ, ꜱʟᴏᴡ ʙᴜʀɴ, ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ, ᴍᴜʟᴛɪᴘʟᴇ ᴘᴏᴠ (ʟɪᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ), ᴏʀɪɢɪɴᴀʟ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ, ᴅʀʏ ᴄʟᴇᴀɴᴇʀ ᴏᴡɴᴇʀ!ʟɪᴏɴ, ʟᴀᴡʏᴇʀ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ꜱᴏꜰᴛ ᴅᴏᴍ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ꜱᴜʙ ʟɪᴏɴ, ʜᴜʀᴛ/ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ, ᴍᴇɴ ᴄʀʏɪɴɢ, ɪɴꜱᴇᴄᴜʀɪᴛʏ, ʜᴀᴘᴘʏ ᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ.

𝘈/𝘯: 𝘏𝘦𝘺, 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦! 𝘐𝘵’𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘢 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘦’𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳. 𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘤 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬𝘴, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘶𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘪𝘵. 𝘜𝘯𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘶𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺, 𝘛𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘭𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨, 𝘴𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘴𝘮𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺—𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 (𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘐’𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥) 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘵. 𝘏𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘭𝘭!

ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ: 12k

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.

“I’d like that. A lot.” he finished.

𝒯ℴ 𝒷ℯ 𝒸ℴ𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓃𝓊ℯ𝒹…

[loverssalvation]

POP MY CHERRY

lion kaminski & pornstar!reader

꒰ lion is obsessed with you. he watches your videos religiously, always imagining himself there with you. he never actually believed he’d be able to get a chance with you, but how could you say no to your biggest fan . . . w.c. 4.4k ꒱ 

⤿ content gooner sub!lion , dom!reader , teasing , lion has a happy trail (duh!) , recorded sex , messy blowjob , cum eating , praise , slight tit play , use of good boy / daddy , heavy dirty talk , forced slapping , unprotected p in v (he can’t fit in the condom) , slight dumbification , reverse cow girl , creampie , cunnilingus ! MDNI 18+ & mind the tags listed above.

⩩ author notes as promised, i present to you my 100 follower celebration fic!! again, thank you so much everyone for supporting my work! likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated ❤︎ 

“tell them your name and how old you are.”

you pointed the lens of your camera straight at lion, revealing the wide eyed man who anxiously sat atop your bed with you kneeling just in front of him. 

“u-uh lion kaminski…a-and i’m 26.”

“mm and tell us what brings you here, lion.”

“…i-i’m a big fan…of you.”

you gasp as if you hadn’t known already. “a big fan? of me? oh i’m flattered.”

lion nodded along awkwardly, his gaze shifting to anything but the camera.

“you like to jerk off to me, lion?”

that pulled all his attention back to you. he held his breath, fingers curling into the soft material below him. here he was, sitting all shy and timid in the bedroom he knew so well from how much he watched your videos, acting like a complete oaf on camera. it made him remember the first time he ever came to one of your videos. he had been scrolling endlessly on some porn site, cock sitting heavy in his hands and just desperate for something half decent to get off to. then he found you. you were giving a messy blowjob to a glittery pink dildo, spit dripping down onto your breasts in the most lewd manner possible. he remembered how hard his release hit him, groaning loudly into the palm of his hand in fear of being heard. for whatever reason it hooked him onto you for good, and from that point onwards, lion hadn’t watched anything other than your videos, in fact he couldn’t come to anyone but you. it was as if you had completely rewired his brain. 

“y-yeah.”

“how much do you jerk off to me?”

“um…a lot. e-everyday.”

you giggled at his honest reply, then pouted.

“everyday? that’s a lot of wasted cum, lion.”

“m‘sorry” he says in a meek tone, clearly embarrassed from how you phrased it.

“aww he’s so cute,” you cooed behind the camera, “don’t worry, nothing will go to waste this time” you purred.

lion was uncomfortably aware of how hard his cock was, and how much you made it ache just by teasing him. 

“what’s your favourite part of me, lion?”

the way you kept saying his name made his head spin, like it would fall right off.

“is it…my mouth,” you move your free hand up to your lips, taking one manicured finger into your mouth to slowly suck it. “is it…my tits,” your hand moves down to your lace bra, squishing and kneading the fat of your breasts. lion watches intently where your hand moves with heavy lidded eyes. “is it…my ass,” your hand reaches lower down to the curve of your ass, smacking it with a giggle. “or is it…my pussy?” you reach between your legs and rub up and down over your matching underwear, never taking your eyes off lion.

lion inhales shakily before answering. “u-uhm…all of it…” the truth was, lion had watched every single one of your videos from start to finish, so he never considered himself to be picky. whatever you gave him, he took it.

“you sure you don’t have a preference?”

“no ma’am” he shakes his head.

“oh well aren’t you sweet?”

lion’s hips buck up slightly at your praise, and you giggle again.

“you know, i’ve never fucked a fan before,” you bit your lower lip, “but as soon as i got that email of yours, i knew i couldn’t say no,”

in a state of sheer desperation, lion had taken your email meant for business inquiries and sent you a long paragraph that should’ve went in a diary but came inside your inbox instead. lion didn’t consider himself much of a talker or someone who shared a lot of how he felt with people, but you had made him crazy. he went into detail about how you made him feel and how worked up your videos got him. he explained how he fantasized over you ‘popping his cherry’ and how badly he needed one chance with you. he thought you would ignore it, report it as spam, or block him at worst. instead, he woke up to a reply from you proposing the idea of making a video together. he swore he almost came just from seeing your name flash up in his inbox.

“plus, you’re really handsome. you're exactly my type!” you said, your free hand reaching out to caress his cheek. lion whined at your compliment and the feeling of your gentle touch. 

“what did you say you did again?”

“u-uh boxing…”

“yes! that’s right, you’re a boxer!” a hand glided over the bare muscles of his arm, squeezing at the solid meat of his bicep. “you must be so strong!”

lion nods nervously, feeling anything but strong in your presence.

“i think boxing is so hot. it makes me really wet when men fight.”

your hand moves to rub up and down lion’s abdomen and happy trail which he could tell you liked. your fingers were catching onto the waistband of his plaid boxers with every glide down, and lion couldn’t help but notice how close you were getting to his cock, how close he was to getting what he spent nights cumming over.

“am i turning you on, lion?”

“y-yes ma’am”

“am i making your cock hard?”

“fuck—y-yeah” lion’s head rolls back when your words send a surge of blood down his body. 

“pull down your boxers for me,” lion quickly shifted his body down, hooking his thumbs into the elastic material and pulling them down in one go, revealing the painfully hard cock that laid flat on his trimmed pelvis. “gooodd. such a good listener you are, lion.”

you leaned the camera down closer to him, giving the future viewers a good look at his flushed cock, flashing an angry red hue at the tip.

“wow, what do we have here? i didn’t expect you to be so big!”

you dusted your hand over him delicately which made lion whimper louder than he intended to be. his face was so impossibly pink at this point that he didn’t know how much longer he would be able to last. 

“shh, it’s okay lion. do you want me to take care of you?”

“please.”

you giggled, then handed lion the camera so it could face you now. you shifted down onto your front, still in between lion’s legs, and brought your face up to his happy trail, smushing the side of your face and lips into the short tuft of hair. lion held himself up on his elbows as he watched you graze over his pubic hair. it was such a weird turn-on that his cock was now dribbling out pre-cum. you moved down, and breathed warmly over him, making his cock twitch ever so slightly from the foreign sensation. lion held the camera with sweaty hands, shakily pointing it down at you as you left kisses against his length, smearing the milky substance over your lips like lipgloss.

most men would’ve been annoyed or had gotten bored with the amount of teasing you were doing, but lion wasn’t most men. he would’ve been happy had you spat in his face and told him to fuck off.

just as he was getting comfortable with your slow and gentle pace, you took the length of him into your mouth and pushed him all the way to the back of your throat, one hand wrapped around the base of him before planting it on his thigh. lion choked out hard behind the camera, and you slowly pushed back up with a ‘pop’. you watched his eyes widen, and you gave him a smile before dropping your mouth back down on him, this time vigorously bobbing your head up and down, suctioning your lips tightly around him, pulling him deeper. lion almost dropped the camera from the mind numbing pleasure of your wet mouth around him. your tongue was tracing every ridge and vein of his cock as you milked him to filth. spit bubbles began to form around his length from all the excess saliva. 

“o-oh shit! fuckkk y-yesss” he whined uncontrollably, gasping with breath like you would steal it from him if he didn’t punch it out of himself.

lion could feel his own drool slowly creeping out of his mouth as he watched you with a slacked jaw. you could’ve been making eye contact with the camera lens, instead you chose to look at lion, admiring how dumb he looked just from being sucked off. even when you deepthroated him, you never took your eyes off him despite lion being to scared to look back. he opted to watch you from the camera’s viewfinder instead. 

you pulled off again with an obscene amount of saliva strings connecting your lips to his tip. you wrapped a steady hand around his length and pumped him excruciatingly slow, but gripped him tightly. 

“you like it when i pump this big cock of yours? hm? is it too much?”

lion answers you with a whimper, completely drunk off the feeling of you wrapped around him. 

“use your words, lion” you coo innocently, trying to coax some form of words out of him.

“s-s’perfect…s-shit” he groans breathlessly, tears threatening to fall from the delicious mix of pain and pleasure of your grip.

“good boy. are you gonna cum for me?”

he nods frantically, choking out multiple shaky ‘yes’’

you take him into your mouth once more, bobbing your head with a force strong enough to dislodge his cock from his body. lion came almost immediately, a loud broken cry rang out from behind the camera from the sheer vigour of his own orgasm. his hips stuttered uncontrollably as you continued to suck on him, feeling the back of your throat open and close as you swallow the warm, thick seed you promised wouldn’t go to waste.

lion was absolutely spent, skin slick with sweat, cheeks permanently tinted pink, and breath ragged. he watched himself shrink, but wouldn’t go fully soft. his body knew it wasn’t over yet. 

you shifted back onto your knees, this time sitting so much closer to lion. you gently grabbed the camera from his hands, and panned it around towards lion’s direction. he sat there, slumped back into your pillows, absolutely wrecked. his chest rose and fell with every heave, slowly regaining his breath back. 

“you came so hard, and just from my mouth!” you breathed out with a giggle, smoothing a hand over the side of his face. he leaned into your touch, and you cooed at him. 

“i t-think you sucked me dry…”

you pressed your lips into your mouth, shaking your head. “mm i don’t think so. i think you need to come again…and again…and again” your hand drifts lower, past his neck and down his abdomen in the direction of his half hardened cock, which was now very sensitive to the touch. you cupped his balls, kneading them gently, making lion’s eyes squeeze shut. blood was already surging back down into his cock, growing back into its previous length and girth. you hummed in amusement at the sudden quickness of his erection. you turned the camera away to face both you and lion, and you leaned in close enough that he could feel the delicate drag of your lips against the shell of his ear. 

“told you so” you whispered, loud enough for the camera to pick up, but quiet enough for it to be personal to lion. he bit his lip nervously in response, nodding along because he couldn’t protest.

“hmm what should we do now, lion? why don’t you tell them what you want me to do to you” you mumbled against his jaw, pressing little kisses into the scruff of his beard, eyes peering up to maintain eye contact with him.

“i um—i want you to f-fuck me…please” he whispers, looking straight down at his stirring cock.

you grin into his neck, amused at the desperation that oozed out of him like molasses. 

“yeah? poor baby wants me to fuck him?” you brought the camera closer to both of your faces.

“i need it” he gulps.

“oh i’ll fuck you alright” you taunted him, leaning back off lion’s chest and reaching for the condom packet that sat on your bedside table. you handed him the camera and he faced it at you, his own hardened cock in frame. you ripped the condom out with your teeth, and threw the empty package somewhere out of frame. you pushed the thin material onto his tip, observing the way it stretched out over the thick length of him, expanding over the veins that ran up his shaft. 

he definitely needed a bigger condom.

you leaned back onto your knees, playing with your bra straps and rubbing over the lacy material of the cups.

“do you think i’m pretty, lion?” you slowly pushed the straps off your shoulders.

lion’s head was nodding before he could even think of his answer, his body already confident in his attraction to you.

“how pretty am i?”

“s-so fuckin’ beautiful, i s-swear” he looks at you like you hung all the stars in his sky, and you wished the camera could see his expression.

“aw you make me feel so special, lion. maybe i should throw out all my dildos and use you for my videos instead!” you tease, putting a nail in between your teeth as if you were truly contemplating it.

the idea made lion curse under his breath, eye squeezed shut from how easily flustered your words made him.

lion watched as your hands moved behind your back, unhooking the closures and letting the straps fall off your arms. he watched you massage the fat of your breasts in your palms, pushing them together in a sensual motion. his fingers fidgeted on the sides of the camera from the urge of wanting to reach out and touch them, though luckily for him, you noticed. you grabbed one of his wrists and pulled it towards you, latching his sweaty hand onto your breast. his hand sat there, wide eyed and frozen in place before giving it a tiny squeeze.

“don’t be so shy!” you giggled, holding one hand on top of his to help him feel more comfortable. he squeezed again, this time rolling a thumb over your nipple.

“theerree you go, play with it.”

he leans forward slightly, giving the camera a closer view of your breasts. he mimics the way you touch yourself, kneading the fat gently. he could’ve stayed like that all day, just using your breasts as sensory soothers.

“want me to take my panties off now?”

lion makes a small, desperate ‘mhm’ sound, and lays back down onto the pillows. you shift on your knees to face your back towards lion, then lean forward into a doggy position, pushing your ass closer to his face. lion breathes heavily into the camera’s microphone, heat rushing to his face. you turn your head to look at him, biting your bottom lip from how nervous this new position made him. one hand slid back to hook into the hem off your underwear, pulling it down the curve of your ass and slowly revealing both holes lion knew so disgustingly well. your pussy gleamed with slick, and it made lion’s mouth water. he gulped it down. your hand moved between your legs, pressing your fingers right into your folds and spreading them open, pushing the slick up to your swollen clit. lion felt his cock twitch again. your hand moved up to your ass cheek, spreading the fat with your sticky fingers, then slapping it with a giggle.

“your turn, lion!” you beam, pushing yourself closer to him.

he tries to clear his throat to ask ‘what?’ but stutters out something unintelligible.

“slap it. i know you want to!”

“u-uh i—i-”

“c’mon! you’re a boxer, you hit things all the time, so why not hit me!”

his hand hesitates near the curve of your ass, then tries to slap you lightly but feels more like a weak high-five. you groan in annoyance, and it makes lion feel embarrassed.

“ugh harder than that! i want a proper slap, lion. please, i’ve been sooo bad!” you bounce yourself, letting the fat jiggle slightly.

he slaps again, this time harder, though not hard enough for your liking.

“harder!”

he lays the hardest slap he could give, and it makes you yelp, body jolting forwards. lion immediately pulled his hand away, feeling scared that he went too hard for someone who wasn’t his opponent in a ring. you rubbed over the stinging skin in surprise, then grinned.

“you hit hard. i like that,” you said as you lifted yourself up off your elbows, hands gripping lion’s knees. “though i think i’ll like this more.”

you drop yourself down onto his cock, still laying flush against his pelvis. lion groaned out, feeling the weight of you on his most sensitive area. you slowly rub yourself back and forth, lubricating his cock with your slick before lifting your hips again. 

“put it in me!” you whine impatiently, pouting your lips at lion so sweetly.

lion holds himself up to your sopping entrance and aligns the tip at your sopping entrance. you feel the nudge, and slowly sink down onto him, earning a cry from lion. you’re ridiculously tight around him, and you haven’t even begun clenching. your cunt swallows his entire length until you’re sitting on him, giggling as you look back at him struggling to not buck his hips. then you move—agonizingly slow, clenching on your way up to keep him from slipping out. you slam yourself down against him again, and a strangled groan rips through lion’s throat, head falling back against the pillows.

“you like this view? my ass bouncing in your face?” you sneer at him, beginning to bounce on his cock at a ruthless pace. 

lion can only whine out an ‘uhuh’ before you knock the breath out of him, almost dropping the camera again. you pause to take the camera from him, and set it up on the side of the bed so the viewers could get a full shot. 

“grab my ass, lion!” you pull his clammy hands onto you. “show them what they can’t touch” you pout at the camera, referring to the poor viewers that will never get a chance with you, except for lion.

lion squeezes his big, twitchy fingers into your ass, gathering as much fat in his hands as he can. he barely knows what to do with all of you, all he can focus on is how good he feels when you bounce on him like he’s a dildo suctioned to the floor, and the jiggle of your ass when you slam down on him. 

“that feel good, daddy?” you moan, turning your head away from the camera to face him. his breath clogs his throat when he hears you call him ‘daddy’, an obvious tease to make him nervous. he squeezed his eyes shut, too immersed in the pleasure to reply. you giggled at his reaction, and decided to keep going with it.

“hm? cat got your tongue, daddy?” you bounced even faster, making it harder for lion to answer you. he was fully gone, and you had taken him up to heaven.

you whined out relentlessly from his tip drilling into your sweet spot with every drag, and it didn’t help that he stretched you out so nicely more than any dildo did.

“god—you feel so good! so—fuck!—big!” you begin to roll your hips against him, thighs burning from the intensity of your riding. the back of lion’s head is buried in the pillows, whines and groans falling from his lips pathetically as he watched the length of him disappear and reemerge from your warm, wet cunt with teary eyes. with every roll of your hips, lion noticed his condom starting to lift up from the base.

“c-condoms—mmph—liftin’…” he mumbles out drunkenly, almost unsure if he was in his right mind to assume anything with the way you were clamping him.

“wha—oh, shit! i knew it was too small for you,” you exhale in annoyance, lifting yourself off of him, almost pulling the whole condom up with you. you tear off the slick coated condom and throw it aside. you grabbed his throbbing cock in your hands and nudged his tip against your hole. “looks like we gotta do it raw, lion” you winked, before pushing yourself down, burying him to the hilt.

a wrecked sob comes out of lion when he slides back in. he knew he wouldn’t be able to last as long going raw with you, not if he could feel the warm clenching of your pussy even better than he did before.

the rhythm of your bouncing became messier, eager to bring yourself and lion closer and closer to your orgasms. you felt lion’s fingers dig into the soft flesh of your hips, using his strength to help you bounce harder, although he didn’t have much left in him.

“‘making me feel so good—fuckk—‘gonna cum on your fat f-fucking cock!” the bottom of your lip catches under your teeth as you grin into the camera, making sure the viewers would be able to see how good you felt. you imagined your male viewers watching behind the screen, furiously jerking their cocks in rage over not being able to get a chance with you, and for some reason, the idea that other men envied lion got you off.

you could tell lion was nearing his release when tears started streaming down his rosy cheeks, whimpering out like a man in defeat, his opponent being your grip. he was such a fucked out mess at this point, he forgot all about the camera filming everything, all he wanted was for you to keep riding him until he was drained of everything he had.

“m’so close, lion! i c-cant wait for you to come inside me” your breathing is laboured, and you can barely keep yourself up with the way his cock was plunging inside you, a small ring of cream forming around the base of his length.

you cried out when you felt lion snap his hips upwards, chasing your momentum in desperation to cum. his tip was punching harder into your core with every slam of your hips.

“yesyesyesyes—fuck! just like t-that lion, y-yeah keep fucking me just like that! make me cream on it! please—i n-need it!” you pant, back arching as you let your orgasm wash over you, crying out in bliss from the wave of pleasure building up from your core.

lion was shattered as he came undone, choking out a sob as his hips came to a still inside you, tears pushing past his eyelids when he squeezed them shut. he hissed, coming to terms with the fact that he just came inside you when he felt the warmth of his own cum coating him and your walls. your cunt fluttered around him as you rode through the aftershocks, milking him for every last drop. lion laid there on the bed, vision hazy and huffing shakily. he felt as if his body had turned into liquid, unable to move even if he tried. you slumped forward onto the bed, trying to catch your breath. you turned back to look at lion, then laughed when you saw how pussydrunk he was. 

“i think my pussy killed him” you said at the camera. lion could only huff out a small noise, hoping it sounded like a laugh but it didn't.

you slowly lifted yourself off him, and quickly turned over to face lion, spreading your legs so he could see himself dripping out. you reached out to grab the camera, pointing it down at yourself.

“you made a big mess inside me, lion. i think you got me pregnant!” you pouted, then giggled when lion’s eyes widened. pregnant.

lion was no expert in sexual education, clearly he hadn’t impregnated you that very second, but the mere idea of it scared the life out of him. he could barely take care of himself, let alone a child, so he decided he would 'undo' his error. he shifted off his back onto his knees and brought his face up to your slicked folds covered in a white sheen. without thinking, he took a long stripe up your slit, catching his own cum in his mouth, then swallowing. 

“awww, such a good boy cleaning your mess! seems like he doesn’t want me to get pregnant” you praised lion from behind the camera, capturing him lapping and slurping at the mix of both yours and his release. your hips jolted slightly every time his tongue glided over your puffed clit, whimpering from the overstimulation. he swallowed as much of his cum as he could before he opened his eyes, realizing how disgusting he must’ve looked feasting on his own bodily fluid.

“s-shit…” he murmurs, wiping the slick off his mouth with his forearm. he pulled back, letting you sit up. you held the camera up in a selfie position, facing it towards both of you. 

“so, how was that, lion?”

“s’really g-good…i came s-so fuckin’ hard.”

“yeah? did i pop your little cherry?”

“y-yes ma’am, you did” he breathes out a small, shy chuckle to your question.

you hum in great satisfaction of your work.

“just one more thing…” you mumble, holding lion’s chin in your hand and bringing his face closer. you stop right before his lips touch yours, and all he can do is look at your lips, wanting so badly for you to press them against his.

but you don’t.

you push him back, then giggle.

“i’m teasing! i’ll save that for next time.”

his breath hitched. next time. you wanted a next time with him. he felt that familiar rush of blood flow downwards.

“now, say bye-bye!” you put the camera in his face, and lion pauses before he sheepishly says ‘goodbye’, waving awkwardly. 

you say your own goodbye then shut off the camera, quickly making sure the footage saved before diverting your attention back to lion. you were about to say something else before something caught your eye. you looked down.

lion was hard again.

he was already looking too, internally cursing himself for being this way. you looked at him, already grinning from ear to ear.

“looks like we’re not done yet. and don’t worry, we can have some privacy now.” 

[dariarot]

SO GOOD SO GOOD 💘

[orqhideia]

drummer!bbf!eric love & first impressions — 4.3k words

extras: no use of y/n or she/her pronouns; mentions of drinking & smoking; reader & eric’s povs; brother is around 22/23, reader and eric are 20/21; pre-established situationship/relationship duh; i do describe what reader is wearing at one point, but it isn’t overly specific, so feel free to use your imagination however you’d like; one (1) kiss on the forehead for eric raahhh

NOTES: wanted to focus more on both their personalities rather than the juicy stuff. i am well aware this should’ve come first, but oh well! also originally intended to write this in bulleted form but my hands slipped and suddenly 4k words appeared. apologies for the spam, working on bluth x bookkeeper!reader next! listened to ‘my need’ by janet jackson and ‘deeper and deeper’ by madonna if any of y’all care

/ original moodboard & context, thank you @bluesycatharsis for your big beautiful brain; gif by maurawrites

“Can I... help you?”

Sunlight bleaching eyelids contently shut, a façade for premature impatience in the creases, he winks one open. Smoke comes from his mouth first, steam for the early summer morning that he almost forgot he offers. He lifts the side of his headphones that face you and squints eye-level with your bags at your shoulder and in a stiff bulk in your hand.

He looks behind his back at the house’s front door, locked though he was told it wouldn’t be in assured messages. Instead, he’s been sitting on the front steps, elbows at his knees showing off skin rouged at the joints—from sunburn, scrapes, blisters at the knuckles that pretty the cigarette he holds.

Your question raises his brows and a rippling of his forehead. It softens the guise his buzzed head gives, his own placid inquiry before words wave off smoke. A curse tucks itself in your skull, his appearance already some baited distraction as you reach for your own key.

“... You live ’ere?”

The nod gives him the impression it should be obvious, though he doesn’t immediately spit out a lukewarm defense; you seem just as confused, no reason to bicker with you.

You look down at him, dropping the heavier duffel to your feet. Ask if he knows your brother, to which he mimics your nod prior and circles his headphones around his neck, a singer leaking just enough.

A smile pries at his lips at your sigh of airy disbelief. His own question is choked short as you shove your key into the lock and tilt your head to imply he can follow you in.

There’s an echoing somewhere soft under long-sore skin that his posturing now is a clean slate for himself to impress rather than word of mouth thumbing prints first, fresh anatomy for you to discern alongside him. At the thought, denim scratches against warmed concrete as he stands, taking a hold of your bag you dropped before you pocket the key and can reach for it yourself. Your ‘thanks’ is meek but appreciative.

It’s clear he’s been inside before. Comfortable in his walking behind you to the kitchen, like the key was his hand pushing on the door, the teeth scars in the carding of his fingers.

You put the smaller bag hung from your shoulder on the skimpy dining room table, careful of loose show papers and a near empty bottle, and he, an arms-length to your side, gently sets your duffel down. A purse of your lips is your second thanks, to which he responds with something indiscernible around his cigarette. You busy yourself—more so pretend to—with what obscures the table, skimming the handmade posters as he leans back against the counter. Should you ask him if he wants something to drink? He isn’t your guest, you hadn’t called him over. Maybe why he was out on the steps; you entertain the thought that this is some sort of set-up of your brother’s doing from a well-needed, albeit late, change of heart.

Now inside, an itch at his nape prods him to talk. People muster talk in dining rooms all the time. He lets his gaze trail not to where you are but just short, atop the counter, twirling his cigarette out on an ashtray, an act you barely catch out of your peripheral—he’d really rather the smell not muddy his almost shy try at conversation.

It lays half-done, a dessert too sweet to some, and you wonder if the dish is there just for him, matching the color of his eyes.

But before either of you can ask the other’s name—and why you’re both unaware of each other but familiar with the same home—a sudden push of the door causes your heads to turn at the then sound of marching down the hall you just passed through. The gait embodies a stress not needing you to look up when it ceases close, and you await whatever it is he has to say. A ‘good morning’, maybe; ‘glad to see you in one piece’.

Your brother’s annoyance comes through quick in just labored breathing as he stands before the two of you, directing his lowered brows to, not yourself, but the stranger behind you. “I told you I wouldn’t be long.”—like the fault was on anyone but himself, but it holds no real distaste. Your eyes flit to peek at his figure, unchanged since you last saw him save for patched stubble at his chin, up the sides by his earlobes.

A scoff from his friend. “Y’also said the door would be open.”

Continuing your shuffle through your things, ensuring everything managed the short trip, you let them bicker with your right in between. Rehearsal times and where to tack posters, your name somewhere in the muddle like you were to be dealt with much like the rest of an itinerary unknown to you.

You hear it again, a test for how it feels in the mouth—you can’t help but like the way it sounds around his voice. Somewhere indulgent in the bones of your ribs and over the pit of your stomach wants it repeated. At the lilt, you meet his eyes once again, the early greed shelved for another time in a limb or two.

They’re round, brows raised—much like when he sat outside the door—to confirm. Your shared look is enough for him to chuckle.

Before they can argue, your brother changes the subject, and you’re grateful as you shoulder your bag. You’d rather not be pulled in some odd dispute over why he doesn’t have the courage to admit someone else lives with him in the summer months, had until you moved for school. His friends never seemed that interesting, anyway, you think, though you realize you’re staring at his friend’s profile as their talk starts once again; well, maybe one is.

A buzz in your brother’s khaki shorts interrupts them; fishing it out, he narrows his eyes at the screen while his friend crosses his arms. Your duffel is still at his feet; you’ll get it afterwards.

“Oscar needs us t’meet at his place ’cause his bike’s bust.” (Oscar you remember only blearily, a head of red hair pulling along a lanky figure, only known to you because of the annual yearbook photo from years ago with a quote underneath you are soon to hear again during a rehearsal two doors down.)

His friend simply bites at his cheek. Shrugs his shoulder to say an unfazed ‘alright’.

Your brother juts his chin towards you. “Ride here was good?”

You nod. He does the same, telling you he’ll be back in a couple hours. “Nothin’s changed much.”

A turn of his heels, a muttering about using the bathroom before leaving. It’s in the opposite direction of your room, and you revel the fact as you weave behind his friend to the next hallway, whose eyes trail after you (which you don’t notice with your back turned), and he once again takes hold of your bag at the guess you’re heading to your room—or wherever it is your stuff is to stay considering you live here, something a part of him believes is some joke.

The possibility comes to the furrow of his brow when you stop at a door he’s been told time and time again is just storage. Not like he could try opening it—it’s been locked since they agreed on practices in the spare office space.

The place lets little sunlight in where you stand, and what is granted latches to tendon in his arms like a desperate grace, saturating the pink in his hands—it’s almost like there’s no excess weight tugging his shoulder down. The secondary ease causes you to stare for a fraction of a moment longer; he notices, corner of his lips ticking to seam a tease from slipping.

With an amusement the poor hallway lighting fails to capture, he watches as you reach into your bag and pull out another key, the teeth still sharp. Déjà vu from your first interaction not far from present barely dizzies his mind, and the creak of the door breaks the ripe memory so he sees you instead, gesturing with a nod and an almost apprehensiveness in your eyes that he can simply set your bag down, no need to let him in a second time.

He does, of course; steals a look to what the crack allows his curiosity to meddle with as it’s put to your feet. There’s a joke on his tongue, a replacement for his cigarettes, but he doesn’t waste his breath.

Rather, another hint of a smile comes to his lips before they split, though a different voice sounds, loud and distant from another body.

“Eric? You ready?”

Eric.

──────────────

Your brother’s words ring in your ears whenever the guitar does the same: “Just don’t bother us.” You don’t need a reminder when someone else doesn’t seem to include himself within the insistence.

Knowing it’s you who inhabits the room he never thought twice over, the hall to rehearsal guides his eyes to your door, light behind it a thin-framed testimony, gone just as quick as he mentally jeers at himself for acting like a teenager. You share the sentiment, noting the time in your own schedule. Not that you do so to start conversation, at least after their first few rehearsals; more so engrossed by his proximity, hoping he isn’t perturbed as your initial interactions are quick, usually soundless, friendly at best. (He doesn’t mind.)

Indulgence comes to you in the first evenings as the music is enough to conjure an image: sweat beading in tandem at his neck and down to the snare and floor tom, a boyish glow housing deep breaths once the last note rings, a laugh in gravel from a cigarette tucked behind his ear like jewelry. Shaking your head makes you feel like it’ll fall to the floor and under your bed, an awakened dream for the nighttime to dissolve by morning.

The others are there too, of course: Oscar and Josh, though you don’t care for them. Oscar isn’t much to talk, which you appreciate—Josh lifts an ego on both shoulders that then hangs to his guitar and a pick and back up again, threatens to buckle his knees.

Juvenile romance encourages an endearing dance where the other’s form is just out of reach, yet the heat of their body, ready despite perspective, prods you to move anyway, across the house with the confidence they follow along. You’re practically tipsy. And though Eric’s calm is the product of a clogged throat, his heart pulsing heavy there, some attempts clear through the mess over time—some stick more than others.

A quip about what they’re practicing:

Returning the smile you give him as you meet his eyes, he juts his head to their practice room as you happen to leave your room, still a mystery he crafts in the dark. Guitar whines—has solely been for the past fifteen minutes—in time as he keeps a fair distance between the two of you, and he raises his voice so you can properly hear: “Whaddya think?”

You look over your shoulder; he thinks you’re real pretty in the color you wear even in dismal lighting and his eyes drop to the nape of your neck. Any color, really, but he tries his best to chew the flattery down, afraid he’ll sound too much like Josh. (You wouldn’t think so, but the hesitation festers nonetheless.)

“Honestly?” You think he resembles a lost dog: not only his eyes, but the way he almost subconsciously leans into the timid insouciance of your path to the kitchen, though he certainly doesn’t need a lure. He doesn’t stray far when you grab a glass from the cabinet and pour yourself a drink, either. “Could be better.”

Across from you, he rests a socked ankle over the other, leaning against the counter. He pretends to crane his head back down the hall for any other ears, his neck bare and the lowering sun already at the bend. To you again, a quiet click of his tongue at his canine.

“Y’know, it’s ’cause I ’aven’t been doin’ me part. They’ve been tryin’ to figure out how their guitars oughta sound.”

You play along, facing him with a smile warped by the glass at your lips. “Really.”

He nods. Tries to string together a reasoning that he knows what he’s talking about, not just a means to garner another endearing smile. “Drums make everythin’ more... complete. ’s a groove.” The giggle sunk into your drink, not at him but rather a compliment to his description, is enough for him to continue.

You listen as he briefly goes on about other genres (“Really, anythin’. Like, ska. Or... folk. R&B, o’course.”), then asking what one of your favorite songs is. Too casual from someone who you shouldn’t be engaging with, according to someone a few feet away. You only shrug, not letting the question linger for long. He gives you a disbelieving grin and you swear your knees click and go limp.

“Ah, c’mon, everyone has one.”

You weren’t about to admit that his voice substituted any song you ever listened to recently, the CDs and posters in your room blurry like the ink turned runny from late rain.

He doesn’t pry during your pause, pursing his lips instead. “Well, whatever it is,” he pushes himself forward to head back, loose t-shirt wrinkled over a graphic print (and the back you’ve imagined underneath), “probably better than the shit they’re messin’ around with.” He tosses you a tired wink before he disappears around the corner, tender for the night like a blown kiss that makes your chest tight and imbeds into your pillow.

Or once when he’s a little late for practice:

The door follows through with his careless push. Fifteen minutes allotted to his neighbor who needed help putting furniture in their trunk, ‘bringing it over to a friend’s for a proper look’.

Fifteen minutes late that meets him in the form of you on the couch in the living room. An embarrassed ‘sorry’ slips from his lips almost instantly, contrast to his sure figure walking in. Then, he really looks over at you to say some evening pleasantry, acknowledge you for a bit even with his bandmates waiting, maybe a joke about being his manager with the way you’re by the door.

He thought you were trying to watch something on the television, maybe reading a book, hence the apology. But you’re going out; it’s clear by what you’re wearing. Black sequins drown in their own iridescent winks at your chest, make room for the dark denim at your hips.

It’s clear he’s staring: shakes his head after he closes the door behind him as if a bug rattled into his skull, like you’ll vanish, a dreamy vision to swirl with the sparkle of your top. The fact makes your stomach churn like a Cupid’s arrow pierced the flesh, and you find it hard to keep a smile from gracing your lips.

You should tease him, you think. Stretch to imitate sultry across the couch, like you were waiting for him to show and not your friends. Hook his eyes into this nightly dress of you to remember for later, perhaps when he’s in his own bed.

And you want to, especially with the flush like pressed roses at his ears and cheeks. But you don’t goad. If anything, you contract, crossing your legs. Mutter a ‘hi’ instead. Not because you don’t like his attention, but because you still don’t know what you should do with it, how to convince yourself not to worry about everything that comes as an effect of accepting that you are drawn to him and not anyone else.

He was going to stride straight to their rehearsal, wave off any complaints with a sneer that he could’ve not shown up at all. They’d laugh and tune and blare whatever song needed polishing.

But his jaw lowers a breath at the sight of you, mouth splitting like it needs to blow smoke from a cigarette in his pocket he is yet to light.

“Y’look really nice.”

He wants to preserve what crosses your feature, like his affection cracks a shell for just a moment. The shine atop your grin makes it harder to look away, and your shoulders raise in an assured shrug like you’re trying to fit his words into your body for later. “Thanks.”

Having heard the sound of the front door, Josh enters the living room, eyes going from Eric to you. They briskly drag from your sternum to where your ankle rolls in the air.

“You be careful lookin’ like that, yeah?” he juts his chin, eyebrows lowered, expecting a powdered affirmative. You only huff, shoving your palm under your chin and an elbow at the armrest to force your head towards the door.

You hear a slap at a chest, a mess of sharp whispers from a voice that moments before made your bones warm and thaw, Josh defensive.

“Hey, what the fuck—whatever, mate, c’mon.”

Eric’s brows are furrowed as his bandmate retreats to the hall. He turns to look at you once more, obviously cold, indifferent to Josh’s pry. Picking at a nail and checking the time—your friends would be arriving soon.

He clears his throat. “Have fun.” Upturning your eyes to meet his, he continues. “Y’can, uh, text me if y’need anythin’.”

An amused tick of your lips behind your palm brings spit behind his Adam’s apple. You think the color still left at his ears emboldens you, makes you forget about your brother for just a moment as you say, attention fleeting back to the front door: “I don’t have your number, Eric.”

You watch from your peripheral as he steps forward until his knee just meets your elevated foot. A part of you that brews in the privacy of your room pictures him lower and lower, denim knees to the rug and maybe pressing a cheek to clothed calf with a pitiful exhale, entranced—you blink the wish away.

Instead, he tucks his chin in to look down at you, lidding patient blues—you swear you see your top reflecting in the iris, an intimate swim. “Would y’like it?”

For the rest of the night, you tell your friends not to let you text him, worried you’ll say something stupid with alcohol in your wrists. They giggle when you hide your face in your hands at the mere mentioning of Eric, poking at your arm that you better contact him when you get home, at least. Maybe you’ll be gutsy by the lack of face-to-face, they tease.

You do; you didn’t have too much to drink, so you type out a ‘just got home’—then, figuring it wouldn’t hurt (and that you could blame it on inebriation), ‘goodnight’. Afterwards you feel like you’ll throw up and you feel silly for the sensation, shoving a pillow over your eyes to darken any mirage in his image.

Before you lay for bed after a shower, his response makes you roll your eyes, weakly fight a smile: ‘Sweet dreams. Drink some water yeah?’

Unbeknownst to your brother it’s Eric who should be chided, and from you. But you don’t, knowing the remark would be dead and fruitless before he even hears because your smile and flustered laugh refute any bite of the sort.

It becomes harder to care about your brother and his words. And yet, you can only bring yourself to a certain point before retreating like a lit wick victim to a breeze. You aren’t sure how to handle crawling into something all for your pleasure, but you revel in seeing Eric there with the behavior of an outstretched hand waiting for your own. Perhaps a secret can be hidden by two willing to take part in its affair.

Your dance is less clumsy after a time. A fluidity still young yet ever more defined even in an absence of touch, limited to hallways and thin walls.

The evenings are more of the same: low conversation in between practice with his crooked smile and sweet tries at knowing more about you, which you always enjoy even with your timidity. Eric doesn’t know how to word it properly, and especially not to you, but he sees you like celestial reflections in calm waters, an enchanting rippling that begs his eyes not to look away, to stay yet allow it to glimmer in every hour. He just doesn’t want to muddy your shine by grazing a pinky over your own, worried the tide will pull or a cloud will curtain over, wonders of the temperature of the water.

Their next rehearsal goes on for longer, a gig scheduled two days later frantic in their limbs as they play through their set list. Miniscule changes to rhythm in a few bridges, quickened or lengthened notes and mutes for the choruses. It is sloppy but coherent soon enough; you find yourself liking a new rendition of a few.

That night, you lay on the living room couch in an attempt to tire your body. Though they already left, you hear hollow chords and assume your brother, ever the shoddy perfectionist, is considering a switch in key for a measure, or a new song already.

An old fashion magazine slows your mind some, the models dolls for an erelong dream. Flipping the pages turns into a low, domestic hypnosis, one you are suddenly brought out of at Eric cautiously walking in for the front door. You scramble to sit up with a squeak once he’s in your peripheral, shoving the magazine under a pillow as if you were caught dawdling on the clock.

His smile is so apologetic you want to kiss it away, though it must be the models’ makeup plastering itself to a third-person version of yourself in a hazed fantasy for the early morning.

Silently, he asks if he can sit beside you with a raise of his brows, a slow stride. You nod, yawn-veiled enthusiasm stringing the motion, teeter slightly as he sinks into the cushions. Knees a space from knocking makes you all the more aware how close he is.

His head hits the top of the couch, bent to expose the hill of his Adam’s apple. “Did I wake ya?” His voice is a coarse whisper, ripe for remembrance later.

You shake your head. The lamp you turned on drowns his skin a romantic stain and he smells like sweat and cologne. He closes his eyes, mutters an ‘alright’ in a low exhale.

He lets his spine contort in place against the back of the couch. There’s a bone or two that crack, and a sound reminiscent of a whimper falls from his lips. He winces, teeth like broken pearls in their shape when his top lip curls and nose scrunches.

“Sorry.”

You drink his voice in like tea, assure him it’s ok.

After practice, he feels limbless. Doesn’t realize just how tired he is. Like he’s just a bloody current rushing to calm down, leaking to a mouth wanting to talk to you without your brother acting as a net between.

Truthfully, he could not care less, but another section in his skull echoes pessimistic woes: you deserve someone not bogged down by such stupid rules, both supervised like little kids for different reasons. Less to muddle in your head.

His thoughts are zipped shut, thrown to an unseen corner when you ask about the gig. He peeks an eye open and with the look you throw at him, a sweet and tired authenticity with the lamplight a tempting outline, along with a smile at his almost cartoon-esque features, he has half a mind to kiss your temple in response and tell you you ought to get to bed, he doesn’t want to keep you up, unless you need another heartbeat to fall asleep to, an intimate white noise he’s more than willing to provide.

He can barely string his words along. Mumbles the name of the bar, how the manager saw one of their posters and called. What time they’re playing and how he doesn’t know what to wear.

You listen, not only because the cadence at which he recalls makes your stomach turn and your blood warm, but because it rests on a gentle confidence you admire. His chuckles scrape from his throat, a sniffle not unlike a child’s pillows the sound.

“Y’can come, if ya want.” The invitation is spoken so softly you almost think he’s already fallen asleep, talking to someone made of a simple mirage by his brain, a reference of parts.

But he hasn’t—not yet. Raises a questioning brow at the absence of your answer, knocks your knee with his almost subconsciously. Continues with a dull grumble from his chest: “I don’t care if your brother doesn’t want ya there—I do.”

Confessed into the quiet of your living room, you shove an oh so pleased sigh, a fairy tale-like return, into your guts. Instead, you trace the curve of his lashes fluttering to his cheekbones with exhausted eyes, needing as many angles as possible to ensure the memory is perfect even in your state.

A response is dead on your tongue, cut by a familiar withdrawal. Eric wants you there, you spin like sheep over fence. Eric, Eric, Eric.

Rhythmic breathing drags you back to where you sit next to him, sleeping now.

With a charmed smile, you lean over and press a kiss to his forehead. Delight in the hitch that comes in the next breath.

“Goodnight, Eric,” you whisper, using any strength left in your body not totally succumbed to the hour to return to your room.

Better safe than sorry. For the time being.

[dariarot]

soooooooooooo cute!!!!!

[jimmythecookiemonster]

Skins (2010)

[vcaleruega]

[jimmythecookiemonster]

Ferrari (2023)