Part I: After Hours

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.

It was a comforting routine for Y/N to accompany Lion and Stan to the gym in the mornings. Watching from afar as her boyfriend beat to death a punching bag like it owed him money, she stretches her hamstrings on the mat she’d laid out for herself. She tries to keep her distance and not to get in the way of his training, though Lion tells her she could never be. But really, she’s just avoiding the ire of his rather overbearing brother.

She couldn’t always stay long, but Lion enjoyed the time spent with her, even if they were off doing their own things in the gym. It was usually empty, too. Just him and his girl. And Stan.

Lion’s doing push ups when he hears Y/N suddenly let out a huff of frustration.

He stops mid push up, glancing over to her mat a couple feet away. Now curious, he props himself up with a grunt, laying back on his heels and dragging a hand across his forehead. “Everything okay over there?” He calls over.

She’s sitting with her legs crossed on the mat, looking at her phone with pinched brows. “I told you I couldn’t find my car keys, right?” She sets her phone back down with a huff. “One of the girls at the club says I left it in the locker room.”

He gives a sympathetic hum, “Well, I’m glad they weren’t stolen or nothin’.”

“I’m gonna ask if she can bring ’em here. Else I don’t know how I’m getting to work.”

"We coulda drove you,” he offers.

“You wanna see me and Stan in an enclosed space?” She looks over her shoulder, raising an eyebrow.

Lion scratches his neck. “Okay, you got a point there.” He glances across the gym and sure enough finding Stan nearby, running on a treadmill.

“Guess you’re stuck with me till I get ’em,” she teases. As if he minds.

He grins back, stretching his arms overhead with a lazy yawn. “Guess I am. Can’t say I’m complainin’ though.”

She hops up from the ground, scurrying over to sit on the bench beside him to be closer to him. “Hi,” she says, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees.

He nudges her leg with his own, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Hey.” He quickly wipes off his sweaty palms on his sweatpants and rests his hand over her knee. He swipes his thumb back and forth on her skin affectionately. “Y’know, you could just... take the keys and go whenever you wanna leave. Me and Stan’ll just run anyway.”

“Yeah, but there’s this guy with a handsome face that goes to the same gym as me.” She lightly pokes his cheek, then grimaces. “Oof, sweaty face.”

He rolls his lips to suppress a smile, reaching up to swat her hand. “Yeah, well, handsome guy’s been in this gym since six, baby.”

“Well, don’t let me distract you!” She motions for him to continue, but makes no move to stop her intense staring, chin resting on her palm.

Lion exhales a laugh, shaking his head. “Too late for that,” but he drops back into push-up position anyway, awkwardly, heavily aware of her eyes on him. The first one is half-assed, the second even worse. By the third, it’s obvious to anyone with eyes he’s stalling.

Y/N chuckles. “Am I making you shy?” Lion feels his neck go hot.

He lets out a scoff, trying to cover up his embarrassment. “No.” He lowers himself into the fourth push up with a strained grunt, sweat coating his forehead. “I could do this all day.”

“That’s my boy,” she claps her hands. “C’mooon, gimme another.”

At her cheering, his embarrassment is strangely replaced with the need to show off. He lets out a sharp exhale and drops into proper form. Five push-ups, six, seven— his arms burn, but he keeps going.

“Wooo, lookin’ good, baby.” She whistles, unabashedly watching his arms and back muscles as they shift and pull beneath his skin. Lord, Lion had a nice back. And her perch on the bench created the perfect viewpoint. She delights in each grunt and groan he stifles in an attempt to appear unaffected.

He flushes at the praise, his stomach flipping. “You’re gonna make me lose count,” He grumbles, rising up again.

“Oh, no. Guess you might have to start all over,” Y/N bites her lip in barely concealed excitement at the thought.

At some point, Lion rises up again to find she’s moved beside him. She’s laying on the ground, looking much like a cat as she lays on her stomach, lazily kicking her feet in the air.

He stops for a moment to stare at her.

“Hi,” she says again, grinning.

Something about the way she looked in that moment— the way her hair is splayed out against the floor, the slope of her back, the way she was dressed in those tight work-out clothes, it all makes him want to crawl on top of her.

He lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Hi,” he says back, and forces himself to tear his eyes away and go back to his pushups.

Sensing his shyness, she adds with a chuckle, “You’re lucky I’m not laying on your back.”

Lion finds it hard not to stare at her ass each time he rises again. “Uh- yeah,” he coughs, “that’d be uh… uh…” Jesus, he has to force himself to shut up.

“Can you do a plank?” She abruptly challenges, squishing her cheek up against the concrete floor.

He swallows hard. No, absolutely not. “Yeah, I—I got this.”

He carefully drops from push-up position into plank, his arms protesting in agony. But god, the way she was eyeing him was making him feel a hundred times more determined.

Suddenly, revealing her plan, she shimmies under Lion’s arms and lays directly underneath him, flat on the ground with his hands on either side of her head, looking up at him with a twinkle in her eye.

He watches her with amusement. His arms feel like they’re on fire, and the chuckle her antics pulled from him was almost enough to make him lose his balance. “Babe,” he laughs, breathlessly, “I’m tryna… work out…”

“I’m helping.” She outstretches her arms, one hand finding his shoulder, the other on his neck, coaxing him to lower in another push-up. He was coated in a layer of sweat all over, but she didn’t seem to mind. “C’mon, pretty boy.”

He lets out another stifled grunt, his arms trembling. He’d be lying if he said this wasn’t making things a thousand times harder. Still, her coaxing was too hard to resist. He slowly brings himself down until he’s hovering right above her, faces inches apart.

She presses her lips to his the moment he’s within reach, then pulls back when Lion straightens up again. She giggles. “See? Helping.”

He snorts lightly. "I know what yer doin’…" he manages to choke out before dropping back down, this time with more control. He lands just barely above her lips again, chest rising and falling.

Y/N makes their lips meet once more and hums into the kiss, “Mm… what am I doin’?”

He groans against her mouth. “Fuckin’ me up.” He rises again.

The position was no doubt sexual. His arms on either side of her head, her sprawled out underneath him, hair splayed against the mat, fuck. His mind was going blank every time he caught her eye, looking back at him with mischief. His focus had completely left training and was now solely on the woman underneath him.

He lowers down, practically chasing her lips. “Fuck, ya look so good, baby.” He can’t help but whisper against her skin.

“Oh, yeah?”

He lets out a low groan, his arms shaking. He could feel the sweat dripping down his back, his mind a little fuzzy. “Yeah,” he manages to say, voice hoarse. “Ya look so pretty.”

He can feel her grinning as he lowers himself to her lips again. He exhales through his nose, greedily forcing himself to linger in that low position. The moment her lips are on his, he practically forgets they’re in the gym. All he can feel, taste, hear, see is her, as if they’re in their own little bubble. He doesn’t care about his shaking arms or the soreness that would definitely follow, not when he has his girl underneath him, looking like perfection.

He has to rise back up at some point, unable to hold himself low much longer. He angles up again and attempts to look anywhere but her face, ducking his head and letting his eyes fall shut. Y/N’s lips curl into a soft smile. She reaches up, delicate fingers tracing his chin and stroking his cheek. “So shy…” She coos.

“I’m not— I-I’m not shy,” he says stubbornly. “Zip it.”

Down. Kiss. Up.

“This makin’ you shy?”

He flushes even more. “I said ’zip it.’” He grumbles again, trying his best to focus on keeping form. But oh, god, she looked so cute underneath him. “M’supposed to be… training.” He says.

“I know, I’m giving you incentive.” She giggles. Down. Kiss. Up. “Isn’t this more fun?”

A stupid part of his brain just wants to collapse on top of her right now. “What if—what if Stan walks in?” He stutters, glancing toward the door.

She scoffs. “So what? Not the first time he’s caught us fooling around.”

He lets out a strangled noise, his face turning redder than it already was. “That— no, I mean— that’s different,” he mutters weakly. “We ain’t… we ain’t doin’ anything.” Even as the lie leaves his mouth, he realizes how stupid that sounds with his lips still fresh with the taste of her and his skin still warm from her touch.

“Exactly. So there’s no problem. Now gimme another kiss.” Her arms stretch out to wrap around his neck. He drops down again, letting himself melt into the kiss for a second too long, then forcing himself back up with a shaky exhale. The effort of both supporting himself and fighting off the needy urge to go all out with her was starting to wear him down.

He practically pants against her mouth, barely able to speak. “I don’t think—” he says hoarsely, “I don’t think I can keep doin’ this for very long.”

She coos at him, “Why? You gettin’ tired of me, handsome?”

He gives her another kiss and hovers above her.

He grumbles at her teasing, "N-Not tired, it’s just, if... y’know.. we were somewhere else…”

“Nobody else in here,” She suggests playfully.

“Fuuuck,” he groans, voice strained. “...We ain’t doin’ that on a fuckin’ gym mat.” He growls out stubbornly, even as his body is practically begging him to just give in already.

He presses another quick kiss to her lips.

“Backroom then.” She shrugs, smirking. A gym closet almost sounded worse than a mat.

“No,” he shakes his head, shooting that down.

He lowers with a delicious grunt, which Y/N swallows in her mouth.

“Stan’s car?” She murmurs against his lips.

“Fuck no.”

She just laughs. God, what a pretty sound. Lion chased her lips again like they had him on a string. He’s starting to lose track of how many kisses he’s given her. Hell, he was losing track of everything. How tired he was, how sore his arms were, the fact that they were in the gym and his brother could come in at any minute. In that moment, the world narrowed in his mind to just her.

“I like all those little noises you’re making,” She teases as he gives his arms a break.

He flushes and grumbles sheepishly, "M’not makin’ any noise."

“Oh-ho, yeah, you are.” Kiss. “Sound so pretty, sweet boy…” She bites back a moan.

He lets out another stifled grunt. He was ready to just drop down and give up, but his pride refused to let him.

Another push-up, another kiss. “M’gonna… m’gonna drop on you, baby.”

“Mm. Fun,” she smirks. A bead of sweat rolls off his forehead, and she revels in the sight.

He lets out a frustrated, shaky breath. “Y/N,” his voice was almost a whine. His body was screaming at him to just stop already. But god, the way she was looking at him made him want to stay like this for as long as she wanted. He lowers back down again, his voice barely more than heavy breath, “Please, I’m gonna— Stan, he’s…”

He presses another messy kiss to her mouth. “Stan can eat a dick.” She grumbles. His brother was the last thing she wanted to be thinking about now.

His chest tightens in a mix of arousal and worry, “He’s gonna walk in and- and he’s gonna see us,” he pants, barely able to force the words out. His mind was going blank, unable to focus on anything besides the heat of her mouth and the brush of her body against his each time he dipped down.

Her hands snake up to his cheeks, using them to guide him back to her mouth. “Then fuck me already and we can wrap this up,” She pouts.

He practically dies at her crude words, feeling his whole body clench. Another weak protest leaves his lips, “Babe…” but, god, his mind was going blank with the idea of it. His voice comes out almost pleading, “We… we can’t. Not here.”

“So you want him to see that hard-on instead?” She nods down to his sweatpants. Kiss. They were getting more frequent now. Sloppier. More desperate from both of them.

His face heats up at the very mention of the problem between his legs. “Oh, shit. I-I… Y/N—" he breathes out, staring down at her. She was going to be the death of him. He knew it. He drops down, almost collapsing onto her this time, resting his forehead against hers. “I-I’m gonna break, baby.”

She pulls his face closer still. “Then let me make you cum right now, c’mon…” She tries to coax, rolling her hips up to his.

He whines at the movement, his whole body shuddering. It’s getting too much to bear. “Baby…baby,” he whispers huskily, “if you keep that… that up, ’m gonna… gonna drop here.” He groans. “Stan’s…”

He can’t take it anymore. His knees buckle, and his hips chase the friction. He lets himself fall against her, head tucked into her neck, the scent of her shampoo filling his nose. She immediately moves to wrap her legs around his waist, shifting her hips up into him again.

And just like that, he’s gone. His whole body goes taut, letting out something between a moan and a whine. One of his hands grips onto the back of her shirt in a white-knuckled grip, desperate for some kind of anchor, while the other one is splayed across the small of her back. “Oh… oh, fuck.” He bites back a string of curses, shuddering again. “Oh, Christ.”

“C’mon,” She murmurs hastily in his ear. “You wanna do it here or in the back?”

His mouth moves against her neck, pressing sloppy, desperate kisses on her skin. “Back… back room,” he practically pants into her neck.

“Then let’s go. Quick.” She taps his shoulders, ushering him to get up.

He practically whimpers as he lifts himself off her, feeling the first stirrings of the ache in his muscles that would hit him in days time. “Fuck,” he stumbles a little, wiping at his sweaty forehead before reaching for her hand. “C’mon… c’mon,”

He pulls her toward the back room— barely even checking to make sure Stan isn’t lurking around somewhere first.

But in their haste, Y/N’s phone rings, vibrating against the bench. Her eyes flood with recognition. “Fuck. Ava.”

Lion halts mid-step. “Who?”

“My friend. Remember?” She groans, breathless, “Fuck, she’s here.”

Lion grits his teeth. “Damn it. You— you gonna pick up?” His grip on her hand doesn’t relax, however, and he’s shifting awkwardly from one foot to another, his hard-on still pressing stubbornly against his sweatpants. She whirls her head back and forth between Lion and her phone, and eventually scrambles to grab it. He lets out a guttural noise in the back of his throat.

He stands there, shifting awkwardly and waiting, trying desperately to think of something that wasn’t the ache between his legs.

She picks up, and the words come tumbling out. “Ava. Girl. Thank you so much, I love you, but just give me like 10 minutes, I’m gonna have sex with my man real quick. Yeah. Yeah, okay, I knew you’d get it. Yeah, be right there.”

Lion’s eyes almost pop out of his skull while Y/N turns around and acts like nothing just happened, once again shooing him into the back room. He stands flabbergasted for a second or two before snapping out of it. “Wha—wha…” He sputters, letting her tug him into the back room. “You just— Yer just gonna—?”

She shuts the door behind them. “She’s a stripper, Walter, she gets it.” She grabs his face and lands her mouth on his, and instantly his worries melt away. “Now keep begging, it was turning me on.” She moans against his lips, her leg between his and her back to the wall.

A groan from deep in his throat passes his lips, and just like that, it’s all back. He can’t help but buck into her leg, voice ragged as he breathes out, “Baby… please. Just please… please…” His fingers dig into her hip, his pinky slipping under the waistband of her shorts. “I’m beggin’ ya…”

Her hands do the same, groping his body, trailing down until they reach his sweatpants and palming him through the fabric for a moment, then looping her finger under his waistband.

He whines through his nose like a dog, hips rocking forward instinctively into her touch. His hands fumble with the hem of her shirt now, trying to pull it up and off while she’s busy undoing him. They break only for a brief moment to tug the shirt over her head and free Lion from his sweatpants before his lips crash back onto hers, sloppy and messy as one hand tangles into her hair while the other grips her thigh to hike it higher around him.

“Pick me up,” she murmurs, “you can do it.”

In one smooth motion, he hooks his arms under her thighs and lifts, pressing her back firmly against the wall as their mouths collide again. His hands squeeze the flesh of her ass, overexerted muscles straining but he can’t find himself caring in the slightest.

She grips his jaw, mumbling sharply into his lips, “Am I making you this needy?”

“Yeah,” he breathes against her mouth, voice wrecked already. “You always do… always make me like this.” His teeth briefly graze her bottom lip.

“Mm, I know… I know…” She gasps between kisses as he ruts against her clothed cunt. “I’m so mean to you, aren’t I?”

“Uh-huh,” he agrees mindlessly, nipping at her jawline before dragging his lips back to hers. His whole body is trembling with need now, every nerve ending alight because of her. “Love it… love you…”

“You like when I tease you?”

He nods furiously, panting. “Yeah—” His voice cracks, forehead dropping to hers as he grinds against her again. “Tease me all you want… fuckin’… please.”

She gasps slightly. The last of her resolve crumbles just like his. “Then fuck me. Quick, baby.”

It’s all the permission he needs. In a flash, his hands are scrambling to push down her leggings, fingers fumbling with fabric. He kisses her hard again while working, desperate to feel skin on skin. It’s practically a balancing act with Y/N hoisted against the wall like this, steadied by Lion’s arms and her legs clamped on either side of his torso.

When her panties dangle from her foot and he’s freed from his boxers, Lion stares at her dumbly, almost transfixed. “Come on,” she encourages, patting his cheek with nearly the sharpness of a slap. “Stay with me, Walt.”

The smack on his cheek snaps him into focus, and he’s back to urgency. He adjusts her weight in his arms. A second later, he’s lining up and hurriedly pressing in with a groan that sounds almost pained.

Y/N’s chest rises and falls with labored breaths from the suddenness of his length. The moment he’s fully sheathed in her, no space left between their bodies, he squeezes his eyes shut, and for a heartbeat, he just stays there, breathing raggedly against her shoulder like the world has stopped spinning.

Y/N sucks in a breath through her teeth. She’s all too flattered by his want to savor this moment. And by god, if they were somewhere more reasonable, she’d let him. “Uh-uh,” she reminds him, “we’re doing this quick. Quick, okay?”

He nods dumbly against her neck, biting his lip as he pulls back almost all the way and slams into her again. The sound it makes is filthy, the slap of skin, their shared gasp from her lips, and he does it again, setting a brutal pace right off the bat because yeah, they’re doing this quick.

“Fuck!” She bites her lip, trying and failing to be the better example of ’quick and quiet.’ His head slots into her shoulder, and Y/N does the same, muffling the moans from each snap of his hips into his skin.

Her expression is tight, her jaw agape. She’s aware Lion thrives off the praise, and she forces her voice to come back to its place in her throat. “Fuck yes, yes, that’s it. Good. Good fucking boy. Keep going.” She clenches his hair in her fist, the strands damp with sweat.

He presses his face further into her skin. The pace is relentless at her encouragement, his hips pistoning. Every thrust punches a noise out of one or both of them— groans, whimpers, bitten-off moans. His arms are shaking under her weight but he doesn’t slow down for a second.

Y/N’a nails drag down his back. Her head falls against the wall again as she cries out. “Mmm… so fucking needy,” she spits. “Oh, fuck, look at you, what a fucking mess.” Something about the unusually rough pace brought something out in her voice Lion had scarcely heard during sex. But it was something he’d surely have to file away for next time by the way it shot to his loins. “C’mon— mm! You can do better than that!”

He growls against her skin, a feral noise he didn’t even know he could make, and pushes harder, changing the angle so each snap of his hips hits deeper.

Her jaw gapes, twisting and squirming against the wall from the pleasure. “Fuck! There you go, that’s it!” Her voice pinches and strains an octave higher, fighting to keep that commanding tone to continue fueling him. “Good boy. Good fucking boy,” she murmurs in his ear, “fucking me so good. Uh-huh, yeah, you gonna cum already?”

The praise has him seeing stars. He nods against her ear, his thrusts growing sloppier. “Yeah,” he chokes out, voice wrecked beyond recognition. “Gonna… gonna cum… fuck.” His hips stutter wildly now, chasing that peak with everything in him.

“Earn it,” she hisses, fist tightening in his hair like a pulling of reins.

He nearly whines, but he obeys, lips sealing over her pulse point and sucking hard. His hands slide down to grip her ass, lifting her higher as he drives into her with frantic precision in an attempt to make her unravel first.

The combination of his teeth on her neck and the relentless pounding builds to a peak, and her thighs squeeze around him like a vise, nails clawing into his shoulders. A strangled cry escapes her while she clenches around him. As she rides out her high, it makes her heart flutter the way he slows his pace for her in spite of his own need. He kisses her cheek, her nose, the corner of her mouth, gentle little pecks between each slow roll of his hips to let the aftershocks ripple through her. His thumb brushes a tear from under one eye. All while he’s still painfully erect inside her.

Only when Y/N successfully catches her breath, the tremors in her body settling, does his own desperation creep back in with a vengeance.

She can still feel him inside her walls, impossibly hard. He fights nobly to keep his hips from twitching, to keep from pushing into her any deeper, though his body is roaring with the need. She can practically feel the coil inside him.

She holds his gaze fiercely. “Speak.”

His deep blue eyes are glazed over with need, lips slightly parted as he pants. “Please,” he breathes out immediately, voice small and wrecked. “Need to… need to cum. Can I? Please?”

“Yeah?” She slots her mouth over his, which he greedily accepts. “Yeah, you wanna cum?” She hums.

He whimpers into her mouth, nodding frantically.

“Pretty little noises don’t get you anywhere,” she scolds.

His hips fight to move again, unable to help himself now that he has permission looming over him. “Then what…” he mumbles against her lips between kisses, “what do I gotta do?” His desperation is palpable, he’s practically vibrating with the need to finish.

“Ask me nicely, Walter, I know you know how.”

His entire body burns with embarrassment, but he listens. “Please,” he gasps, pulling back just enough to look her in the eyes, “please let me cum. I’ll be good… I’ll— fuck— I’ll do anything.”

“You wanna cum inside me?”

The question makes his stomach flip. He swallows hard, nodding quickly. “Yeah,” he admits. “Yeah, yeah, please. Inside.” He’s already moving before she can speak again, rolling his hips shallowly, testing, desperate for that final okay. His head dips down to her shoulder again involuntarily.

She allows it, pressing her lips to his ear. “You wanna hear my voice?”

“God, yes,” he shudders. His hands squeeze her thighs.

“Move.”

That single word is all the green light he needs. He moves again, hips snapping forward with reckless abandon now that he’s allowed. The rhythm is messy and frantic, fueled by pure desperation as his release rapidly approaches again. Every thrust pulls a broken sound from his throat. Groans, gasps, whines, muffled at the base of her throat.

Her nails claw his back. She moans again, lashes lowering, still slightly sensitive. Her voice spewing filthy words of encouragement spurs him on. “Mhm. Good boy, keep going. Go ahead. Fuck, so close aren’t you? I know, baby. So fucking hard. So needy.”

Every syllable she murmurs pushes him closer until he’s teetering on the edge. His movements grow erratic, hips jerking in short, sharp bursts as he chases his climax. “Gonna— gonna—” He can’t even finish the sentence before it hits him like a thunderclap.

His entire body stutters, a choked cry tearing from his throat as he spills inside her, a wave of pleasure crashing over him. For a few seconds, all he can do is shake, forehead pressed to hers as he rides it out, breathless and dizzy. It takes him a full minute to come down enough to even blink.

As they both catch their breath, leaning into one another’s embrace, Lion’s grip on her eventually weakens, and Y/N leans her head back against the wall. A breathless, satisfied little laugh escapes her.

The fog of mindless want clears, and that horrible clarity one can only experience after only thinking with their dick for the past 10 minutes comes crashing back onto Lion. He nearly groans with the stupidity of what they’d just done. In a public gym. When Lion was meant to be training up for his fight. With his brother likely looking for them. Fuck, were there cameras in here? Did they even think to check? It hits him all at once just how terribly reckless they had been.

Y/N doesn’t seem all that bothered. He pulls back to look at her fully for the first time since he hoisted her onto the wall, still half-way buried in her. Her face is flushed and her hair is tussled and god, she looked perfect. She seems quite pleased with herself, having successfully gotten what she wanted from the start.

“Fuck.” His eyes dart around the room like a panicked animal before landing back on Y/N’s smug face.

She just keeps on giggling mischievously, arms circling around his neck and pulling him closer, Lion’s softening cock still half inside her.

He feels a flush work its way up his chest and neck at the sound of her laughter. It’s endearing, really, but he’s still mortified. “God-damn it…” He grumbles into her neck. “…Tryna train for the… stupid fight…”

“Tee-hee,” She kisses his temple, nuzzling his shoulder.

He scoffs, “‘Tee-hee?’” He soaks in the affection, pecking her cheek in response. “Not funny,” he mutters petulantly, shifting against her. His own embarrassment begins to mix with the usual neediness he tries so hard to suppress when they haven’t been together for a while. He swallows again, shifting against her. “We’re gonna be in… so much hell when Stan finds out…”

“He’s not gonna find out,” she waves off his worries. “Probably still somewhere in the gym with his head up his ass,” she snorts.

“Yeah, well, let’s hope he… keeps his head up there for at least another five minutes, then…"

Her fingers comb through his chocolate brown hair, scratching circles into the spots of his scalp she’d tugged. He can’t resist another grumble under his breath, "I was supposed to be training…"

“You did, silly. You did aaaall those pushups.”

“I mean, I was supposed to be doing actual training, y’know. Not… this…

“But isn’t it fun acting like horny teenagers?”

He tries and fails to bite back an exasperated groan, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. “Baby, I’m being serious. I got a fight on Saturday. Can’t be doin’ this when I’m supposed to be focusing…”

“You needed a break, I could tell.” She shimmies in his grip, urging him to put her down.

He lets out a soft oof as he carefully lowers her, hands hovering. Her legs are like jello. She stumbles slightly, and Lion’s hands instantly catch her arms to stabilize her. “Fuck, you good?”

She chuckles sheepishly. She looked adorable, expression still hazy and hair still tussled, work-out clothes hanging half-on as she grins up at him. Lion scratches the back of his neck.

“Christ,” he mutters under his breath. “We- we gotta fix your clothes and shit.” He fumbles with his own sweatpants, hastily tugging them back up.

She follows suit, sliding her panties back up her leg, helping Lion tie the string of his pants. “We gotta hurry out of here is what we gotta do.”

“Mmhm!” He lets her help, handing Y/N her discarded shirt and running his fingers through his hair, attempting to make himself look somewhat presentable. He gives her a sidelong glance, face still flushed. "Think… think we look normal?" He mutters, voice still slightly rough.

Y/N gives him a once-over, then laughs, “Nope.” She reaches up to help smooth his hair, briefly carding her fingers through his dark locks. Her hands trail down to his flushed cheeks, and Lion pulls her close one last time before they walk out.

She kisses him sweetly, and he melts into it, letting out a soft hum against her mouth. His hands slide up to cup the back of her neck for just a moment longer before pulling himself away.

“Okay… okay,” he mumbles sheepishly, “now we can go.”

She pecks his cheek one last time. “Thank you for the fuck, handsome,” she giggles, tugging his hand and pushing open the door, leading them back to the gym.

“Oh my god,” He grumbles under his breath. He tries and fails to hide his wonderfully flustered state, running a hand awkwardly through his hair as he follows after her.

She gives his hand a squeeze at the sight of the vacant gym. “See? Safe.” Her face suddenly drops as she picks up her phone. “Shiiit, Ava. Okay—” She shuffles back up to Lion, gently cups his face and hastily kisses his lips. “Bye, baby. I love you.”

His expression softens. He can’t help the affection in his voice when he murmurs, “I love you too.” He presses one last kiss to her forehead before reluctantly releasing her hand so she can go find her friend.

Y/N scurries out of the room just as Stan passes her by. He tries to stop her for an explanation, but Y/N was in too big of a rush (or really just didn’t care enough) to even acknowledge him. Stan looks to his brother as he crosses the gym.

Lion is standing there awkwardly, trying his damnedest to look like he hadn’t just been fooling around with his girlfriend in the back room. He tries to put on a casual expression as his brother approaches. “Hey…” He says, shoving his hands into his pockets and feigning nonchalance.

Stan eyes him skeptically, looking him up and down. For a beat, he just stares at his brother, entirely unamused. “I leave you two alone for 10 minutes.”

Lion’s face clenches with embarrassment. “Shut up, man.”