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loveshotzz · 2 years ago

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CECE WHAT THE FUCK? THIS IS MY DREAM LIFE AND ITS NOT FAIR THAT ITS NOT REAL.

He texted you ‘good morning’ at noon. You usually text him before he’s even awake; 6am, sometimes 5. But he knows you’re off today, thought it was about time you caught up on some sleep. Working twelve hour days, working on your side hustle at night, maybe three hours of sleep is what you allow yourself.

The nights he’s there he tries to coax you into bed earlier: ‘I’ll be there in ten.’ you always say. But you’ll say it like a broken record for hours before you do. He fears the nights he’s not there you might not go to sleep at all, pushing your mind and body far past — what he’d deem — an acceptable limit.

He knows this. He calls you at one anyway; a little selfishly, a little worriedly.

You pick up from the sunken valley of your sofa.

“Hm,” you hum, mid languid stretch.

“Hey, trouble,” his voice deep, but light. You can hear the wind whipping, his keys jingling. “Did I wake you up?” he asks softly. He’s getting in his car, you hear a click and the rumble of his engine.

“I haven’t really slept,” you tell him, voice horse. You’ve been in and out for hours, never longer than 20, maybe 30 minutes at a time. Awake for the same before you drift back off. The TV’s been on all night, all morning, afternoon. The show you were catching up with on Hulu is now a completely different unrelated show, half a season deep.

“Why don’t you get your pretty self up off the couch,” he guesses with a teasing lilt and you roll your eyes with what energy you can muster, “and take a shower for me? I’ll be there in, mmm, twenty minutes.”

When he lets himself into your apartment he hears the water running, hears you fighting with your nearly empty bottle of shampoo.

Your place is small, he can see almost everything from where he’s standing in the kitchen. Two blankets dragging on the floor from the couch, takeout containers on the coffee table, your work scattered about. Eddie puts away the small amount of groceries he grabbed on the way over and starts to pick your place up — folds your throw blankets, gathers the trash, puts your work up. He pulls closed your curtains, turns the AC a few degrees colder before he lights what’s left of the candle on your nightstand.

When you emerge from the bathroom in your fluffy black robe and your hair twisted up in a towel, Eddie’s sat on the edge of your bed, fingers pulling through the lace of his boots. He looks up and offers a crooked smile, says, “Feel better after your shower?”

“I do.”

Eddie has this softness about him during the day; when his curls are freshly dried, black tee still unwrinkled, jaw smooth and shaved. The candle behind him flickers, his frizz haloed in an orange glow that casts down his jaw in a way that entices you to kiss it.

Barefoot you pad over, a fatigued pout tugging at your bottom lip as you stand at his knees. He cranes his neck back and spreads his legs, hands reaching out to cup the back of your thighs; warm and scratchy, his. He pulls you closer until your knees hit the bed and you're so close his chin could rest against your sternum if he wanted.

“You wanna eat? Or d’you wanna sleep?” he asks, eyes shining with a devotion no man has ever had for you before. You push his fringe back, bend down to steal a gentle kiss — tastes like coffee and cigarettes.

“I wanna sleep,” you tell him through you lip wobbling with exhaustion, with a desperation to get a few straight hours. It’s the kind of tired where your skin aches, tingles when Eddie’s big hands move forward and slide up the sides of your thighs beneath your robe and kneads at what he can.

Eddie tugs at the loose tie around your waist as he stands, the spice of his cologne is comforting enough to put you to sleep. But you know he’s got a plan of his own when he ducks into the juncture of your collar for a kiss, a bigger one on your neck, a smaller one at the hinge of your jaw.

“My sleepy girl,” he murmurs against the shell of your ear, his hair tickling your sensitive skin. The bass of his voice has you arching slightly into him, neck lolling to the side with your eyes closed when his hands push the fabric from your shoulders. Your robe collects at your feet, the cool air of your apartment pricks your heated skin, flesh pebbling in seconds. He kisses your jaw again, fingertips whispering down your sides, your hands curl into his shirt. “Lie down, f’me.”

Hair still twisted up, you crawl to the top of your bed, crisp sheets beneath you when you settle on your back. You watch your boyfriend strip from his shirt, his back and shoulders flex and stretch with his movement, black ink dancing in what little light bounces off of him. He kicks his boots under your bed, but it’s when he pulls his belt from their loops that your breath hitches in your throat with anticipation. But Eddie’s got other plans that don’t quite align with your salacious daydream — you realize when he reaches for the corner of your bed and picks up a container of what looks like your shea body butter.

You watch him as he comes to the side of the bed, your eyes unable to stop following the trail of dark hair that disappears into his Levi’s. He chuckles and your eyes snap up to his; he’s smiling with dimples, and it’s a curse because it only makes you want to glance back down. He’s so handsome — even when he’s being smug.

“What?” you giggle dumbly.

“You’re too weak for all that, baby,” he rasps as he leans down. Your cheeks burn at the suggestion, you want to tell him that you kind of like that — but you don’t. His lips capture yours once more before he nods his head. “Turn over.”

And so you do.

You taught him a while back a small amount of body butter goes a long way, so he starts with a dollop, tries to warm it up between his palms before he touches the small of your back. He works his way up to your shoulders, it smells nutty and sweet, a little bit of vanilla. Eddie takes his time, he’s a ‘takes him time’ kinda guy with everything, and right now he’s really leaning into it. Long strokes, deep pressure working out your knots loosening any tightness you felt.

The bed dips when he kneels at your side for better leverage. More weight, big hands that feel like they’re covering you entirely. The heel of his palms traverse down, fingertips splaying as he climbs over the hill of your ass and continues to the back of your knees.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing, really. But he feels your body relax, you sink further into the bed and as quickly as your skin absorbs the cream your soft snores are music to his ears.

He kisses you between your shoulder blades, an extra at the small of your back. But those were just for him.

When you wake up, it’s four SVU episodes later for Eddie. Your head is on Eddie’s chest, a little bit of drool pooling at the corner of your mouth, the towel on your head is hanging on to the last few inches of your hair. You feel refreshed, albeit, lazy. Eddie’s always so warm, sometimes so warm you can’t even bear touching him at night. But right now it’s welcomed, you drag your arm across his stomach and dig your fingers into his side to pull him closer. You both nuzzle, scoot closer. You feel his hand at the small of your back holding you against him. You hitch your leg up, smooth skin over denim.

“It’s dinner time,” he whispers into the crown of your head. You hand slides down, fingers toying with the hem of his jeans.

“Breakfast for dinner?” you ask hopefully.

“I grabbed eggs on the way over.”

xoxox, gossip girl

i will simply never recover from this @newlips

#the back massage #the fit #taking his shirt off like #you’re too weak for all that baby?#come on #cece 🫦#fic recs 💗

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