addi𝜗𝜚

He gripped your hips and effortlessly lifted you, bracing your back against the cool tiles of the shower wall, warm water cascading down your body.

Then, he slid into you slowly, so slow, inch by inch. Letting your tight heat swallow him whole until your hips met with a wet smack. He didn’t move yet.

He just watched your face contort with sensation, with surrender and pleasure.

And he whispered. “You’re addicted, ain't you? To me. To this. To the way I make your body beg.”

Finally, he moved.

Deep, steady and slow.

His hand moved up to press flat against your stomach, just above where he was inside you.

“Feel that? That’s your body tellin' you I own it.”

And he did. You felt every inch of him.

You were slipping under, and he was dragging you with him.

"F-fuck, Remmick!"

He slammed into you again, hips colliding with yours in a slick, sinful rhythm that had no mercy left in it. Water splashed off your skin and his, steam fogging the glass shower walls behind you, the air was thick with the sound of skin, breath, and want.

Your walls clenched around him so tight he cursed sharply, a low, feral moan dragging out of him as he bit down just shy of your throat.

You whimpered and involuntarily tightened. Every thrust driving you up the wall, back arching, chest heaving, nipples brushing against his chest.

His mouth ghosted along your jaw as he rammed into you deeper, rougher, chasing the way your body trembled. Like you were caught between falling apart and begging for more.

“You clamp 'round me like your pussy knows it belongs to me,” He hissed, “Like it’s tryin' to keep me...hold me so deep you never forget I was here.”

And fuck, now you were close. You could feel it.

In the way your breath hitched and stomach tightened. In the way your thighs twitched around his waist, and the way you moaned in desperation.

"Fuck! D-don't stop! So close.." You wailed as you felt your orgasm building intensely. His pace quickened, and you felt him push deeper, reaching your cervix. Repeatedly grinding into it while also stimulating your G-spot. A familiar pressure, accompanied by your orgasm, rapidly approached.

You could feel yourself leaking onto him as it trickled down and mixed with the water cascading over your bodies.

Remmick's grip on your hips tightened, fingertips digging into the flesh like he was trying to imprint himself there permanently. He slammed into you harder, faster, grinding his pelvis into your swollen clit with each thrust, angling himself to hit that perfect spot inside while bullying your cervix again and again.

That raw, liquid heat spilling out from you, coating his cock and thighs, dripping down onto the tile and mixing with the water still pouring around you both.

“Cum for me again,” He growled into your ear, voice low and ragged, each word punctuated by the brutal rhythm of his thrusts.

“Soak me. Shake for me. Scream for me.”

He moved one hand down between your legs and rubbed your clit in fast, tight circles, ruthless, relentless, perfectly in sync with every deep grind of his cock inside. You twitched so violently he had to brace you tighter to keep you from slipping off him.

Your eyes fluttered, mouth opened, and then you felt it again.

That pressure, the build up.

His mouth pressed to your ear again, whispering the filth you craved. “Be a good girl and squirt all over me—let me feel it. Let me drown in it.”

And just like that, your body snapped.

You screamed, and your pussy milked his cock with a strength that made his knees tremble. Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave, violent, wet and soul-shattering. He growled loud against your neck as he kept fucking you through it, watching your entire body quake and twitch under his hands.

“That’s it, love—fuck, yes—give it to me…”

You soaked him.

The pressure, heat and mess was almost too much.

Your thighs locked around him, spasming as you writhed against the tile. Your cunt clenched so hard around his cock, he groaned through clenched teeth, barely able to keep rhythm.

He held you against the wall like something possessive and starving. One arm locked around your waist, the other splayed over your chest, feeling the pounding of your heartbeat.

Remmick leaned in, pressing his lips to your ear again, breath harsh, body still rocking into you, slow and hard, letting you feel every inch stay deep.

“Look at you…” He murmured. “Just fuckin' look at you…”

His hips rolled, grinding himself deep into your oversensitive walls, drawing out every twitch, every sob of overstimulation that he devoured.

“Fallin' apart for me… Milkin' my cock like your body doesn’t know how to stop.”

And he wasn't stopping.

Even now, still leaking, still spasming as you clung to him. Like your body didn’t want to be empty. Like it refused to.

He groaned into your neck, teeth grazing skin he'd already marked, cock throbbing dangerously inside your still-trembling cunt.

“You want more, don’t you?” He asked, voice ragged and wicked. “Even now...wrecked and ruined. You still want me to fill you again. Fuck you 'til your legs forget how to work.”

He pressed deeper. Letting you feel the weight of him twitch inside.

Then he said it.

“You want to be bred in the shower too, darlin'? Want me to fuck that soaked lil' hole until it’s drippin' with everything I give you?”

He looked you dead in the eye, one hand sliding down your stomach again, toward where you were joined.

Your eyes involuntarily rolled back when he asked those questions, and you trembled, clenching him tighter.

A low, thunderous growl erupted from deep in his chest, so animalistic it echoed off the tile. He gripped you tighter, slamming his hips into yours with a brutal, punishing rhythm, your slick walls still fluttering and overstimulated, but soaking wet and taking every inch.

Your moans were choked now, high-pitched, breathless and addicted.

He snarled into your ear, voice low and cracked, breath ghosting over your wet skin. “You want it, don’t you? Want me to fill you so deep it leaks out for hours…”

Your body arched as he slammed home again, your back hitting the wall with just enough force to make you gasp.

“So full it drips down your thighs while you’re tryin' to walk away from me…”

He didn’t stop.

He rubbed tight, quick circles against your clit, forcing you to feel every single inch of his cock hammering into your pulsing cunt. Water splashed. Skin slapped. Incoherent words spilled from your lips in broken, babbling cries.

And he watched it all.

With one final, savage thrust, so deep he bottomed out, cock grinding against your cervix, he came.

A guttural moan tore from his throat as he spilled into you. Hot, heavy, and relentless. Rope after rope of cum flooding you while your walls milked him relentlessly. He didn’t pull out. He didn’t stop. He held you there and forced you to take all of it.

“There it is…” He hissed between clenched teeth. “Fuck, take it—be a good girl and hold it inside.”

He stayed buried deep, twitching with the last spurts of his climax, your thighs trembling as your body continued to spasm around him.

Just stayed buried to the hilt, twitching, pulsing, cock locked inside your soaked, spent cunt. Still leaking. Still clenching around him involuntarily, like your body refused to give him up.

His hand traced from your hip up your side, then gently cupped the underside of your breast, thumb brushing the soft, sensitive nipple. He watched your body jolt under the soft touch. You were so tender now, so raw. And still… your pussy fluttered around him again.

His lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk, and you violently shivered.

“Still needy?” He murmured, teasing.

He rolled his hips once, slow and grinding, just to feel the way your entire body tightened again at the stretch, the friction, the obscene wetness still between you. The hot pulse of his seed had already started to trickle back down around his cock.

He caught it with his fingers.

Brought it to your lips.

“Open.”

Your lips parted reflexively and obedient as he pushed two cum-slicked fingers into your mouth. You moaned around them, then you felt him twitch inside.

You curled your tongue around his fingers, licking away the mixed taste. Soft moans that sent small vibrations through him. He pulled them out and kissed you aggressively, leaving you completely breathless and your body heavy with exhaustion.

His hips pressed you tighter against the wall, though he didn’t move inside you, just kept you locked together, connected in the most intimate way.

Your legs trembled, and he knew exhaustion was beginning to pull at you, melting you in his arms. Your breath hitched under the force of the kiss, body slack and ruined.

He leaned down and dragged his tongue slowly along your throat, feeling your pulse hammer against his tongue, then placed a gentle kiss there.

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."

0001 — the drink

He sends a French 75 your way on a Friday night, because that has never not worked. He's had dames accept it with a blush, accept it with a wink, accept it with a slow drag of their eyes that meant neither of them was making it home at a reasonable hour. The drink is the opener; it does the talking so he doesn't have to.

You look at the glass. You look past it at Bucky posted up at the far end of the bar, jaw turned just so, shoulders doing the whole campaign — and you slide it right back across the wood.

"I don't like gin."

"It ain't gin, sweetheart, it's a French 75."

"So it's gin in a nice dress."

"It's a gesture —"

"It's gin," you say, already back to your beer like the conversation's had a funeral and you're the only one who attended.

Steve, somewhere behind him, makes a noise like a man who's been waiting his whole sorry life for this exact moment.

0010 — the walk

He catches you after the pictures on a Saturday.

He falls into step with the ease of a fella who timed this casually enough that it doesn't look timed — which means he absolutely timed it down to the goddamn second.

"Walkin' home? I'll go with you."

"It's four blocks, Barnes."

"Could be rough out there."

"It's four blocks. The sun's still up."

"A gal doesn't know what's lurkin' around —"

"Barnes." You stop walking.

You give him a look that ain't mean, exactly, but so profoundly unimpressed it might as well have come notarised. "Mrs. Peppers is out on the corner waterin' her hydrangeas and she's got eyes like a hawk and a broom she ain't afraid to use. I think I'll survive."

He walks with you anyway, because retreat ain't in his vocabulary. Plus, he's too proud to let a no look like a no.

He talks about the picture, and so do you. It's perfectly pleasant, completely friendly. When you get to your building you say "Thanks, Barnes, that was nice" with the same warmth you'd give the fella who delivers the ice, before shutting the door.

He stands on the stoop a second too long.

"She said nice," he tells Steve later, like he's reporting a casualty.

"That's good, Buck."

"Nice is what you call your landlady's meatloaf, Steve. Nice is what you say about the weather. She said it like I was a — a bus timetable. Like I run on schedule and that's the best thing about me."

0011 — the flowers

The flowers are a last resort, which stings. Flowers are supposed to be a first resort and the fact that he's looped all the way back around to them means the playbook's running thin.

He picks them carefully.

Not roses — too obvious, and he's starting to suspect you can smell obvious on him like cheap aftershave.

Not carnations — too dime-store, and you seem to clock every single thing he does with the quiet precision of a dame keeping a private tally she ain't ever gonna show him.

He goes with dahlias, because the old broad at the flower cart says they mean "good taste," and at this point he needs every ounce of subliminal help the Lord is willing to lend.

You open the door and you see the flowers. Something moves across your face — not annoyance, but not the dewy, weak-kneed, oh-Bucky-you-shouldn't-have he's been rehearsing in his head for the last three blocks, either.

"Those are real pretty," you say, and you take them. Then you do something that throws him worse than any rejection has — you lean on the doorframe and look at him. But, not at the jaw, the shoulders or even at the whole polished routine.

You’re staring straight at him. Slow, up, down, and then up again. It’s like you’re taking inventory, finally seeing something on the shelf worth pricing.

"You know what, Barnes," you say, "you're far more intriguin' than the other fellas who've come knockin'."

Not charming, nor handsome. Not any of the words he's heard a hundred times from a hundred dames who were already halfway to yes before he opened his mouth. Intriguing. Like he's a book you've decided might be worth crackin' open after all — but only 'cause you caught a line on the back cover you didn't expect.

He floats the whole way home.

"She said I was intriguin'," he tells Steve, sprawled in the chair like a man who's just discovered religion. "Not handsome or sweet. Intriguin'."

"Buck, you've been buyin' this girl drinks and walkin' her home and showin' up with flowers for weeks, and the thing that works is just — standin' there?"

"I wasn't just standin' there, I was—" He stops and reconsiders. "Alright, yeah, I was just standin' there."

Steve shakes his head, half amazed and half like he's watching someone win a boxing match by tripping into the other fella. "Bucky Barnes. The smoothest guy in Brooklyn. And all you had to do was stop bein' smooth."

"That ain't even the best part."

Steve looks up.

"She invited me round to her place," Bucky says, real casual, like he's mentioning the weather and not the single most significant development of his entire goddamn year. "Thursday."

Steve stares at him. "To her place."

"To her place."

"What happened to nice? What happened to bein' a bus timetable?"

Bucky grins — not the charming one, or the one he puts on at dance halls, but the real stupid one that makes him look boyish and completely, dangerously hopeful. "Guess she changed the schedule."

The bedroom was thick with the scent of sweat, musk, and the fading sweetness of the cologne Bucky had worn earlier that evening — a cologne he had hoped would impress you. Now, it served only as a reminder of how thoroughly his attempts at courtship had failed. He had brought flowers; you wanted his hands on your hips. He had brought sonnets; you wanted him breathless and broken.

And broken you had made him.

Bucky lay sprawled across your soft sheets, his chest heaving as if he had just run five miles through Brooklyn. His pupils were blown wide, dark pools of need that swallowed the dim lamplight. His fingers dug into your hips, not with the gentle touch of a suitor, but with the desperate grip of a drowning man clinging to driftwood.

You leaned down, your figure cascading like a silk curtain around his eyeline, trapping the heat between you. "See, isn't this better than flirting after me, James?" you cooed, your voice a honeyed venom.

 You traced the sharp line of his jaw with your thumb before delivering a sharp, stinging slap to his cheek just enough to make his head snap to the side.

"Ah, yes — " he whimpered, the sound breaking off into a strangled mess of your name. 

His composure, that polished Brooklyn charm he wore like armour, had completely shattered. He could only nod dumbly, his hands trembling violently where they rested on your waist. In fact, he had fantasised about claiming you properly, but he hadn't prepared for this level of torment.

Your pussy was clenching around his cock so tightly he felt like he might combust. Every time you ground your hips down, milking him with that relentless, rhythmic pressure, his brain short circuited. He was a soldier, a man who had faced down danger without flinching, but here, beneath you, he was utterly powerless.

"You don't ever refer to a dame by her name, James. Where are your manners?" you teased, your voice dripping with sweet cruelty.

You leaned down to nip at his earlobe before deliberately slowing your pace, letting the friction die down to a torturous crawl.

"M'sorry, doll," he choked out, the endearment slipping past his lips like a prayer. His hips bucked involuntarily, seeking the friction you had just withdrawn. "Please, I — ”

"That's better," you purred, your lips brushing against his temple as you felt him shudder beneath you. "Keep calling me that, James."

He nodded furiously, his movements jerky and uncoordinated, like a marionette whose strings were being pulled by a capricious god. "Yes, doll yes, anything, doll —" he stammered, his voice thick with desperation. "I've learned — God, I've learned my lesson — No more flirts, no more nonsense. Just this, just you."

The admission made you smile, a slow, dangerous expression that made his heart falter in his throat.

"You're doing alright, James, but you're still missing the mark," you whispered, your voice dripping with venomous sweetness. You reached down, seizing one of his large, shaking palms and guiding it between your thighs. His skin was hot, his pulse hammering against your fingertips as you pressed his fingers directly against your swollen clit.

At the same time, you deliberately angled your hips, grinding down hard until his cock prodded directly against your G-spot. The sensation sent a lightning bolt of pleasure through you, forcing a long, delicious moan from your throat.

"Mmm... ahh..." you keened, the sound vibrating through both your bodies. "If you can flirt and talk sweet enough to charm half of Brooklyn, James, surely you can learn how to work a clit properly."

Bucky's ears turned a vivid, humiliated pink. "I — I'm trying, doll, I swear — I'm trying," he blubbered, his fingers fumbling against your slick nerves. He was working so hard his entire frame was quaking, his knuckles white as he tried to find the perfect rhythm you demanded.

But every time he thought he had it, you would shift, changing the angle, changing the pressure, keeping him off balance and perpetually desperate.

The friction of your pussy was unbearable; it felt like it was strangling his cock, milking every drop of sensation from him while refusing to give him any release.

His hips bucked involuntarily, his cock twitching violently inside you as he teetered on the edge of a catastrophic release. "Please, doll please, I'm gonna — "

"You're going to do nothing but work for me, James," you cut him off sharply, grinding down one more time to send him spiralling before abruptly pulling away, leaving him impaled in empty air. "A real dapper fella doesn't go off like a firecracker before his lady has had her fill. He holds her. He stays steady. He makes sure she gets what she came for."

"I know, I know, m'sorry, doll," he gasped, his voice cracking as he stared up at you with eyes that were completely glazed and unfocused. He looked pathetic, a broken soldier undone by a single command. "I'll do it. Just — don't stop — please don't stop."

"Then prove it," you commanded, leaning down to whisper against his lips, your breath hot and demanding against his mouth. "Show me exactly how much of a gentleman you can be when you're desperate to please."

Bucky let out a sound that was halfway between a sob and a growl, his fingers finally finding the rhythm you demanded. He worked your clit with a frantic, reverent intensity, his large hand dwarfing your sensitive flesh. His eyes never left yours, fixed on your face as if he needed to witness every micro expression of your pleasure to know he was succeeding.

"That's it, doll, that's it," he whined, his voice cracking. "I got you. I'm gonna get you there. Just tell me I'm doing good — please, doll, tell me I'm doing good."

You let out a sharp cry as the friction built to an unbearable crescendo. Your pussy convulsed around him in rhythmic waves, milking his cock with such a pace that Bucky let out a strangled, broken noise, his hips jerking upward involuntarily.

His entire body stiffened, his muscles locking as he fought the overwhelming urge to spill inside you. He was right on the precipice of surrender, his eyes rolling back in his head as your orgasm washed over him in waves of heat and tightness.

"That's it — oh god, doll, you're so good — " he panted, his voice reduced to a desperate whisper.

His fingers worked with a feverish, clumsy precision, terrified that if he faltered for even a second, he would lose you. He watched with undisguised worship as your expression shattered, your head falling back as you rode out the peak of your orgasm, your walls clamping down on him like a constricting vice.

He was shaking so hard he could barely breathe, his chest cavity rattling with each desperate, shallow inhale. He watched you with something approaching religious fervour as you came apart beneath him, his own cock throbbing painfully inside your slick, convulsing heat.

The pressure was excruciating; he felt like a dam about to burst, every nerve ending screaming for the release you so cruelly withheld.

"There you go, doll," he whimpered, his voice scarcely audible over the sound of his own ragged breathing. His fingers didn't falter despite his agony, continuing to stroke you with a reverent, unsteady rhythm as you began to come down from your peak.

You sank down onto him slowly, your hips rolling in a lazy, torturous circle that made Bucky whimper and arch his back off the mattress. "See? That wasn't so hard, was it, James?" you teased, wiping a stray tear of pleasure from your eye before smearing it across his flushed cheek.

"Please, please," Bucky finally cracked, his voice small and hollow — stripped of every ounce of the confident Brooklyn soldier he pretended to be. His hips gave one last, pathetic twitch against yours, seeking a friction that you refused to grant. "Doll, please, can I cum now? Jus’ this once?"

A melodic, cruel laugh bubbled up from your throat, echoing in the quiet room. "You? Orgasm now?" you repeated, tilting your head as if his request were the most absurd thing you'd ever heard. "After all that hard work, James?"

You reached down, patting his flushed, sweat slicked jaw as if it were a poor pup’s maw. "I haven't decided if you've earned it yet."

You leaned closer, your lips hovering just shy of his, close enough that you could taste his little whines.

"Besides, I was wondering something while you were busy playing nursemaid…" Your smile turned sharp, hungry. "Does that mouth of yours work just as well as those stupid flirts you're always spouting? Or is all that charm reserved for sweet talk?"

Bucky's eyes fluttered shut, a broken sound escaping his throat. "Anything you want, doll. Anything."

With agonising slowness, you began to slide off him. You pulled away inch by excruciating inch, the wet friction of your pussy leaving his cock exposed to the cool air, throbbing and desperate for the contact you had just stolen. He let out a whimper of pure loss as you dismounted, his hips lifting off the mattress instinctively to follow yours.

He lay there exposed, aching and twitching, his cock standing proud and angry in the lamplight, begging for the attention you had so cruelly withdrawn.

You crawled up his body, your knees bracketing his head as you moved toward his face. Bucky watched you with pupils so dilated they nearly swallowed the blue of his irises, his breathing coming in shallow, ragged gasps. He looked like a man who had seen heaven and was terrified he was about to be cast back into hell.

Hovering just inches from his mouth, you whispered, "Attaboy, James. That's how a true gentleman bags a dame."

$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @hisokamywaifu @froggibus @axtira @rosemint-tea @sheriff-bodecker

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Gritting your teeth together at the dead weight, you try to lift with your feet as Remmick had told you to, but the corpse was far too heavy for you. Sure, you had lifted heavy things before⎯sacks of grain and sometimes Remmick’s armor whenever you undressed him. But, never something like this. Letting out an irritated huff through gritted teeth, your grip on the corpse slips, the blood coating your hands making it slippery. It was like trying to catch a fish while your hands were drenched in oil. Digging your nails into its forearms, the body falls out of your grip, landing smack on the ground. The sickening wet sound fills the air. Wrinkling your nose up at the disgusting sound, Remmick lets out a yelp as the weight falls onto him, making him stumble backwards.

“Lift with your legs.” He grunts, struggling to hold onto the other end of the body up.

“Lift with my legs?!” You scoff, keeping your voice down to not get caught. “How the hell am I supposed to lift with my legs when my hands are covered in blood!”

“Then clean them!” He argues back, shooting you a cranky glare.

“Well, maybe I would not have to clean them if you hadn’t ripped out this throat like a bloody leech!” You snap back, shooting back a glare at him.

Going deadly still at your words, he takes a sharp breath in through his nose, his lips curling into a thin line. Letting go of his end of the body, he lets the body down on the ground with another sickening thud, placing his hands on his hips. Was he being serious right now? This was not the time to be acting so petty, you two were trying to not get caught for a reason. Narrowing your eyes hard at his pettiness, you mimic him and place your hands on your hips, your lips curling into a thin line. Fine. Perfectly fucking fine. If he wasn’t going to move, neither were you. 

After all, you weren’t going to be the one in trouble here, it would be him. He was the one who had attacked that Lord like a starving little rat with no self control. You had warned him of what would happen if he kept on starving himself. But, he didn't listen to you. He kept on eating rats to substitute for blood until the King's next tourney⎯to wait for his ‘reward’ after winning. Clenching his jaw tightly, he narrows his eyes even more, as if thinking that would be enough for you to snap out of it.

“I was hungry!” He grits his teeth, the mix of offendedness and annoyance thick in his voice.

“I told you to stop eating rats, they don’t fill your stomach and make you cranky.” You argue, “I warned you and you did not listen and look where we are now Remmick!” 

He goes silent, glaring at you in silence.

“Now that you’re done throwing a tantrum, grab his fucking legs and let’s dump the fucker in the Thames so we can go back to bed.” You order, wiping your hands clean on your skirts.

The once pretty navy blue fabric turned a ghastly black. Taking a sharp breath in through your nose at the ruined fabric, you grab onto the sleeves of the Lord’s doublet, trying to get a more firm grip of him. Letting out a low grumble under his breath, he begrudgingly complies, grabbing onto the Lord’s legs. Digging his nails into the fabric of his breeches, he looks at you, waiting for you to signal to lift. Nodding your head softly, you begin to lift up, gritting your teeth tightly as you struggle to carry his weight. God, you should have used a horse or carriage to move him instead.

“You’re a bloody idiot, you know that, right?” You scold, trying to not lose your grip on it again.

“Yes, we’ve established that, love.” He mocks, sarcasm dripping heavily in his tone.

“Could you not attack a horse? Or a rat?” You huff, your lower back pinching. “Or better yet, attacked a bloody fisherman so it’s easier to get rid of it?”

“I was hungry, didn’t really think about it.” He argues, rolling his eyes.

“Clearly.” You scoff, rolling your eyes hard at his stupid answer.

Catching a glimpse of plague cart near the gate, you let out a soft whistle, nodding your head in its direction. It wasn’t the most ideal. But, at least it was an easier way of transporting the body and less suspicious than the two of you just carrying it around to the Thames. Furrowing his brows together at your nod, he turns his head to look over his shoulder, catching the glimpse of the plague cart. His face brightens up, seemingly catching on to what you were trying to insinuate. Speed walking to the cart, you lift the body as high as you could to place it onto the cart, muscles straining at the dead weight. Christ almighty, never again were you going to help him do this.

“It’s quite romantic, isn't it?” He snickers, “Hiding a body together.”

“You’ve made me an accomplice to your crime, Remmick. That’s not romantic, at all.” You scoff, shooting him an icy glare.

“It can be.” He winks, pushing the body further into the cart.

“Oh yes, so romantic! Let’s fuck on top of a corpse, Remmick.” You mock, sarcasm heavy in your tone. “Do you see how stupid you sound?” 

“It didn’t mean it like that.” 

“It’s exactly what you meant, you are not the brightest.” You point towards the corpse, “Clearly.”

The Colosseum is a home for bloodbaths.

There is a symphony of cheers and screams that rings throughout the entire dome. Swords clash against swords, sweat and blood dance together, dirt kicks into the air, and alcohol and spit shoot out of patrons’ mouths.

It is meaningless—all of it just a cruel form of entertainment for the emperor and his family.

You are thankful that you hadn’t been born a male to be pushed into these silly games, but instead, you are a woman—and that might be worse. But for now, despite all the screaming happening outdoors, you find solitude and a somewhat sense of peace near the barracks, sweeping debris and scrubbing the blood and grime off the floors from the defeated champions who walked away, already on the verge of death.

“Look at them,” you breathe. You pause your sweeping, wiping a strand of sweaty hair out of your face as your eyes peer through the wide holes of the wooden gates. “Animals. The whole lot of them.”

Livia does not need to look up to know what them you are referring to. There is only one kind of ruthless animal in the world—and that is men.

“Do not stare,” she warns you quietly. “If they catch you looking, they’ll punish you.”

“Please,” you scoff. “Their heads are too far up their own egos to notice us.”

“Big egos, yes.” Livia’s golden eyes glance over her shoulder from where she kneels on the floor, scrubbing grime. “And bodies. They are also quite handsome.”

Your eyes snap to her in revulsion. “Handsome? How can you say such a thing!” You glance back at the two men battling in the center of the dome. “Look at them. They are monsters.”

In the center is a man that you recognize—Bucky Barnes, the reigning champion for years. The White Wolf, is what the Emperor likes to call him. He is fighting another man, not much bigger than him, and certainly a man you do not recognize, meaning a man who will soon be falling to his doom beneath Bucky’s swords.

You have to admit, however, the man was giving The White Wolf a run for his money.

Finally, the man kneels before Bucky in defeat. Bucky raises his sword and delivers the final blow that sends the man to his grave.

Cheers erupt inside the dome. People jump out of their seats to shout and stomp. More debris and dust fall from above, landing on your and Livia’s faces—making you both cough.

The gates of the dome rattle as the herald’s voice shouts over the roaring crowd.

“Victory belongs to the undefeated! Behold your champion—The White Wolf!”

Thousands of voices chant his name as the dome thumps in a cadence that shakes the stone foundations around you. Through the wooden slats of the gate, you watch Bucky raise his blood-slicked sword to the sky. Unlike the other victors, he doesn’t smile. He never smiles.

Livia wipes the dust off her brow. “Another one to his name. He truly is unstoppable.”

You pull your gaze away. “He is a butcher,” you mutter.

Livia pushes herself off the floor with a light groan. She lifts the empty wooden basin to her chest. “I am going to refill this,” she says. “We’re going to need a lot of water to wash the victor up. I will be back.”

The wooden gate in front of you begins to groan as it slowly lifts. You grip your broom tight, moving to the side to make space for the blood-soaked victor to return back inside.

When Bucky steps in, the cool shade of the barracks is pure bliss against his hot body. Behind him steps the herald, adjusting his fine robes and wiping a pristine handkerchief over his sweaty brow, while the champion in front of him bleeds everywhere.

Bucky drops onto a wooden bench, and it creaks beneath his large body. His chest heaves as he catches his breath. With eyes still fueled by the adrenaline of battle, he watches as you approach him with a damp cloth and drop to your knees, wiping the splattered blood from his shins and boots.

“A magnificent display, White Wolf,” the herald boasts, pacing the floor and waving a hand dismissively in your direction as if you were just another piece of furniture. “The Emperor was thoroughly pleased. The coin will be transferred to your keeper, of course, but the Emperor insists on a personal reward for his favorite fighter tonight. A token of appreciation. Wine? A feast? Or perhaps a woman from the upper courts?”

Bucky does not answer the herald.

You try to keep your eyes down, working on scrubbing the crimson off his leather armor, but you can feel his cold stare watching your every movement, tracing the line of your shoulders and the curve of your vulnerable and exposed neck.

“We have the finest women prepared,” the herald continues, oblivious. “You have earned the right to take whatever, or whomever, you please.”

A massive and calloused hand suddenly shoots out. His fingers lock around your fragile wrist, making you wince and drop the rag.

“This one.”

You meet the champion’s eyes, and the spirit behind them terrifies you.

Bucky looks at you, not the way he stares at his opponents, but with something far more lethal. He looks at you as if you are roasted meat served on a silver platter by the Emperor himself. It sends shivers down your spine, and you avert your gaze.

The herald stands confused beside him.

“Her?” the herald sputters, looking down at you in disbelief. “White Wolf, she is a mere servant. A floor scrubber. The Emperor offered you a lady of the court. Someone fit for a powerful champion, such as yourself!”

The way the herald utters the word lady sounds like an insult to you—as if insinuating you’re not woman enough for a man like Barnes.

Bucky’s grip on your wrist tightens again as he gives your arm a rough shake, forcing your attention back to him with a gasp.

“Want her,” Bucky grunts, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The herald blinks, his eyes flickering down to you where you kneel before the champion. He clears his throat uncomfortably. “You must be mistaken, champion. She is nothing but a dirty servant—”

Bucky’s leather gloves creak as he tightens his hand on the hilt of his sword, and the herald falls silent, taking that slight movement from the gladiator as a threat to shut up.

“Fine, fine,” the herald mutters with a defeated sigh. “If that is what pleases you, then she is at your disposal.”

Your eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. You hadn’t expected the herald to give you up so easily. You had hoped he would insist Bucky find a better woman—someone of higher value, and nowhere near your station.

“Wait, sir—you can’t possibly—!”

“I will let the Emperor know of your decision.” The herald turns on his heel, continuing to talk as if you aren’t even present. “He will be very amused. Though… it does make my job easier, finding another prize… I shall consider this a win for the both of us!”

The herald scratches his beard and shrugs as he continues to walk away. You feel like your life is already flashing before your eyes. There are horror stories of men like Bucky—men who just take and take without remorse. You are no exception. You don’t even want to imagine the kind of things he would do to a woman like you once the herald leaves you two alone. Ignoring Bucky entirely, you try to pry your weak arm away from the fighter’s grip and get to your feet.

“Sir, wait! Don’t leave me here with him!”

But Bucky’s grip remains tight. He hauls you against his broad, bare chest as he stands up. You collide into him with a yelp as he pins you still.

“Mine now,” he rumbles deeply.

You try to pull back, your heels digging into the grime stained floor, but it’s like trying to move a stone pillar. “Let me go! I have to finish cleaning, I have to—”

Without a word, he crouches before you and wraps both strong arms over your legs, hauling you like nothing and propping you over his shoulder like a prize he rightfully deserves.

“Come,” Bucky barks without a single opportunity for defiance. “Take you home.”

Your voice is dry from all the shouting and begging for him to release you. Your fists are weak from pounding his back in an attempt to make him let you go. Now, as you sit at the edge of his worn bed in his small home—which feels like it’s being held up by nothing but sticks and tapestry—you realize all of it was futile.

Tears streak your dirty cheeks as you wipe at them pathetically. You couldn’t even say goodbye to your dear friend, Livia. She must be worrying herself sick about you.

Bucky stands large and imposing in the center of the already tiny home. He wastes no time as he strips himself of his clothes, eyes locked onto your trembling frame. This man in front of you has no sense of shame as he leaves himself completely bare, his cock already hard and springing to his muscular lower belly.

You glance up, your breath catching in your throat at his size.

He is huge, his tip already gorging into an angry red while pre-cum dribbles out from the slit. Your eyes follow the veins that decorate his shaft up until you reach the base of his cock, where dark curls sit unruly and trail thinner up to his belly button.

“Good,” he grunts in approval. “Look at me. Only me.”

Bucky’s strong legs stalk forward to meet you at the edge of the bed. All you can do is stare at him with wide eyes. The campfire flickering behind him casts a warm light, highlighting his muscles and the sharpness of his features.

As he gets closer, you scramble backward. His knees dip and creak the bed as he crawls after you. To him, this is a game of cat and mouse—and he doesn’t mind one bit. You’re terrified, but he sees this as foreplay. The two of you continue this until your back hits the stone wall, leaving you nowhere else to run.

“Please,” you whimper. “Don’t do this.”

Then, without warning, his hand shoots out to grab the neckline of your dress. With a simple tug, his mere strength tears right through it.

“No!” you shriek, your hands coming up to cover your breasts before he even catches a glimpse. “Stop!”

Bucky furrows his brows. Your cries and actions only confuse him. His hands grab your arms, trying to pry them away from your chest. He is so much stronger than you; he could easily break you if he wanted to.

“No! Stop! I’m not ready!” you cry again, shaking your head as you gather all your strength to fight back. “I said, I’m not ready—!”

With your hand acting on a mind of its own, it reaches out and delivers a hard slap across the gladiator’s face.

Bucky’s head whips to the side, his dark, matted hair covering the features of his face—you can’t make out his expression at all.

Your eyes go wide, and your hand weakly retreats back to your chest. If you hadn’t thought Bucky was going to kill you before, you are certain he is going to skip the sexual act and kill you right now instead.

But, being as stubborn as you are, you hold onto the shovel that digs your very grave.

“I told you to stop,” your voice is shaky, but you try to find your footing. “I said no. Countless times. I did not give you my consent. Don’t you know what that word means?”

This is foolish, you think to yourself. Talking to a gladiator like Bucky is like talking to a brick wall. Your words will just go in one ear and out the other.

Bucky slowly turns his head back to you, his gaze locking onto yours with eyes so sharp you could swallow the blade. This is it. You’re certain this is where you die.

He makes an expression—not a pained one, but confused. His jaw is tight where your hand just struck him. He doesn’t move to strike back like you think he will, and he doesn’t wrap his hands around your throat to kill you.

He tilts his head, his face scrunched now in a way that makes him look almost like a kicked puppy.

“No?” he repeats, treating it like a question.

The syllable sounds clunky, foreign, and deeply awkward rolling off his tongue.

He looks down at your hands, still clamped tightly over your torn dress, and then back up to your glassy eyes.

“Consent?” he tries the next word, his brows furrowing from how unusual it sounds.

You nod, holding your breath. “Yes. Consent. I did not give it to you.”

Bucky blinks as the cogs work—or try to—in his head.

The reigning champion of the Colosseum, the brute of a man who knows exactly how to sever someone’s limb or take a prize by force, looks completely lost. For his entire life, the rules were simple: fight, win, take. No one had ever told him ‘no.’ No one had ever given him a choice, and he had never given anyone else one either.

“Consent,” he tastes the word again, as if trying to see if he likes it or not. Then, he shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

Now, you are just as confused as he is.

You stare at the gladiator who kneels before you on the bed. He is probably the most feared man in the empire, yet he sits there naked and baffled by such a basic concept.

“You don’t know?” you whisper. “You don’t know what the word consent means?”

Bucky shakes his head, his broad shoulders slumping a fraction. He looks down at his own massive hands, then back at you, looking almost defeated and unsure of what to do from here.

You let out a trembling breath, slowly adjusting your grip on your torn dress to keep yourself covered as you try to find the words to explain it to a man raised only for slaughter.

“It means... permission,” you explain softly. “It means that my body belongs to me, just like yours belongs to you. To take a woman to bed, she has to want it too. She has to say yes.” You gesture weakly between the two of you. “If I say no, or if I say stop, you have to stop. Otherwise, you are just hurting me. You are just forcing me.”

Bucky listens intently, his dark eyes watching your lips as you speak.

“Don’t want to hurt you,” he answers, his voice rough and strained.

That catches you by surprise. You didn’t expect that kind of softness out of him. Then, he meets your eyes again and continues. “Not yet, at least.”

You pull the torn dress tighter against your chest with a slight frown, and Bucky notices. He shifts awkwardly on the back of his heels—his cock still hard but his mind just as confused.

“How do I get you to want it?” He rests his hand on your bare ankle, tugging you gently. “Like how I want you?”

You swallow hard as you stare at his large hand wrapped around your ankle. He could grab you and break you—mold you and bend you so easily to his will—but he doesn’t.

“You have to… court me,” you try to explain. “You have to make me feel safe, and you have to make me want it.”

Bucky tilts his head. Everything you have just said—even the word safe—feels alien to him.

Your teeth worry your bottom lip as you continue. “It means you don’t just take what you want. You touch softly. You talk to me, and you kiss me.” You point a trembling finger to your mouth, then to his. “With your lips. To show me that you care about how I feel, not just what you want.”

“Touch softly,” Bucky repeats, drilling the instruction into his mind.

You shudder as his hand, once wrapped around your ankle, turns into a gentle caress with his fingertips.

Up and down, his calloused fingertips trace your foot up to your bare calf. He leans over your body, forcing you to lie down beneath him as he hikes up the hem of your skirt. He flattens his palm so it rests heavy against your bare thigh.

“Kiss,” he murmurs, his blue eyes tracing the curve of your lip. “Make you safe.”

He lowers his head, his dark, unruly hair brushing against your cheeks as he brings his face inches from yours.

He hesitates for a second, his nostrils flaring like an animal as he breathes you in. Then, with an awkward, slow movement that he isn’t at all used to, Bucky presses his lips to yours.

The kiss is clumsy and far too hard at first, but as much as he wants to, he doesn’t force his way inside. He doesn’t push his tongue into your mouth, demanding dominance. He keeps his mouth pressed against yours, his lips slightly parted, mimicking the action as best as his instincts allow. It is gentle, surprisingly soft, and very wet—he might’ve even been drooling, aching to kiss you.

He pulls away just a fraction and searches your face for any sign of fear.

“Like this?” he murmurs, his breath hot against your mouth. “Safe?”

Your heart flutters wildly in your chest, except this time it has nothing to do with fear. You stare up at the man before you with wide eyes and wet lips. Bucky studies your face, trying to make out if what he did was right or wrong.

“Y—yes,” you breathe out. “That was good.”

Satisfied with your answer, he leans back down and kisses you again. One hand rises up—slowly, to avoid startling you—and cups your cheek gently. His thumb grazes over the curve of your cheek while his lips explore yours.

A soft, needy sound leaves your lips before you can stop it, and Bucky answers with a deep groan. While one hand cradles your cheek, his other hand slowly rises beneath your dress to grip your smooth hip.

You find yourself unexpectedly leaning into the kiss, matching him until his tongue pokes past your lips and swirls around yours. The two of you breathe heavily, moaning softly against each other as Bucky positions himself between your legs. His cock grows even harder, poking against your warm inner thigh.

He can’t take it anymore. Each moan that leaves your lips sounds like yes, yes, yes to his ears. His desperate hands find the waistband of your panties, threatening to tear them.

You suddenly pull away from the kiss with a gasp, catching your breath. Your hand presses against his bare chest, stopping him.

“No,” you pant as you stare up at him. “Stop. Not yet. You have to be patient.”

At the word stop, Bucky freezes. A snarl rips from the back of his throat, and his face twists in frustration. His jaw clenches so hard, his muscles twitch. You wince back into the pillows in fear, thinking you are in over your head and have pushed him too far.

You brace yourself, closing your eyes tightly.

“I’m trying,” he growls, the words tearing past his teeth. “What do I have to do? Tell me.”

You open your eyes and see him hovering over you. His large body acts as a blanket of warmth while one strong arm props him up, the muscles straining under his own weight and restraint.

“You have to touch me,” you explain gently, pulling his hand away from your underwear and bringing it up to your chest. “Like this.”

Bucky’s eyes follow your movement. Your smaller hand rests over his as you guide him to squeeze your breasts. His breathing grows heavier as his fingers tug and start to play with your budded nipple, relishing the way you moan and arch your back into his touch.

“Like that,” you moan softly. “Good—good boy.”

He groans loudly at your praise. His dark, unruly hair brushes your skin before his mouth closes over your budded nipple. He begins to lick and suck hungrily, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak while his teeth graze the edge.

“Mm…” Your eyes flutter shut at the pleasure, your head tossing back against the pillow while he makes love to your tits.

Encouraged by your sounds, he grinds his thick hard cock firmly against the smooth skin of your bare thigh, seeking any kind of friction to relieve the ache between his legs.

One hand leaves your breast to grip your hip, digging his fingers into your skin to hold you still while he ruts against you like an animal. He whimpers against your chest, drunk on your scent and the high of your soft moans.

“Please,” he begs, his stubble tickling your bare chest. “Say yes. Let me have you. Now.”

The way he pleads sends a warm rush through your lower belly, a feeling that leaves you craving him just as badly. The man who is used to taking whatever he wants without remorse is reduced to being entirely at your mercy between your legs. A sensation settles inside you that you never thought you would harbor.

Control.

Just one word—one breathless little “yes”—would send Bucky over the edge. His pleasure and his craving are both held in your hands.

“Okay,” you say, giving him a small nod, satisfied with how well he has done. “You can have me.”

A growl rips from his chest. Driven by instinct, his large hands grip the waistband of your panties once more, his knuckles pulling taut as he prepares to shred the flimsy fabric to pieces.

“No,” you interject quickly, slapping his hands away. “Don’t rip them! That’s rude!”

He scowls as he draws his hand back, a whine of frustration catching in his throat like a disappointed hound. It’s clear he is unhappy about facing another rule when he is so close to the edge, yet he listens.

“Pull them down slowly,” you instruct.

Using every ounce of restraint in his veins, he resists the urge to tear the cloth. He hooks his thick fingers into the sides and slowly pulls the fabric down past your hips and thighs until you are completely bare beneath him.

“There you go,” you sigh softly, pleased with his gentle movements. “Good boy.”

Bucky’s eyes drop to the slick heat waiting for him. He hovers over your body, his heavy breathing filling the space between you as he positions the thick head of his cock right at your entrance. He rubs himself up and down against you, soaking his length in your arousal and sucking in a breath at the heat of your touch.

He is too big—impossibly so—and you aren’t sure if he will fit.

“Need to fuck you,” he grits through clenched teeth. “Hard.”

Holding himself at the base, he works at your entrance. His tip slowly slides in, stretching the opening and pushing deep enough to make you arch your back off the bed with a painful hiss.

He pauses at the sound.

“No,” you whimper, blinking tears away as you peer down at him. “If you’re going to have sex with me, you have to be gentle.”

His face twists into a strained expression, but he reluctantly abides.

One hand steadies your hip while the other holds his heavy cock, sliding into your warm, tight walls. Your body is so tight, not used to accommodating such a size, but he relents and continues pushing in.

You cry out, eyes squeezing shut as your arms rest on his shoulders for support.

“Look at me,” Bucky commands in a rough, deep voice. When you don’t listen, he tilts his head down so he is in your line of sight and tries again. “I said look at me.”

You finally do, and his eyes search yours intently. The ring of blue demands that you look at him, and him only.

“Keep them open,” he instructs. “Look at me. It will feel better.”

So, you do.

You both stare into each other’s eyes while he slides himself even deeper. As his cock stretches you wide, his brows furrow and his face twists into a snarl, baring his teeth at the tightness of your body until he finally sheathes himself fully inside with a groan.

“Gentle,” he rasps brokenly. “Gentle. Gotta be gentle.” He repeats the words as if he’s trying to remind himself.

Your legs shake around him, your body trying to get used to his size.

He hasn’t moved yet, but you already feel impossibly full. Your walls embrace him, and you feel your body slowly opening up to let him in. As his cock settles deep inside you, pleasure slowly overwhelms your senses.

For Bucky, it feels like pure torture. Your body is snug and warm—like a wet, tight fist wrapped around his cock, so much better than what he’s used to with his own calloused hands.

“Need to move,” he curses. “Need to fuck. Say yes.”

His voice comes out rough and crude, but he refuses to move without your consent.

“Hold on,” you whimper, still adjusting to his size. You shift your hips slightly, trying to get comfortable, but the movement only makes him groan in pleasure.

“Fine,” he grunts, squeezing your hip.

After what feels like forever, you finally nod your head.

“Okay,” you whisper. “I’m ready.”

And just like that, you open the pearly white gates to heaven for him.

With a hungry growl, he draws his hips back until only half of him remains, and then he slides himself back in. Your lips part in a gasp as he fills you again—his cock sinking even deeper, kissing your cervix.

“Tight,” Bucky clicks his tongue, growing frustrated. “Too tight.”

He pulls out halfway before slamming into you again, and again, and again. Each thrust grows harder and more unrelenting, forcing your body to yield to his cock.

“A—ah! It’s… s’too much—”

“Want me to stop?” he groans out painfully and reluctantly, like he doesn’t want you to answer with a ‘yes’.

“No,” you manage to breathe out. “Don’t stop.”

Moans and gasps spill from your lips every time he fills you. His girth splits you open with every savage thrust, his strong thighs forcing your legs wider for him.

His eyes never tear away from yours. Every time you try to squeeze your eyes shut from the force of his thrusts, he grabs your chin roughly and shakes you, forcing you to look back at him.

“Eyes. On. Me,” he hisses angrily.

Squeezing your cheeks to force your lips apart, he drags his thumb down your lower lip to pry them wider. He leans down, his hot breath tickling your skin while his damp strands of dark hair dance over your face.

He spits into your mouth, the traces of it dripping from his lips down to his chin, slicking your open mouth. It’s wild and savage, unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before. Without giving you the opportunity to pull away, his lips cover yours as he forces his saliva to swallow down your throat.

His tongue dances around yours again while he fucks you deeply, each move threatening to break both you and the bed.

Your eyes roll back so far in your skull while your legs dangle helplessly around his hips. Every thrust feels like a punishment for making him wait. Your nerves are crying out for release—and eventually, you give in. Your cunt spasms violently around Bucky’s length as bliss overwhelms every single sense.

“Oh my god,” you cry. “I’m gonna cum—!”

Your cries fill the small house as your back arches off the damp bed. Bucky insists on making eye contact with you, holding your jaw and forcing you to look at him while he fucks you through your climax.

You clench him tightly, your pussy pulsing in loving beats and squeezing him for every last drop.

“Fuck. Yes. Good, feels so good,” he rasps angrily, his thrusts becoming harder and more desperate.

His balls slap vulgarly against your wet pussy, traces of your slick clinging to him every time he bottoms out. His balls churn with pent-up seed, aching to fill you deep. Your cries grow louder, your hips shifting around to accommodate the overstimulation—but it’s no use.

Bucky’s close, so close. While his eyes bore into yours, his pupils dilate with desire. He just needs to get deeper, to fuck you at an impossible angle to pump you full…

“Wait,” you dig your nails deep into his back, making him gasp in pain. “Slow down—it’s too much…”

He snarls angrily, his hips slowing down just a fraction, but not entirely.

The sound that leaves your lips is a cocktail of pain and bliss. It’s a sultry sound that encourages him to continue, to take what he wants, but the words leaving your mouth say otherwise.

“No,” you shake your head. “Stop, please. It’s too much for me. You’re going to break me—”

His hands release your cheeks roughly as his head drops to press his sweaty forehead against yours. Another animalistic sound tears through him as he forces his hips to come to a stop. His cock stills inside you—pulsing for any form of friction. Just a few more thrusts, and he’ll cum. He’ll cum hard. But he stops, because you asked him to.

“Need to cum,” he pants against your face, taking in the way your eyes have gone teary. “So close.”

“I know,” you say with a soft sigh, your eyes fluttering shut for just a moment. “I know. I just… just need a minute.”

You let your fingers trail up and down his back, and he shudders at the feeling.

The two of you lie there, tangled in each other’s limbs while you catch your breath. Bucky waits impatiently—his heart beating so fast in his chest as he uses every ounce of restraint in his blood to refrain from fucking you right through the bed.

Your pussy is already swollen and puffy from his size, and the longer he remains stuffed inside you, the tighter your body squeezes around him.

With his forehead pressed against yours, he shifts his knees and hips slightly to get comfortable, but even those tiny, forced movements are agonizing. Breathy moans and grunts escape both your lips, shared in the tight space between you. It’s sex without the vulgar movements, and it feels far too intimate for a ruthless man like Bucky.

Finally, you grant him permission.

Staring into his eyes, you give him a small nod to let him continue. And the moment you do, the last thread holding Bucky’s control snaps.

He grabs your legs and shoves them high over your shoulders, splitting you wide and pinning you down into a deep mating press. “Need to go deeper. Hold still.”

You had just gotten used to his size, and the sudden change in position makes your eyes fly open. Your mouth falls open in a gasp as he draws his hips back before bottoming out completely inside you.

His heavy, sweaty body crushes down on yours as he begins to fuck you hard and fast. Every draw of his hips fills you impossibly deep, your stretched cunt molding helplessly around his thick length. He works his hips in a wild, frantic rhythm, chasing his release at full speed before you can say another word to stop him.

“Mine,” he rasps through gritted teeth, his chest heaving as his sweat drips onto your skin. “Say it. Tell me you’re mine—”

The force of his hips slamming against yours knocks the breath right out of you, your moans coming out as breathless gasps while he pounds into you. His eyes bore into yours, waiting for you to finally give in.

“Tell me you’re mine. Say it.”

You blink through tears of bliss. “I—I’m yours—” you manage to stammer out.

His face twists in pleasure, baring his teeth as he pins your legs against your chest while the tip of his cock works deep against your cervix. “Good. A perfect sleeve for my cock. Look at me while I cum inside you.”

The sight of your face scrunched in pleasure and vulnerability sends a wave of heat coursing from his lower gut to the very tips of his toes. His cock pulses and throbs inside, slicking your walls with his pre-cum—a warning before giving you the real thing.

“Pump my cum,” his large palm settles over your lower belly. “All in here.”

The thought of you walking around the house barefoot and round with his children—growing up to be champions just like their father—makes his head spin and his balls grow heavy.

“Close. So close,” he curses and groans over and over, speaking more than he ever has. “Hold still. Take it all for me, wife.”

Bucky buries himself as deep as his length will go, pinning you down as his entire body locks tight. His cock pulses, pumping wave after thick wave of his hot seed deep inside your womb.

His head drops into the crook of your neck, his large, sweaty chest heaving against yours as he rides out his pleasure.

He releases your legs for a moment until both your rapid hearts finally slow to a steady beat. Slowly, agonizingly so, he draws his thick length back, pulling out of your slick, overstimulated cunt with a wet suction sound.

You let out a soft, breathless gasp at the sudden empty feeling. A ring of creamy white circles the base of his cock, and his seed dribbles between your folds—physical proof of what he just did to you.

Without a word, he grips both your ankles with one large hand, pinning your thighs together and pressing your legs straight up into the air to hold them suspended above you.

You blink at him—dazed, exhausted, and thoroughly used. His cock rests half-limp between his strong legs, so he clearly isn’t going for another round.

“What are you doing…?” you whisper softly, confused.

He holds your legs firmly in place as his dark eyes scan your bare, trembling body.

“Make sure it takes,” he grunts out, his voice rough from satisfaction. He uses his free hand to trace a warm, possessive line down to your lower belly, pressing down gently right over your womb. “Keep your belly round with my sons.”

You stare up at him in disbelief while your legs are held helplessly aloft by his massive hand. You’re too exhausted to argue, your brain still foggy from your orgasm. Still, you manage an incredulous laugh.

Does he seriously think propping your legs up like a pair of stilts is going to magically guarantee a pregnancy?

He looks so proud of himself that you don’t even have the heart to argue. He squeezes your ankles slightly, letting out a satisfied hum from his chest once he’s convinced his little trick did the job. The smile on his face is almost boyish in a way that does not belong to a rough man like him.

“Good wife,” he praises you. “Birth me healthy champions.”

You let out a soft sigh, fluttering your eyelids shut as fatigue finally crawls its way into your bones.

As you drift into slumber, you make a mental note to teach this brute a lesson on how gravity works. And right after that, you’ll teach him what aftercare is—especially if he plans on keeping you forever and making you his wife.

if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!

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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.

”so, what’s the theme of the text?” you ask lion.

he’s sitting on your lap, sucking on his pacifier, wearing nothing but a white undershirt and a diaper.

”i don’t know..” he mumbles, furrowing his brows. ”yes you do”, you say, stroking his bruised cheek. he was at a match last night, and now he’s at home with you.

”is it power?” lion asks. ”good job, baby!” you praise him. you take a piece of candy from the bag, taking the pacifier out of his mouth, feeding it to him.

lion sucks on the candy, looking at you with his blue eyes. ”mommy, i wanna kiss”, he says. ”no kiss, baby, you haven’t finished your studies”, you say. lion pouts, clearly disappointed.

”here’s the next novel”, you say, handing lion a paper. ”i don’t wanna anymore..” lion whines. ”read it and you’ll get a kiss”, you say. lion nods.

you put the pacifier back inside his mouth and he starts immediately sucking on it, comforted.

he furrows his brows as he reads, focused. he isn’t a fast reader, he has to reread some sentences.

you study his bruised face as he reads. god, he’s so handsome.

as he finishes the text he looks at you with a desperate expression. ”mommy, that was too hard..” he whines. ”just think about it, baby”, you say. ”i want my kiss, i read it”, lion mumbles.

you chuckle and press a loving kiss on his cheek. lion lets out a soft purr, pressing his cheek on your lips to ask for more. you smile, cupping his cheek, staring to give him back to back kisses, not parting your lips from his skin.

lion closes his eyes, letting out content little noises as you kiss on his cheek.

”okay, baby, the theme of the novel?” you ask him.

lion sighs, annoyed as you stop kissing him. he takes the pacifier out of his mouth. ”i don’t know, growing up?” he asks. you smile. ”that’s right, coming of age!” you say, kissing his cheek again.

”there you go”, you say, feeding him another candy. ”mommy, i gotta pee..” lion whines. ”go ahead, baby”, you say.

lion lets out a whimper as he starts peeing inside the diaper, some tears in his eyes. ”shh, it’s okay, baby”, you coo, giving him a soft kiss.

lion starts crying. ”i’m all wet”, he sobs. ”my poor baby”, you purr, kissing his teary cheek.

”you gotta change me, mommy”, he whines, uncomfortably shifting in the now wet diaper.

”of course, baby”, you say.

okay SO just a quick wee blurb…. ik i have issues ok

☠︎ “Oh, thank goodness,” The man, pale but sunburnt at the same time, gasped. He was out of breath, who wouldn’t be though? You lived out in the middle of nowhere, just cornfields for miles and the long dirt road. “Is something wrong? You look–look awfully rough, sir.” You stumbled over your words, not trying to sound rude, your mama didn’t raise you to be rude of course.

☠︎  “I just need help, I’ve been wanderin’ around for days, I got all my things stolen, I just need to be rode out to the nearest town, I have no idea where I am or how far a town is from here.” He said convincingly, he was a great actor, anyone who crossed his path would’ve wanted to help him, most people in the south were just like that. “Sir, I would truly love to help but I don’t have a car, my daddy took it.”

☠︎  His face didn’t change, didn’t fall, didn’t even falter. “O-Oh, well, that’s fine, if you could just let me, I could use a telephone if you have it.” You just tilted your head, no doubt feeling sympathetic, most didn’t come around, especially not in the shape he was in. “I-I suppose I could let you in, um, I just um, what’s your name?” You asked, your eyebrow raised in question, staring at him with those big, innocent eyes.

☠︎ “It’s Remmick,” He said, offering a weak smile, earning a small nod from you. “Okay, um, well, c-come on in, Remmick, I won’t be on the telephone for more than a minute or two.” You returned the smile, moving out of the doorway to let him through, a strange, sudden feeling of dread washing over you as he passed the threshold of the doorway. 

☠︎ He didn’t follow you, not closely, he looked through the open doors, seeing if there was anybody else in the house. “You alone in this house?” He asked, gritty, hoarse, almost as if he was holding back himself. “Yes, sir.” You hesitated when you answered, freezing in your tracks for a quick moment, “A girl like you, all alone in this big house? Dangerous, someone could get their hands on you, hurt you real bad.” He shuddered, earning a small, worried glance from you. “I can hold my own, sir.” You offered a small smile, trying to ease the tension. He didn’t return it.

☠︎ “The telephone is in the kitchen, you can wait in the sittin’ room if you want.” If your mama was home, she would’ve said you were being rude not inviting him to sit in the kitchen with you. But she wasn’t home, and something told you this man was a predator. “I can stand in the kitchen with you,” “No, really, I insist on waitin’ in the sittin’ room.” His face fell almost imperceptibly when you got slightly firm, like he wasn’t used to being put in his place. “Alright.” His smile was false, filled with spite.

☠︎ You quickly dialed the phone, not even bothering to put in a real number, something about this man wasn’t right and you needed to get him out. After two minutes, you came back out, entering the living room, lip bitten, meek almost. “Nobody picked up the telephone, I’m sorry sir, I can give you directions…” You offered a small, uncomfortable smile, not making eye contact. “Why would I leave?” He asked, like he knew something you didn’t, but that knot in your gut tightened. “Because I’m sure you’d get some better help from someone else.” Your voice cracked mid-sentence, revealing the fear you were trying to hide.

☠︎ He smiled, like he got a bunny trapped in a cage. “Oh, don’t be scared, I ain’t gonna hurt you… Not terribly.” You stepped back, an uneasy look on your face, eyes wide and wet with tears that were better left unshed, you really didn’t need more leverage against yourself. “Don’t run, that’ll get you nowhere,” His voice was condescending, domineering. “If you just stay there, it won’t hurt none.” “What…” Your voice shook, eyes finally lifting up, meeting his. “...What are you..?” The question was miniscule, small in the grand scheme of things. It wouldn’t stop him, hell, it wouldn’t even buy you time. “I ain’t nothin’ to be ‘fraid of, I'm just a hungry, hungry man, and you look like the perfect meal for me.”

☠︎ His mouth was on you before you could even blink, and you tried to fight, you really did, but he had already sunk his teeth in, your tears escaping your eyes in big, watery drops and a low, heaving sob protruding from your throat. He went for the most available place, your neck. He wasn’t gentle, why would he be? You were another meal to him, another brick in the wall.

☠︎ “It’s me baby, please, Remmick, please,” You pleaded, clutching the rosary between your fingers, he knew it wasn’t you, you had a different look in your eye. Hungry for something more than food, hungry for something more dangerous. “Remmick, please, baby, just let me in, just say I can come in, I ain’t gonna do no harm, I swear.” You whispered, “Remmick, one way or another, I’m comin’ in, you can’t stop this baby– You can’t.”

☠︎ “You ain’t my girl, no,” He said back, jaw clenched. Your eyes were wide, but far from human looking, glossy and unnatural, “Remmick, Remmick, please, let me in, I won’t ask again.” You demanded, hand reaching out to the doorway, “It’s me, it’s me, baby, I’m still your girl, I’m not any different, I’m just willing to show my teeth.” Something was wrong, incredibly animalistic.

☠︎ “Let me in– Remmick, let me in!” You banged your hand against the doorframe, a tear threatening to escape, that was the most human he’d seen you act since whatever happened to you. “You ain’t my girl, you need to leave,” He said, moving to grab the shotgun by the door. “I am your girl, I am, I am, please, don’t you believe me? Don’t you want to believe your girl, would I ever lie to you?” You said quickly, breathily, slamming your hand against the doorframe again, a choked sob protruding from your throat.

☠︎ “Look at me, look at me, I’m still your girl, I don’t look no different– I ain’t no different, just tell me I can come in, you don’t have to worry about anything else, I’ll handle it, I’ll keep you safe, I’ll keep you from ever gettin’ harmed.” Your face was serious, lips parted, sharp, inhuman teeth visible, “I could fix you, I could change you– You’re not past redemption, not past salvation, your soul is tainted, I can fix that, I can bring you back from your sinning ways.”

☠︎ He was stuck, you looked like his girl, sounded like his girl, you ever talked like his girl. You weren’t his girl, and that was scarily obvious. “If I let you in, what’ll you do?” He uttered, his voice gruff, untrusting. “If I let you in, you’ll kill me, won’t you?” He accused, jaw clenched, still gripping that shotgun tightly, his eyes narrowed. “I won’t kill you, I won’t hurt you, I’ll save you.”

☠︎ “I’ll save you from the hell you’re destined to, from the hell that the devil wants you in.” Your voice was scarily steady, not like you meant it, more like a warning. You still held the rosary between your fingers, still traced the carved crucifix. “I can change this for us, for all of us. I can save you from eternal damnation, you just need to let me in!” You yelled, gripping the beads attached to the rosary. “Please, let me save you, let me help you, I want the best for you, for us, we could be together, I can’t live without you, Remmick,”

☠︎ “I can’t be with you, you’re not the same girl, you’re not my girl.” His words made you choke slightly, lips parted in resignation. “There’s another girl? I thought I was your girl... Do you like her more than me, do you like the way she talks, the way she says your name while you’re whoring around with her?!” You bawled, a tear escaping, far from real, this was mastered manipulation, he was falling for it, hook and sinker. “There’s not another girl, you’re my girl, but you’re not at the same time!” “I am your girl, I’m not any different, I didn’t change!”

another night alone. your boyfriend is with his friends, drinking and gaming. at least that’s what he told you.

you’re watching a horror movie, curled up inside a blanket when the phone rings.

curious, you pick it up.

a deep male voice calls your name

"who is this?" you ask.

"your boyfriend", the voice answers.

"josh, this isn’t funny", you say, suspecting that your boyfriend might be pulling a prank on you.

"ain’t no joke, luv", the voice says. doesn’t sound like your boyfriend.

"you like scary movies?" he asks.

you chuckle. "sure", you say.

"look outside", the voice says.

you go stand by the window. you let out a loud scream. there’s a man in a black cape and a white, smiling mask standing in your yard. he’s holding a phone.

"josh, knock it off!" you hiss.

"aww, luv, i ain’t josh", the voice says, almost sweet.

you hang up the phone to dial the police. that’s when you hear your door slamming open, the lock breaking. you scream as the masked man steps inside, yanking the phone from your hand. "you won’t be needin’ this now", he says.

you run, fast. anywhere but here. you try to get to the bathroom, but the man grabs you, throwing you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing.

you scream and thrash, but he doesn’t seem to mind. just carries you to your bedroom.

he throws you on the bed. you try standing immediately, but he takes out a knife. it’s bloody. "if you scream or move i’ll use this", he says.

you freeze, believing him. so you stay still. the masked man lights some candles. "more romantic this way, don’t you think, luv?" he chuckles.

you start crying. the masked man lets out a grunt. "shut up, cunt", he hisses. when you don’t stop he slaps you, hard.

he pins you down on the bed, slamming your wrists against the bedpost. he gets out handcuffs from his pocket and uses them to restrain you.

you start bawling. "stop, please stop!" you cry.

the man then moves, ripping your pants with his knife, pulling down your panties. he squeezes them into a ball and shoves them inside your mouth. "better", he says.

hot tears keep spilling from your eyes as the masked man rips your shirt, exposing your breasts.

"sixteen years in prison an’ not a single leaking cunt", the masked man murmurs. "i hope you’ll satisfy me", he adds.

he drags the bloody knife between your breasts, leaving smears of blood on your skin.

then he makes a cut. you scream, the gag muffling your cries.

"aww, luv, bleedin’ so pretty for me", the man coos. he makes another cut, on your breast this time. you cry out, it hurts like hell.

you shake your head, whimpering. the man looks around the room, finding your scarf on the floor. he wraps it around your eyes, blindfolding you.

when you can’t see he takes off his mask, revealing his face. if you could see him you’d think that he’s handsome. blue eyes, some stubble.

he leans in, licking your blood from the wound. "taste so sweet", he purrs, kissing the cut.

he brings the knife to your inner thigh, making another cut. you squeal in pain.

"aww, let’s mix the pain wi’ pleasure, shall we?", he purrs, taking off his gloves. you flinch as his calloused thumb starts rubbing over your clit, drawing tight circles.

since you don’t see him the feeling somehow intensifies, sending lightning-like sensations through your body.

as he’s rubbing your clit he takes two fingers, shoving them inside your already drooling cunt. "ahh, hell, you’re soakin’ wet", he chuckles, kissing your cheek.

you whimper as he starts pumping his fingers in and out, all the while teasing your sensitive clit with his rough thumb.

he presses a series of wet, sloppy kisses down your throat and shoulders, obscene in its mockery of tenderness.

you come hard, legs shaking, tears wetting the scarf.

the man chuckles and withdraws his fingers from your cunt.

you hear him move, you don’t see what he’s doing. but you soon realize what’s happening when you feel a terrible, burning sensation on your wounded chest.

your muffled screams are like music to his ears as he pours the hot candle wax on your skin, watching it dry on your breasts and between them.

your skin is burning up, but the worst part is your open wounds being exposed to the hot wax. the pain is throbbing, sharp.

he sets the candle on the table and quickly releases you from the cuffs, flipping you over on your stomach in one smooth motion.

he makes you arch your back. you whimper as you feel his rough fingers gathering your slick. you hear him moan around his fingers, licking them clean.

then you hear the sound of a belt buckle clicking, something being dropped on the floor. next it’s the sound of a zipper sending.

his hard cock slaps your ass, thick and long, oozing pre-cum at the tip.

he spreads you open roughly, lining up. you don’t have time to process what’s happening before you feel him all the way inside you.

you cry out, it hurts. you can’t tell him to stop, can’t tell him that you’re in pain. you can just cry and whine as the man starts thrusting, hard and rough.

his balls are slamming against your ass, his hands squeezing on either sides of your hips, surely bruising.

the scarf slips off, now you can stare at the pillow. before you can take a peek at your attacker he puts his mask back on.

he slaps your ass, hard. ”sneaky cunt”, he sneers. then he grabs you by the neck, pulling you to him.

he starts choking you with one hand, while the other holds your hip.

your eyes water, you can’t breathe. he just keeps squeezing your neck, like he’s actually trying to kill you.

you start getting lightheaded when he finally stops, letting your neck go. you start coughing, tasting the salt of your own tears.

”you like it, slut? like being raped by a stranger?” he continues tormenting you, continuously slapping your ass. ”i bet you fuckin’ do”, he adds. you can hear his grin when he talks, his voice almost childlike.

you can feel him getting closer to his release, his pace starts turning more sloppy and frantic.

he quickly pulls out, coming on your ass. you feel his warm cum burning your bruised ass.

you’re too scared to move, so you just stay there, shaking.

the man stands, pulling his pants back up. then he starts cleaning you up. he wipes his cum off of you, wipes the spots where he kissed you. he’s precise, not leaving anything that could indicate his presence.

he forces you in the shower, demanding that you clean your cunt properly. he makes you put your fingers inside, spreading it open, letting the water go in. you cry the whole time, knowing that the police won’t have his dna now.

he cleans your wounds almost gently, without saying a word.

makes you change the sheets, makes you put the washing machine on for the olds ones.

then, finally, he leaves. you walk him to the door, like you’re making sure he’s actually going.

the last words he gives you make you shudder.

When you stumble around the corner of the stables, the last thing you expect to see is Roy with a letter in his hands.

Conversations with Alice flood back to you. The letter is recognisable, of course, from the late night whispers in the warm enclosure of bed. Being as the house was small, and the extra beds were for Iyovi and Truckee, there wasn't much in the way of space. As such, the only place for you, when you'd shown up to their home one afternoon - was in Alice's bed. Somewhere in the back of your mind you remember sharing beds like this with the girls of your family, way back when. At the ranch, with Alice, you'd lay cuddled together on cold days and poles apart on the hottest.

Most nights Alice liked to pillow talk; telling you things she'd die before admitting to her son or to his grandmother. Listening to her came easy, her voice the steady warmth of sisterly whispers and ears neither of you otherwise had. She'd tell you her inner thoughts, her most secret tales, her plans, her wonderings. And most nights you'd be lulled to sleep by her talk before ever hearing the full of it.

For days after Roy's arrival, the shared bed whispers were far more of a conversation than they usually were. You'd both eagerly chatted, low voices wavering between bewilderment and wonder. And when Alice told you about the letter she'd found - Roy Goode, Lucy Cole, Jim Goode, California... it had taken Iyovi's vexed visit to your room to get you to stop talking about it and at last surrender to sleep.

The letter, she'd said, was unopened. Now, having seen Roy staring down at the folded, yellowed paper the way he was, you could only surmise that he'd at last worked himself up to reading it.

You try and duck back around the corner, but Roy calls you right back inside on the instant. His voice is low when he calls your name, but not hesitant. Purposeful. Soft.

"It's alright. Really," he beckons. "You come here needing something?"

"Nothing much. Just wanted to check on Maybelle," you nod to one of the horses in confession. "Would hate to interrupt. I'll just go on and get."

"No, no, you’re not interruptin' none. Fact I'd welcome the company. Won't you join me?"

This time you let your hands fall down your skirts in defeat and meander your way back in. The sand coloured beauty you'd called Maybelle nudges her face happily into your hands when you greet her, and you giggle lowly when you feel a puff of her hot breath between your fingers. Maybelle is all the more eager when you give her a gentle scratch about her ears, ever the easy lover.

"You got a real way with 'em," Roy mentions.

"Comin’ from you that means a mighty lot. Truckee and I got to agreeing that you're some sorta horse whisperer, you."

"Oh, is that so?" He nods in approval, "Well. My point still stands. You got a real way with them yourself, Milady."

"You always call me that. Milady. I'm no lady, Roy. I'm just some girl who the old wind blew the wrong way and won't take back." Your voice catches when you deliver the words, and you swallow, busying yourself with Maybelle's tangled mane in order to hide your expression from Roy. Talking about your old life, remembering wandering the woods, and the day Iyovi found you…it always brings a catch to the back of your throat, a sting in your eyes.

"Seems to me you could be a lady, being as you're so lost,” he tells you gently. “You could be a real regal lady, and we'd all be none the wiser, you could be. I'd believe it."

Your tears disappear before they're realised.

"And we don't know none about you, either. Seems to me you could be some Lord and we'd not know."

Roy laughs low. "I'm no Lord, Milady. That much I do confirm." He nods his head toward the pistol lying atop his jacket, over by his feet. "That ain't the common object of a Lord now, is it? Least not in my books. Well, wouldn't be if ever I read me some. Books."

"You can read them aplenty now. Thanks to Alice and Truckee and Callie's old primer, you'll be reading up a damn storm."

"Thanks to you too, Milady."

"You know you're always welcome. I'd help you over again if you needed it," you tell him. You stare into his eyes when you say it, way into his soul. You mean it. Every word.

"Help me now," Roy whispers. Slow. His ask comes in a gentle wave, entirely at the mercy of your answer. His want, the sea to ask, your willing, the moon to accept. Roy picks the letter back up and smooths the creases over his knee. "Help me read it."

"Your brother's letter? Isn't it?"

Roy nods slowly.

"I need you to help me read it. If you want to, like. If you want to. Please?" The letter flutters shut on his lap, and he sighs, running a hand wearily over his face. "It's just that...I'm afraid I don't know to read nearly enough words."

"Sure you do. I've seen you sounding them all out, and you get ‘em all eventually. You'll be dandy."

"I'm not so sure I wanna take that chance. Not with this. I wanna understand everything he's saying to me." For a moment the two of you only stare. Maybelle nuzzles your shoulder. Roy's soft blues pierce.

Hell. Jim's letter sure ain't no primer.

"What do you say?” Roy punctuates his question by patting the hay beside him.

You'd never much enjoyed sitting in the hay, being rough, scratchy and poking as it is. Sometimes the stuff would stick right in places you'd rather it didn't, and other times would strike through ripped holes of the thrice mended skirt you wore. Alice's old one, naturally, faded and many times patched, thin enough to make sure you'd feel every bit of that hay. Still, the invite of Roy's morning blues was proving themselves a feat to resist.

Roy smooths out his letter after he unfolds it. When he begins to stumble over the words, you realise he's sitting so close you can feel the vibration of his voice through his arm, pressed against yours.

Later, in bed, you lie awake for hours longer than is your usual. Sometime after too much tossing and turning, you lie flat on your back and admit your truth with a breathy sigh.

"He wanted me to read his brother's letter with him," your whisper is sleek and barely there in the night. "And I did."

A lilt of silence drifts as a stray breeze cools your shoulder. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say Roy Goode is a fool in love." Alice's words have you smiling stupidly into the dark. You had not known if she was awake to hear you, though you were not surprised; Alice was always there when she was needed, and Alice was always right.

The afternoon memory is a ghost in front of you, as if you're watching it all happen in the shadows of the night. His letter fluttering to the floor. His hand finding yours. Your arms encircling him. His arms tight around your back, hand on the back of your head. The way your hair stood on end as his breath graced your neck.

Then, as if she can see the memory with you, Alice laughs a soft laugh. "And I'd say he's not the only one. Whatever are we to do with you?”

You roll over onto your back. It’s a few minutes later when Alice’s muffled breathing announces she’s at last surrendered to sleep.

“Will you miss me when you go on, to your brother?”

Roy Goode had taken your face in his hands. From this angle, the sunlight hit his glistening eyes just right. From this angle, the face of this wanted killer was fragile, expectant.

“Not if you come with me.”

Every night in August looked the damn same: your dad’s friends crowded in the garage, smoking, drinking, shouting nonsense at the sports game. It was a sight you didn’t like, you hadn’t since you were a young thing–the overbearing noise, the smell, the way they always shooed you out anyway. It wasn’t your territory, and you respected it. Barely.

It’s Friday night, and you stand in the kitchen, yawning from being woken up. It was the stupid yelling again, a bunch of deep voices shouting over a commentator. Your mom was elsewhere, wine-drunk on the patio with her own friends, and you were stranded here on college vacation. 

You groan, stomping towards the garage door, swiftly opening it, seeing the five men lazily lounging around at twelve o’clock in the morning. You scowl at their collective glances, and you can tell that your dad is scowling at them, too.

“What can I do for ya’, honey?” your dad slurs out, leaning back into the lawn chair, his head turned over his shoulder. He’s drunk, of course he is.

“I’d… I’d appreciate it if you kept it down; I’m trying to sleep,” you explain with a little nod, leaning against the doorway, and he sighs, rolling his eyes. It’s a male-connection type of thing, and the other four smirk around the rim of their beer bottles.

“Sure… sure thing, baby girl, we’re sorry,” he mumbles out, chuckling to himself as he turns back to the television mounted on the garage wall, and you groan.

It’s not promising, not at all. 

Just as you shut the garage door, it returns; the cheering, the yelling, the laughs and high-fives, and you freeze, tipping your head back in frustration. It’s no use; why even bother going into your bedroom if you’ll be interrupted by grown men overreacting to other grown men kicking balls?

You settle for the living room–at least there’s a television there, something that can drown out the sound. You’d stay in your room, but you know your sleep schedule–you won’t be falling asleep for the next five hours, and you’ve made peace with that inconvenience.

Leaning into the cushions, you curl up a bit more, focusing on the idle screen. It’s playing some shitty rom-com, something that barely stimulates any part of your mind, but the commotion outside is slowly being forgotten, and you ease into the cheesy movie.

You jump when the garage door shuts, and you quickly turn your head over the couch to see who just entered your house: two men, standing tall, laughing quietly among themselves, rambling on about the game. One turns, the shorter one, noticing the peeking eyes over the back of the couch, and he narrows his eyes, smirking.

“Sorry to bother you, sweetheart,” he says, his voice deep, low, shaking his head as he holds the empty beer box. “Your daddy says there’s an extra case… somewhere… mind helpin’ us?”

The other one beside him, just a bit taller, glances out of the corner of his eye, his hands straightening the hem of his shirt. You sigh quietly, nodding and crawling off the couch, wandering towards the two of them.

“Thanks, baby,” the other one finally chimes in, his voice much different, softer, gentler, and you suddenly feel the weight of two men towering behind you as you lead them towards the small fridge, where your dad specifically left beers to chill.

“There you go,” you say softly with a confident nod, turning around to face the two of them, and they have the same look on their face; knowing, eyes darkened and low–barely drunk, but tipsy enough to be staring at their friend’s daughter.

“Perfect, thank you, baby,” the taller one says, leaning a bit forward and patting your shoulder, warm fingers grazing the bare skin revealed by the thin strap of your tank top. You nod again.

You slowly walk back towards the living room, glancing back at the two of them; hovering around the mini fridge, one leaned down, fishing out three beers, and you settle back onto the sofa. 

“Hey,” one of them says, and you look back again, but they’re both approaching the living room, bypassing the garage door. You furrow your eyebrows, biting your lip.

“Yeah?” you ask quietly, swallowing back the nerves settling in your throat.

“Want one?” he asks, and the taller one nudges him slightly–he’s the quieter one, you notice, always making faces and glances when the confident, short one says something your dad would punch him in the face for.

“Yeah… yeah, that would be cool,” you smile and nod, watching as the two men part ways, both walking on each side of the couch, carefully crowding you in.

You don’t realize what’s happening until either one is sitting beside you, and you’re sandwiched between them. You’d be lying if you didn’t feel the slightest bit lucky; they were always the ones you found most attractive, the ones who gave you attention when you’d stare at them during stupid backyard get-togethers. 

“Thanks… thank you,” you say nervously, taking the cold beer from the one on your right, giving him a polite nod. He’s looking past you at the one on your left; he’s adjusting his hips, his longer legs struggling to adapt to the smaller space. He’s so tall.

“Of course,” he mumbles, a charming smile pulling into his lips, and he’s finally looking at you. You bite your lip out of habit.

“Sweetheart,” the left one begins, and you’re turning your head, suddenly realizing how overwhelming this is; two men, two handsome men, two sets of prying eyes, four hands, and you’re struggling to process it. “We’re just sorry about your daddy, yelling and all that,” he grins.

You feel the touch from behind, not the one you’re making eye contact with, gently pushing a piece of hair behind your ear. You flinch, laugh nervously, and look between them.

“No… no, it’s okay, I’m used to it.” You shake your head, unable to choose which one to focus on.

“It’s not okay, sweetheart,” the one behind you chimes in, pulling his hand away from your hair, and you can only focus on him now–the short one, you register. “Not very polite of us to disturb a guest,” he smiles again, and you’re smiling too, but nerves fuel it. 

“I swear–it’s okay, it’s fine, you don’t have to worry about that,” you defend quickly, shaking your head, and the taller one suddenly has a light grip of your hair, a fistful of it, forcing your head to face him instead.

“You don’t have to take things you don’t like,” he says quietly, shaking his head as if he’s scolding you. “You’re tough, though; we’ve noticed it,” he adds, and you’re staring at him with wide eyes and flushed cheeks.

“Pretty girl like you shouldn’t have to deal with men like that,” a deeper voice says–you noticed it: the cockier, shorter one has a deeper voice, and the taller, gentler one has a softer one.

Huh. Funny how that works. 

“Yeah, he’s right,” the soft voice says, and you’re staring into his eyes, nodding like you’re somehow being hypnotized. You wish you weren’t so weak, but you are.

A flick of his eyes has the other one joining in, leaning forward and gently kissing your neck from behind. Your eyes flutter, and the one before you smiles, already watching you melt. 

The tall, soft one with the soft voice, and the shorter, rough one with the deep voice.

 That’s the only way your fuzzy brain can distinguish the two of them.

“She’s already enjoying it,” he suddenly calls out, the one your brain has deemed as soft and tall, and you look at him, lips parting in embarrassment. “You like how he’s kissing you, baby?”

You’re moaning softly now, feeling lips move more insistently after hearing how much you’re apparently enjoying it. His deep voice mumbles against your neck: “Gonna let him touch you while I kiss you, sweetheart?”

The one who is holding your hair, tall with that soft voice, still slides his hand away, gently cupping your cheek instead, feeling you lean into it; eyes heavy and cheeks flush, feeling lips moving again, sliding up to your jaw, and you’re whimpering.

“You tell him you want me to touch you?” the tall one asks, his voice soft and quiet. The soft one, right.

You can feel the rough one, well, getting rough: his hand gently grips your waist from behind, practically guiding you to lie back against him, between his legs, while the other one nudges his way between your parted thighs. It’s hard to believe this is real, but it is.

You stare up, blinking slowly, the one above you moving his long legs, nudging your thighs apart, all while your neck still has attention on it; light kisses, and now rough hands cradling your hips.

“How’re you feeling, baby?” he mumbles as he kisses your neck, and you’re staring up, seeing a completely different man looking down at you. It’s hard to comprehend it: two different men, touching you, wanting you.

“Good… I feel good,” you mumble, and the one between your thighs is currently spreading yours even further, smirking, his ears paying close attention to the conversation he’s not a part of. 

“Good.. you deserve to feel good,” the shorter one whispers beneath you, a trail of saliva spreading across the slope of your neck. “Isn’t that right? Our girl deserves to feel good?” he suddenly asks, clearly not talking to you.

“Of course,” the one above you mumbles casually, nodding, leaning closer, two hands finding the waistband of your shorts, lightly tugging the fabric down. “Such a good girl.”

“Your daddy always tells us how good you are,” a deep voice is mumbling into your ear, but your eyes watch above you, lips parted in awe, and he’s working your underwear off; meanwhile, the one beneath you is holding your hips still.

You shift your hips awkwardly, but a rough grab of your body keeps you still, and the one who nudged his way between your thighs is slowly tossing your underwear aside, and you breathe heavier and heavier, gazing up at him.

“Stay still, let him do what he needs to do,” you feel against your ear, eyes focusing on strong hands unbuckling his belt, and you’re melting into the firm body beneath you, all the while, the other way is undressing himself.

“Keep kissing her neck,” you hear from above you, and lips are back against your neck, slowly closing your eyes as you give in to the feeling. “Wish you could see what she looks like.” 

Big hands rub your thighs, another pair holding your hips, keeping you still and spread open. You’re moaning softly again, panting quietly, overwhelmed by the feelings, and the next time your eyes flutter, you quickly realize he’s about to fuck you right here, with his damn friend beneath you.

“I–” you stutter quietly, but a large hand slides from your hip and clasps over your mouth, suddenly shutting you up, and the one who is currently aligning himself with you is smirking, looking past you, nodding. 

“Keep quiet for him, baby,” a rough voice says into your ear, and you tip your head back onto his shoulder, suddenly feeling pressure between your warm thighs; he’s already burying himself in you, and the other short one is soothing you, kissing your jaw still.

You whimper into his palm. Meanwhile, the tall one, buried inside of you, has his hands holding your knees, keeping them spread open, ensuring he has all the room in the world to push deeper and deeper, and your hips attempt to lift; thank God the other one has one hand pinning them down, the other forbidding any noise to come out of your mouth.

He’s groaning softly, head tipped back in awe, and you can feel every inch of him inside of you; warm and thick, twitching, and you’re being gently cradled in the arms of another man the entire time.

“She takes me so fucking good,” he drawls out, the soft voice bordering on rough, and the one beneath you chuckles. “So.. fucking tight,” he mumbles, shaking his head.

“Yeah? She feel good?” he asks beneath you, his eyes turning to see what you look like; eyes squeezed shut, forehead glistening with sweat. “Looks like the poor thing feels good, too,” he taunts, slowly sliding a hand away from your hip.

“Mhm, feels like a fucking dream,” he agrees, smiling through the groans and moans he can't conceal, and you’re sinking further into the one who is still lightly kissing at your neck, but you notice his hand detaching from your hip, sliding to press against your stomach.

“Gonna let him fill you up, huh?” he chimes in, applying pressure to your stomach. “Think you owe it to him, for fucking you so good, yeah?” he taunts again, the roughness poking its head out, influencing his sharp words you’re getting sick off.

You whine against the warm palm, clenching around the one above you, and the stretch sends your head back, tipping further onto the other one’s shoulder. It feels so good, waves of guilt and pleasure clashing.

“God, she’s fucking tight,” the tall one groans with a solid thrust, pushing deeper into you, your body pressing against the thick one beneath yours. “Wraps around me so nicely, isn’t that right, baby?” he asks you, and you’re nodding, feeling licks against the shell of your ear.

The hand on your stomach slides lower, and you suddenly feel a warm thumb push against your clit, a gentle circle, only adding to the stimulation. You whine louder into the palm, noticing the two other hands above you forcing yourself to spread open more.

“You’re gonna break her,” he mumbles between your legs, talking to one who is currently kissing your neck from behind, all while focusing on rubbing slow circles, right against that one part of you that even you barely fucking touch. “Need some help, yeah?”

Your eyebrows furrow slightly, nose scrunching as the two men communicate, and you watch a hand slide down your thigh; two fingers part, lightly spreading you open, forcing your clit to be on display, all while the other one’s thumb presses down harder. He’s fucking you, and keeps you stretched.

“Oh, baby,” the one beneath you coos, kissing your jawline, rubbing circles, the one above you still fucking into you, a helping hand spreading your folds, eager to help his friend, and you. “All spread for us, aren’t you?”

“So stretched out, you are,” he groans, the thrusts becoming quicker, harder, his body leaning forward slightly to keep that hand between your thighs, allowing those long fingers to keep that sensitive bud right in the open. 

It’s a burst of warmth with that final thrust, and he pushes in deeper than you thought you could handle. He finishes, deep, that full feeling, accompanied by the continuous, agonizing drag of the stray thumb on your clit. You’re helplessly whining into a palm still wrapped around your mouth, your eyes shutting.

“She’s stuffed,” he groans, pulling out, his hand sliding away from between your thighs, though the one beneath you insists on letting you ride out the orgasm, still circling. “Like, leaking onto the front of your fucking jeans, stuffed,” he scoffs, gazing down at the unfortunate mess you’re making.

He chuckles into your ear, and the tall one admires the piece of work you are; flushed and already exhausted, cum dripping out of you, and he glances at his friend, who is kissing your jaw still.

“Your turn,” he smiles, and your eyes widen at the thought–round two, different guy? 

The thought makes you dizzy, and you whine into your hand, eyes blinking quickly.

“It’s only fair, sweet girl,” he coos like he wasn’t just buried inside of you, his own hands now reaching forward and grabbing hold of your hips, the hand against your clit redacting, and the two men are working you into a different position. 

You gasp in relief when the hand is pulled away, panting heavily, nervous eyes glancing around the living room. The television is still playing; there’s quiet chatter from the garage, and it hits you that you’re really doing this in your living room.

“My–my dad,” you plead softly, feeling the way you’re being carefully lifted, noticing the four sets of hands working around; it’s confusing; you can barely pick out who is who; just long fingers, quick, touching you effortlessly.

“What about him, baby?” the one you’re now straddling asks, the short one–reverse cowgirl, to be exact- quickly realizing you’re about to be fucked by him next, and you glance down; he’s already pulling himself out, thick and ready.

“Don’t watch that, watch me.” A strong hand grabs your chin, and you’re forced to look up at him; instead of the taller one fucking you this time, he’s half-kneeling on the couch, getting you almost eye-level with his groin–he’s always been tall, and it’s working to his advantage. 

Another pair of hands is holding your soft hips, carefully aligning you, all while you stare up at the other man, eyes darkened, ready to watch you be used a second time, eager to see the same expressions that curled at your lips and scrunched at your nose. Though he knows your mouth will be full this time around.

“Gonna fuck her mouth, use it too?” he asks below you, pressing up into your already used hole, and you whine softly, which makes him quickly nod.

“To shut her up, yeah,” he chuckles, condescendingly, acting like you’re barely part of the conversation, merely an observer, and you whimper, glancing behind you at the short one. He pats your hip, telling you to focus on the man who is tall and looming over.

You look back, and it nudges your lip, the tip of him, and he reaches out, gently patting your head. “Look at me, baby,” he mumbles, and you whine softly, closing your eyes instead.

It’s simultaneous; the thrust of the hips beneath you, carried by the way he nudges his cock between your pouty lips. It’s all-consuming, and your mind instantly goes fuzzy at the feeling of being completely stuffed–both ends.

Two large hands grip your hips, guiding them, adjusting them, keeping a steady rhythm that has your eyes rolling back, though a sound can’t leave your mouth; it’s full, and drool trickles down your chin, feeling the veins rolling across your tongue, the prodding against the back of your throat.

The lack of moans from you is made up of gags instead, soft chokes of slight defiance, a reaction to your body adjusting to the size of both; one focused on fucking up into you, while the other keeps a hand on your head, holding it steadily, mercilessly moving back and forth.

“Good girl, that’s it, baby” rings in your ears, and at this point it’s difficult to tell which voice is speaking to you; with three hands on you, both ends pounded, it’s hard to register a single word.

“Taking us so well,” a low voice hums, and you’re sure it’s the one pushing deep inside you, into your stomach, focusing on going deeper and deeper, but it’s hard to tell with your eyes closed and your mouth stuffed.

“Looking like a fucking dream, huh?” the one who is using your throat asks, and you can’t make a sound, but the one beneath you does; “God, feels like one–you were right,” he grunts out, panting softly.

Your eyes fill with tears, just a plain reaction to what you’re feeling, and he smiles, his head tipping back in a nod. “You’re okay, sweetheart, we’re… we’re taking care of you,” he reassures.

It’s all so fuzzy; the voices are a blend, no longer soft or rough, just a mindless haze of lust washing over you, and them, of course. You’re choking on the one stuffed in your mouth, his long legs giving an unforgiving angle, and the short one is still holding your hips, fucking up into you. 

Both ends are currently being stuffed in your living room, and all you can do is gag and whine about what’s in your mouth and what’s happening beneath. It’s rough and soft, warm and cold, the two men clashing, and you don’t even know who is who; you just know that every inch of you is being used, and you sit and take it.

The tall one has his hand on your head, thrusting into your mouth, and he’s watching behind your shoulder, his friend mercilessly fucking up into you. He grins at the sight, panting and sweating, and it happens like a burst of lightning; both of them finish at the exact same time.

It’s the most overwhelming thing you think you’ve felt; three times, being filled, and you’re whining when he finally pulls out of your mouth, immediately wiping the cum, but still stuffed from the other end. You’re a mess, an absolute mess, and the tall one grasps your face, his hands holding your cheeks.