p-s-t

The door to the laundromat clicks shut behind the last customer of the day, and you hear the lock turn before the familiar weight of Lion’s steps crosses the tile. It’s hot—sticky, end-of-summer Reno hot—the kind of heat that makes the air heavy, that clings to your skin like damp cotton. Out front, the sky hangs low and bright behind sun-faded awnings and warped pavement. The kind of heat that bakes the parking lot until it smells like rubber and old oil.

Inside, though, it smells like home. Fabric softener and dryer sheets. Soap and lemon. The faint trace of clean sweat. You’re sitting on the counter near the register, sipping a lukewarm iced coffee and watching him move.

Your husband is folding fitted sheets with a precision that makes your stomach flutter. And not just folding, either—he’s mastering them. His fingers work the elastic corners like a puzzle he’s solved a hundred times over, smoothing and flipping with calm, deliberate care. There’s a streak of pink crayon on his shirt—Hannah’s doing—and a glitter sticker stuck to his left knee that Harper must’ve pressed there when he bent to tie her shoes that morning.

You might actually combust.

Eight years of marriage. Two daughters. A mortgage. A shared business with rent paid up and a schedule pinned crooked on the bulletin board in the back office. And still, somehow, he looks like that.

He scratches the side of his jaw and mutters to himself about the folding, unaware of your gaze, his brows knitted. That stupid little furrow in his brow still gets you after all this time. He’s dressed down for the heat today—worn white tee clinging to his back where it’s damp, work jeans low on his hips, belt unbuckled just enough to breathe.

The muscles in his arms flex every time he shifts a stack of towels.

You cross your ankles to keep from shifting in your seat. You don't succeed.

“Daddy!” Harper’s voice rings out from the corner of the laundromat you’ve carved into a play area with puzzles and a tiny pink tent. “Hannah spit up on my bear again!”

A thump. A squeal. A tiny, guilty little voice: “Uh-oh.”

Lion sighs. It’s not annoyed, not really—just full of that long-suffering dad patience you love him for. He scrubs a hand down his face and throws you a look like, You seein’ this shit?

You grin into your coffee.

But he’s already moving. Already crouching down to scoop Hannah up in his arms with a grunt.

“What did we say about spit, trouble?” he murmurs as she wriggles, giggling.

She flings her arms around his neck and mashes her cheek into his shoulder.

“Sorry,” she mutters, muffled.

He rubs her back gently. “That ain’t Harper, baby. You gotta tell her.”

Hannah squirms down to her feet and toddles back toward her big sister, who’s holding the damp stuffed bear like a wet dishrag. Lion turns to Harper and crouches again, opening his hands.

“Bring it here, sweetheart. We’ll clean him up.”

You swear to god, you ovulate on the spot.

He takes the bear with both hands like it’s a sacred relic, carries it to the utility sink near the back, and gently starts to scrub at the spit-up with soap and a washcloth while Harper hovers beside him. Hannah, now bare-footed and dragging a blanket behind her, clutches the hem of Lion’s shirt like she’s tethered to him.

He doesn’t flinch when she steps on his boots. Doesn’t even look down. Just keeps washing the bear, murmuring something low and rhythmic about bubbles and bravery while Harper leans her chin on his shoulder.

Your chest hurts watching it.

Your thighs have done that clench thing three times in the last ten minutes.

You could write a damn dissertation on the veiny forearms of your husband, the strong curve of his nose, the quiet patience in his voice. No one would believe the same man who growled at a guy in traffic last week for cutting him off is the one explaining the delicate art of blot-drying plush toys to your six-year-old.

He catches you looking.

Doesn’t say anything—just cocks his head, one corner of his mouth lifting slow.

You glance away like that’ll help. It doesn’t.

He rinses the bear one last time, squeezes it gently, and sets it on top of the dryer to dry. Wipes his hands off on a towel. Walks straight toward you.

When he passes by to toss the towel in the bin, he leans close—low, voice rumbling just for you.

“You’ve been lookin’ at me like you wanna climb me like a tree since I bent over to fix that lint trap."

Your skin prickles. Heat rising to your neck.

You say nothing. Sip your coffee like it might protect you.

He stops in front of you. Hands on the counter on either side of your hips. Leans in.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice,” he says, voice thick. “You’ve been staring for a while now, Mrs. Kaminski.”

That name still does something to you.

You can smell the fabric softener on him. The faint scent of apple soap. Underneath it, the smell of Lion himself—salt and sun-warmed skin and laundry heat.

“I was just watching,” you say, too fast.

He smiles. Slow. Knowing.

“You were drooling.”

“Was not.”

“You were starin’ like you wanted to suck the dad right outta me.”

You nearly choke.

He chuckles under his breath.

“Jesus,” he murmurs, eyes flicking toward the play area. Cartoons are playing. The girls are settled. Safe. “You’re lucky they’re busy. You keep lookin’ at me like that, I’m gonna take you home and remind you why you married me.”

You swallow.

“Maybe I need reminding.”

The noise he makes is low, deep, feral. He grabs your chin between his fingers, tilts your head up, leans in close.

“You say that again when we get in the house,” he mutters, “and I’m putting you on your knees first thing.”

You blink up at him, breath caught. Your thighs pressed tight. Your whole body buzzing.

He lets go with a grunt, turns on his heel.

“Girls! Grab your shoes—we’re headed home!”

You hop off the counter on shaky legs.

Lion leans in as he passes by, mouth brushing your ear.

“Gonna put the girls down for a nap,” he whispers, voice wrecked and low, “then I’m puttin’ you down for a stretch, Mrs. Kaminski.”

You nearly trip over the mop bucket on your way out.

The ride home is quiet. Golden. Late afternoon Reno sun bleeds through the windows of the truck, casting warm streaks across the dashboard and catching in the curls of Hannah’s hair as she dozes in her car seat. Harper hums along to the radio, swinging her little legs in time with the music, still clutching her freshly laundered bear like it’s brand new again.

You glance sideways.

Lion’s got one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh.

Thumb rubbing slow circles.

You don’t think he even notices he’s doing it. But you do.

Every pass over your skin—lazy, slow, familiar—sinks just a little deeper than the last.

You pull into the driveway of your small, sun-bleached house on the edge of town. The stucco's warm and cracked in places, the shutters could use repainting, and the porch light still flickers when it storms—but it’s home. There’s sidewalk chalk art trailing up the walk and a pair of muddy pink sandals left forgotten on the front step.

You unbuckle Hannah while Lion grabs the tote bag of snacks and half-folded coloring pages from the back. She whines in her sleep, curling against your chest as you carry her inside. Harper darts past you both, bare feet slapping against the tile, her voice already announcing that she’s gonna pick the movie today, Daddy!

Lion follows behind, closing the door with his foot. His eyes catch yours over the top of Hannah’s head.

You feel it like a jolt.

That look again.

You manage to get both girls down for a nap after a shared bowl of popcorn and ten minutes of some animated fairy movie. Harper falls asleep face-first into the throw pillows on the couch. Hannah goes under with a thumb in her mouth and one chubby hand tangled in your shirt. Lion lifts her gently, tucks her into her toddler bed with the kind of care that makes your breath catch all over again.

He lingers for a moment after, brushing her hair back from her forehead.

You wait in the hallway, heart thudding a little too hard.

The house settles into stillness. The TV’s on mute now. The fan hums from the kitchen. A warm breeze presses through the open windows, thick with sagebrush and desert dust.

Lion steps into the hallway and closes Hannah’s door behind him with a soft click.

You barely have time to straighten up before he’s in front of you.

That same heavy, loaded silence stretching between your bodies.

He doesn’t touch you yet. Doesn’t speak.

Just looks at you like you’re the first clean breath after a long-held one.

And then he says—low and wrecked and reverent:

“Bedroom. Now.”

He doesn’t raise his voice.

Doesn’t have to.

The second he says it—“Bedroom. Now.”—you’re moving.

There’s no rush. No mad scramble. Just this simmering urgency under your skin. Like something slow-boiling finally tipping over. Your bare feet hit the hallway carpet. You hear the quiet creak of the door behind you as he follows.

By the time you reach the bedroom, he’s on you.

His hand slaps the door shut behind you—click—and his mouth is already finding yours, rough and greedy, all teeth and heat and years of knowing exactly how to kiss you. His fingers grip your jaw, tilt your head back, and he takes his time sucking on your bottom lip before biting down, just hard enough to make you gasp.

“You know what you do to me?” he growls, crowding you back toward the bed. “Walking around all day watching me be a good fuckin’ dad—lookin’ at me like I invented the damn sun.”

“I didn’t say anything,” you breathe.

He chuckles dark.

“You didn’t have to. Your pussy was talkin’ loud enough.”

He kisses you again—hot, open-mouthed, hands on your hips. He walks you back step by step until the backs of your knees hit the bed, and you drop with a breathless little bounce.

He doesn’t follow you down. Not yet.

Instead, he stands over you for a second, breathing heavy. Shirt rumpled, belt hanging loose, eyes dark and locked on yours.

Then—

“You gonna thank me?” he asks, voice low. Dangerous.

You blink up at him, dazed. “For what?”

“For bein’ the best fuckin’ husband and father alive,” he says, grabbing your ankle and dragging you to the edge of the bed, “and for not bending you over that dryer earlier when you were eye-fucking me in front of our daughters.”

You moan—half embarrassment, half fuck yes.

“Thank you, Daddy.”

He grunts. Hard.

“Say it again.”

“Thank you, Daddy,” you whisper.

His pupils blow. His jaw clenches. And then he’s down on his knees.

Spreads your thighs without ceremony, yanks your panties aside like they offended him, and groans when he sees the mess between your legs.

“You’re soaked,” he growls, breath hot on your skin. “All that just from watchin’ me fold fuckin’ laundry?”

You nod, breath hitching. “You’re hot when you’re domestic.”

He laughs—a real one, hoarse and disbelieving—and then buries his face between your legs like he missed you. Like he’s been starving.

His tongue is slow at first. Wide, lazy strokes that make your hips twitch. He pins them down, forearms hooked under your thighs, mouth working you over with obscene, practiced confidence. Like he knows every nerve ending by name. He groans into you, like he needs it—like he missed tasting you.

You tangle your fingers in his hair and tug.

He moans so loud it vibrates into your spine.

“Fuck, Lion—”

“Say it right.”

You whimper. “Daddy—fuck—Daddy, please—”

He pulls back for a second, lips wet, panting. “Gonna let me have it? Huh? Gonna let Daddy fuck that tight little wife pussy ‘til you’re cryin’?”

Your answer is already written all over your face.

He gets up and strips fast—belt undone, jeans shoved down, briefs next. His cock is already hard, already leaking, and fuck, it still makes you clench just looking at him.

“C’mere,” he mutters, dragging you further up the bed, flipping you over onto your stomach. “Face down, ass up—just like that. My good girl.”

You arch for him instinctively. He runs a rough hand down your spine, then grabs your hips in both hands and drags you back onto him.

You gasp—no warning, no teasing, he just slides in deep, slow but unrelenting, and holds you there. Your fingers clutch the sheets, legs shaking, jaw slack.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he hisses behind you. “Still tight after all these years. Fuck, you were made for me.”

“Only for you,” you whimper, voice muffled.

“Damn right,” he growls, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in. “You hear me, Mrs. Kaminski? Only I get this pussy.”

You cry out—high, broken.

His wedding ring presses into your hip when he grips you harder.

He sets a rhythm—slow, deep, mean—and you take it, moaning into the mattress, eyes wet, body boneless. Every thrust hits that spot that unravels you. His hand comes up to your hair, fisting it, dragging you up so your back arches deeper and you have to take it.

“Pretty little fuckin’ wife,” he rasps. “So goddamn perfect for me. Gonna knock you up again if you’re not careful. Fill you up so deep you’ll be waddling around the laundromat.”

You whine.

He leans in, breath hot on your neck. “You want that?”

You nod—frantic.

“Use your words.”

“Yes, Daddy. Want it. Want all of it.”

“Yeah?” he pants, thrust-thrust-thrust, rougher now. “Wanna be Mommy again just ‘cause I did the dishes and tied some shoes?”

You moan like it’s killing you. Your orgasm's building fast. Your body’s starting to shake.

He notices.

“Oh, fuck—are you gonna cry for me, baby?” he coos mock-soft, still fucking into you hard. “Gonna let Daddy fuck you so good you cry like a sweet little wife?”

You do. Your body tips over the edge and your orgasm rips through you. You sob—truly sob, overwhelmed and wet and wrecked—and he curses behind you, hips stuttering, and then he’s grinding into you, teeth bared, as he empties himself deep inside you with a growl.

“Fuck—fuck, take it—take all my cum, baby—fuckin’ wringing me out—”

You whimper, legs giving out beneath you.

He collapses over your back, chest heaving, one hand still tangled in your hair, the other gripping your hip like a lifeline. His cock still twitching deep inside you. His wedding ring glinting where it’s pressed tight to your skin.

For a long moment, the room is just heat and breath and aftershocks.

Then, quiet—softly—he kisses the back of your neck.

“You okay?"

You nod, still trembling. “Better than okay.”

He chuckles into your hair.

“My girl.”

You’re still shaking when he rolls off you.

Not because he was too rough—not really. But because Lion Kaminski fucks like he loves: with everything he’s got. Every stroke, every sound, every filthy praise-laced word meant something. And now you’re wrung out from it.

You’re stretched, sweat-slicked, and full—both literally and emotionally.

Lion groans as he flops onto his back beside you, one arm flung up, the other lazily reaching for your waist to reel you in.

“C’mere, baby,” he mumbles, voice ruined.

You curl into his chest without hesitation, cheek pressed against the damp plane of muscle beneath his tattooed collarbone. You can feel his heartbeat, erratic but settling. He kisses the top of your head.

His chest rises and falls. His skin’s still sticky. The sheets are a disaster. But you don’t care. This is your favorite part. The quiet that comes after.

His hand strokes up and down your spine, fingers trailing along your ribs, your side, the dip of your hip. You shift slightly, wince.

“Was I too rough?” he asks instantly, voice thick with concern.

“No,” you breathe, dazed. “You were perfect.”

He exhales, presses another kiss to your hair. “Still—gimme a second. I’ll get a warm towel.”

You hum. “If you move, I might cry again.”

He chuckles, low and warm. “Don’t tempt me, Mrs. Kaminski.”

You lie there a moment longer, tangled up in each other, your limbs heavy and loose. You trace the edge of one of his tattoos with your fingertip. He catches your hand and kisses your knuckles, wedding band and all.

You whisper, “You really like it when I call you Daddy, huh?”

He huffs a laugh. “You say it like that and I’m gonna start all over again.”

“I don’t think I can survive round two.”

He smirks, clearly pleased. “Did I wear you out, baby?”

You nod against his chest. “You’re gonna have to carry me tomorrow.”

He stretches, lazy and content. “Good. I’ll do the school run in the morning. You sleep in.”

“You’re really gonna do drop-off solo? You and Harper always end up getting slushies and showing up to first bell sticky and late.”

“She’s got a reputation to uphold,” he says, mock serious. “Kaminski girls don’t roll in clean. We roll in loved.”

You snort.

He grins.

It’s quiet again for a moment. The sound of the fan ticking. A dog barking two houses down. The rustle of a sheet being pulled half-heartedly over your sticky bodies.

You let your eyes slip closed.

Lion’s voice floats up, rough but soft:

“You think we did alright?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs, arm tight around your back. “With them. The girls. I dunno. I think about it sometimes. What they’ll remember. What they’ll keep.”

You look up at him. His lashes are damp with sweat. His hair’s a mess. His expression’s that rare blend of thoughtful and unsure—something he doesn’t show often.

“They’ll remember being loved,” you say simply. “Safe. Heard. Held.”

He swallows hard.

Doesn’t say anything for a second.

Then murmurs, “I fuckin’ love you, baby.”

You press a kiss to his shoulder. “I love you too, Daddy.”

He groans—long and loud.

“I just got my heart rate back down—don’t start.”

You giggle into his chest.

He tightens his arm around you like he wants to sink into the mattress and never come back up.

And then—

Knock knock knock.

The bedroom door creaks.

“Daddy?” Harper’s voice.

You freeze.

Lion lifts his head, eyes wide. “Yeah, baby?”

“Um…Hannah flushed Barbie’s head down the toilet and now it’s making a glugging noise.”

You press your face into his chest to muffle your laughter.

He sighs—deep, dramatic, resigned.

“Ten minutes,” he calls. “Tell her Daddy’s on his way.”

“…Can we have fruit snacks?”

“…Ten minutes, Harper.”

You lift your head and look at him. His face is twisted somewhere between affection and pure defeated exhaustion.

You grin.

“What?” he asks, mock suspicious.

“Just…you really are the hottest fuckin’ dad alive.”

He groans and flops backward again. “Woman. I will fold you in half if you don’t shut up.”

You laugh and kiss him, one last time, slow and soft.

Then sigh, already reaching for your robe.

“I-I didn’t— promise!” Your pleas fall on deaf ears, finding it hard to hear yourself with his pelvis snapping against your ass and his angry moans drowning into your ears. Grunting and groaning about how fucking annoying it is having to make sure he keeps an eye on you.

“You fucking did— I saw you—“ his hand was tight around your waist, pulling you back to meet his brutal pace. “Sitting there, twirling your hair and smiling like— shit, you did that to get under my skin, huh? “

“No— “

“Yeah you did.”

He doesn’t want to hear the excuses, he knows what he saw. You, bent over, fingering locked in your hair, glossy lips pulled up and your hand reaching out like you wanted to hold his hand. Like you wanted him instead of the man who was fighting for his life, in dying need of your attention on him.

So, Lion bent you over after the watch, right outside the alleyway, skirt pulled up around your waist, panties tugged to the side because you didn’t deserve to be treated like a lady when all you wanted to be was a slut.

“You’re so fucking annoying,” he groaned, dragging his hips back and forth, listening to you whine and gasp underneath him. “tell the truth, did you like him?”

“No—“ his hand wrapped around the front of your neck and he felt your pussy convulse— damn near jumping in excitement.

“Truth, now.”

“B-Baby— I just— just wanted—“ his hand squeezed around your throat, “j-just wanted a— a corndog.”

“Is that some fucking euphemism for his cock or some shit?”

“The corn— dogs were big— I was hungry!”

“You ate before we left!”

It’s like you were begging for him to be at a scale of 1000 in terms of the emotion chart— 1000 being super duper “I’m going to kill that guy the next time I see him and fuck your throat next” angry.

“I lost my match because of you—“ the sounds of his hips echoed, bouncing off the walls like marbles hitting the floor. “—got my nose fucked up because of you—“ his free hand came down to pinch your ass, “—made me lose my shit because of you.”

“I-I’m sorry—“

“You’re not sorry.”

he took you hard and heavy, up against the grimy brick walls of the building, giving you brutal thrusts and hard blows to your back. You felt him, inside and outside, everywhere all at once. Beating your pussy in without remorse— claiming you in more ways then one.

“he won’t fuck you like me— he doesn’t love you like me.”

It was hard for him to admit he was jealous in all of this. Ego too big and his emotions too damn high to outright say it. But in a way, the furious thrust to your weeping pussy is his shameful confession.

“say you won’t do it again,” He pulled your head back, kissing along your jawline. “tell me you fucking love me.”

“Love you— only you— Lion I fucking love you.”

“See what you do to me— fuck— I’m going insane because of you.”

“I won’t do it again baby.”

“Promise?”

“Yes! F-Fuck— just keep going.”

He knows you can’t keep promises. That’s why your in this predicament.

Another slam to your cunt made you see stars. another pinch to your ass made tears drip down your face. You cried after that, blissful from feeling that hot pleasure erupt— moaning his name in a symphony like Christmas carols. He came inside you, not caring that your not on the pill, not caring that the outcome of this would be a baby. Maybe if you got knocked up, maybe if you were swollen with nothing but him— maybe you would stop trying to ruin his sense of logic.

You made him lose his sanity.

Then, when he was down pumping you full, his hot breath against your ear and his cock slipping out. He pulled your skirt back in place, grunting from the loss of warmth.

“Come on— Stans waiting for us.”

You nodded, fixing your hair down.

He should have known you would try something again. It’s in the way you smiled. Way too happy, way too cheery.

The next match, right before he was throwing the finishing blow, he saw you. Leaning against some guy in the stand, your hand on his thigh and your eyes rolling all over him.

Lion stood there, leaving a huge opening for his opponent to punch him right in the face, forcing him to crumble to the floor like jenga pieces. His head hurt, his face hurt— Christ, he was going to find that guy you were sitting with after the match and give him a similar punch for messing with his girl.

With his one good eye— the one he could barely fucking see out of— you looked at him with a smirk. Knowing good and well he was going to handle you back at home.

The wedding was small and lovely, just as you and Oliver had wanted. Just a handful of family and friends gathered in your back garden, surrounded by wildflowers, and yourself clad in a handmade dress. The entire ceremony, Oliver looked at you like you had hung the moon and stars in the sky, and you were equally as enamored with him.

That night, your husband reverently took you in. His big, rough hands an ironic contrast as they gently ran over the delicate lace of your dress, mapping out your curves with utmost admiration. His jaw nearly hangs in awe at you, "Can't believe yer really mine." he murmurs, fingers trailing over your collarbone and up the sleight line of your neck.

"All yours, Oli." you smile, your own hand coming up to lovingly scratch at the scruff on his chin.

A crooked smile graces his lips before he leans in to kiss you, his hand coming up to cradle your neck and jaw in a possessive hold. Your fingers curl into the front of his white shirt, pulling him closer. His tongue darts out to swipe at your bottom lip and you open eagerly with a moan, letting him meet yours. He starts leading you towards the bed, his hands moving to the back of your dress to pick at the clasps holding it together.

The delicate fabric pools at your feet, body clad only in silky panties. Oliver groans low in his throat at the sight in front of him. His wife. He could barely believe it. You were his and no one else’s. Whilst he was lost in thoughts of how beautiful you were, your hands made quick work of pulling his suspenders down his shoulders and unbuttoning his shirt.

"Oli..." you trail off, biting your lip before leaning in to kiss him again. He unbuckles his belt and unbuttons his trousers, kicking them off before urging you towards the bed. He lays you down, pressing open-mouthed kisses from your neck and down your sternum, scruff scratching lightly against your skin. His fingers hook into the sides of your panties, pulling them down your legs and tossing them aside.

“Ya know how much I love to taste ya, but I have’ta be inside ya sweetheart.” He mumbles against the skin of your thighs, nipping teasingly at the sensitive flesh.

You nod eagerly, heartbeat quickening at his words, “Please. Need you.” Your thighs fall to the sides, inviting him closer. Oliver moves up your body, slotting his hips against yours. The heavy weight of his hard cock pressing against your weeping folds sent a spark up your spine. He plants his forearms beside either side of your head, his hips rolling against yours, dragging himself through your slick and grinding against your clit. A whimper leaves you when his swollen head catches at your opening.

“Tell me you want it. Tell me wan’ yer husband te fuck you.” He rasps against your cheek, kissing the blush that’s marked your skin.

“Please Oliver, please fuck me.” You beg and feel him smile against you in response.

“Put me in,” he says guiding your hand to himself, “There we go. Yer so warm an’ tight fer me.” You choke out a gasp, his size never failing to make you lose your breath. He hitches one of your legs up around his waist, sinking impossibly deeper into your heat, his tip kissing your cervix. He slowly pulls back out, leaving just the head of him in before plunging back in, setting a steady but brutal pace. He fucks into you with as much love and care as he can muster, hips pinning you to the mattress with fervor.

“So good fer me, my little wife. Taking my cock so well.” His heart feels like it’s going to burst out of his chest, his lips claiming yours as he brings you closer and closer to that edge. He swallows down your moans, the punched out gasps as his hips meet yours. Your hands grasp at his shoulders, nails digging in from the pure pleasure that’s consuming you. You cry out his name when you feel his hand make its way between your heaving bodies, rough thumb traces soft, wet circles around your clit.

He licks up the line of your strained neck, your head thrown back at the spike in sensation, “Want ya come fer me. Come fer me and I’ll fill you up.”

Your legs begin to shake, squeezing at his waist as you ride through your orgasm.

“That’s it, gonna fill you. Fill up my little wife.” His hips pick up pace as he chases his own pleasure. You hold him to you, your chin hooked over his shoulder as he ruts into you.

“Come in me, Oli, please.” You feel him falter at your plea, a tell tale sign that he’s close before he presses himself as deep as he can and comes. Warmth spreads through you, Oliver moaning against your shoulder as he twitches inside you. He slumps forward, chest heaving and he presses a kiss to your naked shoulder.

“My wife.”

You smile, “My husband.”

If this was married life, you could get used to it. Not that it’s much different than the life you lived before with Oliver.