love bites

You are blissfully oblivious.

The group chat, the photo commentary, Lila’s question, the Sol Ring incident—none of it has reached you. As far as you know, the afternoon is just the afternoon: shed photos sent, kitchen starting to smell like garlic, a quiet house with three days left on the clock. Then something cute ambushes you from behind.

Sandra hits your back with all of her considerate strength, arms locking around your waist, cheek smashed between your shoulder blades. It is not a casual hug. It is a full-body claim, the kind that has extra voltage in it. You laugh, surprised, and cover her hands with yours on your stomach.

“Hey. What’s this.”

She only squeezes harder and makes a small sound into your shirt. You assume she is just extra loving after the crash on the sofa—aftercare spilling into dinner prep. You do not know she has spent the last hour holding a secret about engagement-ring autocomplete and a conversation that made her shy enough to need somewhere to put the feeling. The love-aggression has to come out somehow. And Jeff wasn't big enough to take it.

Cooking becomes a problem.

You try to stir the pan. She tries to become part of your spine. You take a step to the fridge; she comes with you, still attached. When you reach for a knife she makes a displeased noise and starts actually tugging, not playful-light but committed, trying to pry you off the stove so she can take over.

“I can cook,”
she mutters into your back.
“Let me. You’re doing too much. Just—stand there. Be hugged.”

“That is not how dinner works.”

“It should be.”

What follows is less a negotiation than a wrestling match conducted in a kitchen.

She hooks a foot around your ankle. You widen your stance. She puts her whole weight into pulling you backward; you plant and become a Pillar. The last few years of growth are the only reason you survive it. You have the size and the weight now. She has the determination of a girl who has decided the man at the stove is both the prize and the obstacle. If you were still the same height you were at sixteen, her cuteness would have won in seconds. As it is, you can keep the soup from boiling while she climbs you like a scaffold.

“Sandra.”

“Mm.”

“I need that hand.”

“No you don’t.”

She gets one of your arms pinned to your side. You laugh again, helpless, and lift her bodily off the floor for a second just to prove you can. She yelps, then locks her legs around you from behind in a clumsy attempt at a koala hold that does nothing but make stirring impossible.

“You’re going to make me drop this.”

“Then let me cook.”

“You can cook tomorrow.”

“I want to cook now.”

It is not really about the food. You can feel that even without knowing why. The cling is too tight, the fight too fond, the way she keeps pressing her face into you like she is trying to leave an imprint. You finally compromise by turning, scooping her around to the front, and setting her on the counter beside the stove so she can stay attached without sabotaging the pan. She accepts this as a partial victory and immediately wraps her legs around your hip, still in the way, still glowing with that leftover shy voltage she has not named.

“You’re being weird,”
you say, kissing her forehead because it is right there.
“Cute weird. But weird.”

“I’m being a good girlfriend.”

“You’re being a barnacle.”

She smiles like that is a compliment and does not let go.

The gremlin energy does not fade.

One second she is perched on the counter like a compromise. The next she has launched herself at your chest again—arms, legs, the full koala protocol—and her mouth finds the side of your neck. It is not a kiss. It is a bite. Not gentle. Definitely meant to leave marks, not to break skin. Not truly painful either, just that sharp, claiming pressure of teeth on skin that says mine without using the word.

Your body reacts before your brain does.

You jerk back on instinct and both hands fly to her ass—one to haul her somewhere, anywhere, off the line of the stove, the other to support her weight so she does not drop. Your fingers sink into the still-sensitive flesh you spanked raw hours ago.

The sound she makes stops the whole kitchen.

A long, needy moan, punched straight into your ear, so sudden it catches both of you off guard and make you jolt your hands off her bare bottoms in a flash. The burn in her ass does the work before she can swallow it. Her whole body tightens around you. For a second neither of you moves. Steam lifts off the pot. The ramen broth is already dark and finished-looking. Your hands are still full of her.

The halt lasts only a breath.

Then Sandra, shameless as ever once the surprise has passed, gives her ass a little shake and asks, voice already lower:

“Why did you stop?”

The gremlin turns horny in a single gear-change. The biting grows wetter, slower, tongue joining the teeth, open-mouthed along your throat like she has remembered that marking you can also be a prelude. She grinds down into your hands on purpose now, chasing the sting, humming when your fingers flex.

“Sandra.”

“Mm.”

“Food.”

“You’re holding my ass.”

“You’re biting my neck.”

“You grabbed first.”

You have to shut it down. You do not want to. Your cock has already started arguing the other side. But the ramen is too far along to abandon—noodles ready to drop, bowls already out, broth that will go from perfect to glue if you let her drag you to the floor for twenty minutes. You set her back on the counter with both hands still on her, then make yourself let go.

“After we eat,”
you say, firm enough that it sounds like the voice from earlier, soft enough that it is still you.
“I already made this. I’m not ruining dinner because you moaned once.”

She looks personally offended by nutrition.
“It was a good moan.”

“It was an excellent moan. After ramen.”

She leans in and licks the mark she just left, testing whether you will crack. You catch her chin and hold her there, close enough to kiss, not giving her the kiss.

“After,”
you repeat.
“You can sit on my lap at the table if you need to be attached. You can bite me again when the bowls are empty. You are not turning this kitchen into another crime scene until we’ve eaten.”

Sandra groans like you have cancelled Christmas, then slumps forward until her forehead hits your collarbone.

“I hate that that’s reasonable.”

“I know.”

“My ass still hurts.”

“I know that too.”

“You’re going to look at the marks later and regret waiting.”

“Probably.”
You kiss her hair and turn back to the pot before she can launch again.
“Sit. Stay. If you jump on me again I will put you in a chair like a child.”

She stays. Barely. Legs swinging, eyes dark, the bite mark already blooming on your neck, waiting for the moment the last noodle is gone so the gremlin can finish what the sting in her ass started.