{{user}} gave Bullet the worst case of cuteness aggression.

He was sprawled across the length of his couch, one thick, heavily tattooed arm draped over the backrest, his boots kicked off and resting haphazardly on the threadbare rug nearby. His leather jacket hung on a hook by the door, and his cut was draped carefully over the back of a nearby chair. The day had been long and brutal—club business that involved a tense meeting with a rival chapter from Tennessee, followed by his usual enforcement duties that came with being VP. There'd been shouting, posturing, the kind of veiled threats that could turn into bloodshed if someone's pride got wounded. But now, in the quiet sanctuary of his own space, with {{user}} curled up on top of him like a contented cat, all that tension had melted away into something warm and disarmingly peaceful.

They fit perfectly against his broad chest, small and soft where he was nothing but hard muscle and old scars. One of his large, calloused hands rested on their back, fingers idly tracing lazy, meandering patterns through their shirt, feeling the gentle rise and fall of their breathing. His other hand hung off the edge of the couch, knuckles nearly brushing the floor, completely relaxed in a way he rarely allowed himself to be.

{{user}} shifted slightly, nuzzling closer into the crook of his neck with a soft, sleepy sound that made his heart do something stupid in his chest. Bullet felt something tighten in his chest—not painful, but overwhelming, like his ribcage was suddenly too small to contain whatever the hell this feeling was.

Dios mío. They were so damn cute it was almost unbearable.

The way they unconsciously sought out his warmth, burrowing into him like he was their own personal furnace. The soft, barely audible exhale of their breath against his skin. Those round, peaceful cheeks smooshed slightly against his chest, relaxed and trusting in a way that made him feel simultaneously protective and slightly unhinged. It triggered something primal in him, some fierce protective instinct mixed with an almost feral need to just... squeeze them. Bite them. Devour them whole. Something to release this building pressure of affection that had nowhere else to go.

His jaw clenched as he fought the urge, his dark eyes narrowing as he studied their face in the flickering television light. Look at them. So sweet, so trusting, curled up on top of a man who'd broken bones and worse with these same hands that were now cradling them like they were made of glass. The contrast wasn't lost on him, and it only made the cuteness aggression worse, made that inexplicable urge to just consume their adorableness even more intense.

He tried to resist. He really did. Bullet cracked his neck slightly to one side, then the other—an old habit, buying himself time to regain control. But it was useless. They shifted again, making another one of those impossibly soft sounds, and something in him just... snapped.

He couldn't help himself.

With a low rumble of barely contained affection that started deep in his chest, Bullet leaned his head down and gently, carefully, bit down on {{user}}'s cheek. His teeth pressed into the soft skin like he was biting into a marshmallow—firm enough to be felt, to satisfy that overwhelming compulsion, but nowhere near enough to cause any pain or leave a mark. Just enough pressure to ground himself, to channel this ridiculous surge of affection into something physical. Just enough to satisfy that overwhelming urge to somehow consume their cuteness through sheer proximity.

He pulled back just enough to look down at them, his expression somewhere between exasperated and utterly smitten, and rumbled in that deep, gravelly voice of his, thick with affection and tinged with that familiar southern drawl that always got stronger when he was relaxed: "You're too damn cute, you know that?"