#this song will always and forever make me think of skins

[ch0llies]

ROCK ME | CHRISTOPHER STURNIOLO

oneshot - sunshine!reader x goldenboy!chris

Your relationship with Chris Sturniolo is the epitome of a first teenage love. It’s late night drives with the music too loud, whispered secrets under the covers, and sneaking into each other's houses just to fall asleep wrapped up in each other. It’s the kind of love that feels like summer. It’s warm, wild, and infinite. But with him, it’s not just a season. It’s all year round.

story warnings: smut, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), p in v, multiple rounds, multiple orgasms, orgasm denial (if you squint), fluff, established relationship, etc. If any of these topics upset you...don't read!

word count: 10k (sorry)

The wind rushes through your beach-waved hair, the summer heat warming your body as laughter bubbles past your lips. The bass from the speakers vibrates through your chest. You’re weightless, golden, and free, just like the setting sun in the sky.

Chris lighty grips the steering wheel with one hand, the other draped lazily over the console between you. His black Ray-Bans sit low on his nose, and he tilts his head slightly, peeking over the frames to catch a glimpse of you.

That signature smirk tugs at his lips- the one that got you hooked in the first place, the one that still makes your stomach flip, the one you could never say no to.

The warm glow of the sun catches on his skin, highlighting the freckles scattered across his nose. He looks so effortlessly beautiful. The kind of boy you’d write songs about. You have no idea how he’s yours.

You’re wearing nothing but an orange string bikini top and a pair of light-wash denim shorts, the fabric rough against your sunburnt skin. Chris isn’t wearing much more. Just pink swim trunks and a backward Somerville High cap, a reminder of your life beyond these summer nights.

But you don’t want to think about that.

Unbuckling your seatbelt, you shift onto your knees, climbing onto the center console. Chris barely has a second to react before you’re pushing yourself up and out through the open sunroof, arms spreading wide as the night swallows you whole.

The second your head breaches the top, you scream- loud and free, the sound ripping through the air and blending with the music. The wind hits you harder than you thought, stealing the breath from your lungs, pushing the extra skin on your face back. The sky stretches out above you, painted in deep pinks and oranges.

Chris’s laughter rumbles beneath you, but his grip is firm when he slides a hand up your waist, fingers pressing against the bare skin just above your shorts. “Be careful, baby,” he yells, his voice barely carrying over the wind, but you hear it. You feel it. The warmth of his palm spreads across your skin, grounding you even as you chase the high of the moment.

You tip your head back, hair tangling messily in the wind, letting out another breathless laugh. The music is deafening, the bass pounding through your body, but all you can focus on is the feeling- the reckless, intoxicating freedom of being here, with him, like this. In love.

Chris’s fingers trace slow circles against your side, his grip tightening as if to remind you he’s there. He’s always there. “You’re gonna get yourself killed,” he mutters, but there’s no real frustration in his voice.

You dip your head forward, glancing down at him through strands of hair, your chest rising and falling with the adrenaline still buzzing through you. “At least I’d die happy,” you tease, voice breathless, full of laughter.

Chris shakes his head, lips tugging into a smirk. “Not happening,” he says, his fingers grazing up your ribs, sending a shiver through you despite the summer heat. “I’m not done with you yet.”

The world feels endless up here, with the wind in your hair, the night sky stretching out forever. But nothing compares to the way Chris’s hands feel against your skin- warm, steady, always there.

You don’t have to look down to know he’s watching you, the way he always does. Like he can’t believe you’re real. He really should be looking at the road but you’re not even mad.

Chris is the golden boy of Somerville High. Captain of the lacrosse team, hometown hero, the kind of guy teachers brag about long after he’s left their classrooms. The guy everyone wants to be, wants to know, wants to love. He walks down the halls like he belongs to them, like Somerville itself is stitched into his skin, and maybe it is.

And you?

You’re the sunshine girl. The one who gets along with everyone, who turns strangers into friends with nothing but a smile. The girl who gets good grades without trying too hard, who sings too loud at parties, who dances barefoot in the grass just because she can. You’re golden in a different way- soft and bright, light spilling into every room you walk into.

Maybe that’s why it never made sense. Why people still don’t get it. But you do. You know how it happened.

You know it started long before anyone else had noticed. Before the stolen glances, before the late-night drives, before he whispered your name like a secret he never wanted to share.

It started in eighth grade, when he caught you skipping class to sit in the empty stands of the football field, watching the sky instead of paying attention to anything else. He sat next to you without a word, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You get lost up there too?” he’d asked, nodding toward the clouds.

You’d just smiled, something soft, something easy. “Yeah,” you’d said. “Guess I do.”

It started freshman year, when he saw you crying behind the gym after another boy on the lacrosse team that you had a crush on asked a different girl to hoco. And instead of making some dumb joke, he just sat with you. Shoulder to shoulder, silence stretching between you, solid and safe.

It started sophomore year, at some house party, when the music was too loud and the air was too thick and his eyes…God, his eyes. They were locked on you like you were the only thing worth looking at. You don’t remember who kissed who first. Maybe it was both of you, leaning in at the same time, laughter turning into something else, something breathless.

You do remember the way he groaned against your lips, the way his hands tangled in your hair like he’d been waiting for this for years. The way he lifted you, effortlessly and careless, and pressed you against the wall like he was never going to let you go.

But that was nothing compared to the first time.

Junior year. The backseat of his Jeep, parked down by the beach, the moon high in the sky. Your body still damp from the water, his skin burning hot against yours. He looked at you like he was afraid to blink, like he needed to memorize everything. The curve of your lips, the tilt of your chin, the way your breath hitched when he traced lazy circles on your hip.

“I’ve never-” you’d started, but he kissed the words right out of your mouth, slow and deep and reverent.

“I know,” he murmured, forehead resting against yours. “Me neither.”

Then he was everywhere, hands and lips and warmth and the most intimate parts of him. And you were his, in a way that felt bigger than a single night. In a way that felt like forever.

Now, here you are. The summer before senior year.

You drop back down into your seat, breathless, the rush still buzzing through your veins. Chris doesn’t let go of you, doesn’t even pretend to be annoyed. Instead, he rubs slow circles into your sunburnt skin, his thumb brushing over the edge of your bikini top, something soft in his touch.

You turn your head, watching him as he drives, golden and effortless.

“What?” he asks, side-eyeing you.

You shrug, grinning. “Just thinking about how unfair it is that you’re so pretty.”

Chris snorts, but there’s a blush creeping up his neck. “You’re one to talk, baby.”

Your life is made up of moments like this. Soft, sweet, and beautiful. All because of him.

Like the time he helped you pick your dress for junior year prom.

You’d dragged him to the boutique, standing on the fitting room pedestal while he lounged in one of the chairs, arms crossed over his chest, looking entirely out of place among the frilly pink decor.

“You know I don’t care what you wear, baby,” he’d grumbled, watching as you stepped out in another dress. “You’d look good in anything.”

“You have to care,” you insisted, spinning around so the skirt flared out. “I need honest opinions.”

Chris rolled his eyes, but there was something soft in his gaze as he studied you. Then he stood, walked over, and reached out to tug at the orange fabric, his fingers brushing your exposed back.

“This one,” he said simply, eyes locked on yours in the mirror. “Wear this one.”

And when prom night came, when you stepped out of your house and into the golden glow of the streetlights, Chris just stood there, blinking like he forgot how to breathe.

“Damn,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Baby, you’re gonna kill me.”

Or the time he came on vacation with your family.

You had spent weeks convincing your parents, listing all the reasons why bringing your boyfriend wouldn’t be an issue.

“He’s basically part of the family already,” you argued.

And maybe that was true, but you were still surprised when they agreed, letting Chris tag along to your beach house rental for a week in July.

It was like a dream. Waking up to the sound of the waves, sneaking out of the room your parents assigned Chris. And especially the mornings you’d both sneak out of the house just before sunrise, Chris pulling you into the water before the world was even awake.

“You’re insane,” you whispered, legs wrapped around his waist as the tide lapped against your skin.

Chris just grinned, his hands holding you tight, safe. “Yeah. insanely in love with you.”

And then, of course, there were the lacrosse games.

You went to every single one, always in the front row, always wearing his number on your cheek in red glitter paint.

Chris had his routine. Right before a game, right before he ran onto the field, he’d find you in the crowd. You’d blow him a kiss, and he’d pretend to catch it, pressing his fingers to his lips like it was some kind of good luck charm.

“You know I have to do that, right?” he’d told you once, breathless after a win, sweat dripping down his temples. “Superstition. Can’t play without it.”

“Uh-huh,” you teased, reaching up to push his damp hair out of his eyes. “So you winning is all me, huh?”

Chris grinned, looping his arms around your waist. “Exactly.” Then, without warning, he picked you up, spinning you in circles until you were shrieking with laughter. “You’re my good luck charm, sunshine.”

And then there was that time. The time that haunts you to this day. The time his parents walked in on you.

Chris’s bedroom. His hands in your hair, your nails digging into his shoulders, both of you breathless, caught up in each other, making far too much noise, until the door opened.

You didn’t even have time to react before MaryLou gasped, spinning on her heel so fast she nearly fell over.

“Jesus Christ, Christopher,” was all she said before slamming the door.

Chris just groaned, dropping his forehead against your shoulder. “We’re so dead.”

The next day, he came home to a box of condoms sitting on his bed. No note. Nothing.

He held them up when you walked in, blinking like he was still in shock. “My parents hate me. I don’t know how I can ever look my mother in the eye again.”

You burst into laughter, doubling over on his bed. “I think they just don’t want grandkids yet.”

Chris groaned, tossing the box across the room. “Unbelievable.”

You had laughed then, breathless and teasing, throwing yourself back onto his bed. But that was months ago.

Chris was still driving with one hand on the wheel, the other now resting against your thigh. His fingers trace slow, lazy patterns over your skin, dipping just beneath the frayed edges of your denim shorts. It’s an innocent touch, but your body reacts like it always does. He has completely burned himself into you.

The warmth of his palm seeps into your skin, his thumb brushing back and forth, featherlight, like he’s not even thinking about it. But you know Chris, know the way his mind works, the way his hands move with purpose, even when he pretends they don’t.

You shift slightly in your seat, pressing your thighs together in an attempt to ignore the slow fire building under his touch. Chris notices, of course he notices, and his smirk deepens, barely visible in the dimming light.

“Something wrong, baby?” he asks, voice smooth, teasing.

You roll your eyes, but it doesn’t carry much weight. Not when your pulse is hammering against your ribs, not when the song “Rock Me” playing through the speakers seems to fit too well, like fate decided to soundtrack this exact moment.

You glance at him, and God, he’s so mesmerizing. One hand gripping the wheel, muscles taut beneath sun-kissed skin, his jaw sharp in the golden light. His lips are parted slightly, tongue running over his bottom one like he’s deep in thought.

Like he’s remembering, too.

“Do you remember summer ’09? Wanna go back there every night…”

Chris exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Remember this song?”

Your heart flutters, something deep and wanting. You know what he’s thinking.

You remember that night. It was after a lacrosse game, after driving three hours to the playoff game that he scored the game winning goal in. Somehow, you ended up tangled in his backseat, hands desperate, mouths hungry.

Your voice had been breathless against his ear. “I want you to rock me, Chris.”

And he did. Again and again and again.

The memory makes heat curl in your stomach, makes your breath catch just slightly, and Chris knows. His fingers flex against your thigh, grip tightening just enough to make your skin prickle with anticipation.

You turn to face him fully, shifting so your knee brushes against the gearshift.

“You’re such a tease,” you murmur, eyes locked onto him.

Chris grins, slow and dangerous. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

His hand slides just a little higher, not quite enough, but enough.

You suck in a sharp breath, and he laughs, that soft, lazy laugh that always makes your stomach flip.

The song builds, the chorus swelling, wrapping around you both.

“I want you to hit the pedal heavy metal, show me you care…”

Chris leans in slightly, voice dropping lower. “Sing it for me, baby.”

You shake your head, biting your lip to fight the smile threatening to break free. “You’re so fucking annoying.”

He just squeezes your thigh again, dragging his fingers in slow, torturous circles. “And yet, you’re still in love with me.”

And God, you are. Wildly, recklessly, endlessly in love with him.

Chris just grins, the kind that’s all mischief and golden-boy charm, the kind that makes your stomach flip even after all this time. His fingers linger on your thigh, slow and deliberate, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

You roll your eyes, pushing his hand off playfully, even though you already miss the warmth of his touch. “Pay attention to the road before we crash, golden boy.”

He snorts, but obliges, turning his focus back ahead as the Jeep glides down the quiet summer streets. The sun has nearly disappeared now, the sky shifting from honey-gold to deep navy, the kind of night that feels endless, the kind that makes you believe you’ll never have to grow up.

Then, as if reading your mind, Chris leans back, one hand lazily resting on the wheel, the other drumming against your thigh again. “You hungry?”

Your stomach growls at the mention, making him laugh, and you groan, slumping into the seat. “Shut up.”

Chris shakes his head, reaching for the console to turn down the music. “Nah, this is why I keep you around. You’re so cute when you’re mad.”

You swat at his arm, and he catches your wrist easily, pulling your knuckles to his lips for a quick, teasing kiss.

“McDonald’s?” he suggests, voice light, like he already knows the answer.

Your eyes narrow. “You just want an excuse to get a large fry and make me feed them to you while you drive.”

Chris shrugs, smirking. “And?”

And ten minutes later, you’re sitting in the McDonald’s drive-thru, Chris rattling off the usual order—two large fries, a ten-piece McNugget, a McDouble for him, and a vanilla milkshake for you. It’s routine by now, muscle memory. You don’t even have to ask for extra napkins, because Chris already grabs them, stuffing them in the glove box where he knows you’ll need them later.

The second he pulls out of the parking lot, he’s already reaching into the bag, shoving a fry into his mouth.

“Hey, those are mine,” you scold, reaching over to smack his hand away.

Chris just laughs, shoving another one in his mouth before holding a fry up to your lips, eyebrows raised expectantly. You huff but take a bite anyway.

The drive back is comfortable in the way only summer nights can be. You hum along to the song he had playing on aux, dipping fries into your milkshake, and Chris sneaks sips of it every time you aren’t looking even though you secretly know he does it.

By the time you pull into his driveway, the house is quiet, the lights off except for the faint glow from the kitchen window. His parents are asleep and his brothers probably are too.

Chris shifts into park, then turns to you, smirking. “Wanna come in?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Like you have to ask.”

He grins, pushing open his door before jogging around to yours, yanking it open with dramatic flair. “M’lady,” he teases, offering his hand.

You roll your eyes but take it anyway, letting him pull you out before he slams the door shut as quietly as possible. You both make your way to the side of the house, where Chris knows exactly which windows creak, which steps to avoid.

By the time you sneak upstairs and get to his bedroom, Chris is already kicking off his shoes and tossing his hat onto his desk before he goes to his closet and put on a random teeshirt.

You plop onto his bed, stealing a handful of fries from the bag. “You know,” you say between bites, “your parents definitely know we do this.”

Chris flops down beside you, pressing his head into your shoulder dramatically. “Yeah, well, after the whole condom thing, I think they’ve just accepted it.”

You laugh, turning your face into his hair, inhaling the faint scent of saltwater. “You’re never getting over that, huh?”

Chris groans. “I still can’t look my mother in the eye sometimes. It’s so awkward. She definitely saw my dick.”

“She birthed and raised you. She’s already seen you naked.” You laugh.

“Yeah but that’s different!” He exclaims in a whisper, digging his head even further into your shoulder.

You laugh, before setting the food aside and turning toward him fully. He lifts his head from you and his eyes flicker to yours, and for a moment, the teasing fades. The room is dimly lit, the only glow coming from his bedside lamp, casting everything in a soft, golden hue.

He reaches out, tucking a loose strand of your tangled beachy hair behind your ear. “You tired?”

You shake your head, voice softer now. “No.”

Chris nods, thumb grazing the curve of your cheek before he leans in, pressing a slow, lazy kiss to your lips. It’s not hurried, not rushed like it so often is. It’s sweet, gentle- like he’s savoring it, savoring you.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

“I love you so much, my beautiful girl,” he murmurs.

You smile, fingers curling into the fabric of his t-shirt. “I love you too, baby.”

Chris exhales softly, his breath warm against your lips, his hands never leaving your skin.

His thumb strokes gently over your cheekbone, tracing invisible patterns like he’s memorizing you all over again.

You lean in first this time, tilting your chin just enough to capture his lips again. It’s slow. So slow, like neither of you are in any rush, like you have forever to get lost in each other. His mouth moves with yours effortlessly, no desperation, no urgency. Just warmth. Just love.

Chris sighs into the kiss, pulling you closer, his hands sliding down to your waist, fingers pressing into the soft skin below your bikini.

You shift, pressing yourself closer, and he groans softly in response, deep in his throat. The sound sends a shiver down your spine, your fingers tightening around the fabric of his t-shirt.

He feels so good, smells so good, and you could stay here forever, tangled in him.

Chris tilts his head, deepening the kiss just slightly, just enough to make your breath catch. His hand spreads even further across the warm expanse of your back, his touch setting fire to your skin.

You sigh against his lips, melting into him as his other hand skims up your thigh. His fingertips brush along the frayed hem of your shorts, not pushing, just feeling, just reveling in the warmth of you.

When you pull back for air, his lips chase yours, barely letting you breathe before he’s pressing soft, lazy kisses along your jaw, down the curve of your neck.

“Chris,” you whisper, and he hums against your skin, his breath sending goosebumps down your arms.

“Hmm?” he murmurs, lips brushing the sensitive spot just below your ear.

You don’t answer, just tangle your fingers in his hair, tugging lightly, and he groans again, a sound that always makes your stomach tighten, makes your thighs squeeze around his hips.

His hands slide to your waist, gripping gently as he guides you into his lap, settling you over him like you belong there- like he’s been waiting for this, for you, all night.

You both pause, foreheads pressed together, chests rising and falling in sync.

His hands are steady on you, thumbs rubbing soft circles into your skin, and when he looks up at you, his eyes are heavy, dark with something deeper than just desire.

Love.

“I jus’ wanna take my time with you,” he murmurs, voice thick, fingers tracing along your spine. “Wanna kiss you slow. Wanna make you feel good.”

Your heart stutters, your body burning with something softer than lust, something heavier than need.

You press another kiss to his lips. Slow and deep and meaningful.

“Then do it.” you whisper against his mouth.

Chris doesn’t need to be told twice.

The moment the words leave your lips, he groans deep and low, something that rumbles through his chest and straight into your core. His hands tighten on your waist, fingers pressing into your skin as he tilts his head and devours you.

The softness melts into something new, something desperate and raw as he kisses you harder, mouth parting against yours, tongue sweeping over your bottom lip before slipping inside. It’s slow, but there’s an edge now- a hunger, a need.

His hands slide up your back, slipping beneath your bikini top, his thumbs grazing over your ribs and to the front, right over the softest parts of you. You shudder, pressing closer, gasping when he bites your lip, tugging just enough to make your stomach clench.

“Chris,” you breathe, and he hums before flipping you onto your back in one smooth motion.

His body is heavy over yours, deliciously warm, his hips pressing into you as his lips move down your jaw, down your neck, sucking and kissing until your skin is marked with his touch.

You arch into him, hands gripping at his back, before pulling at the hem of teeshirt. He gets the hint pretty quickly and rips it off before diving right back into you.

“You make me fucking crazy,” he mutters against your skin, lips ghosting over your collarbone before he’s tugging at the strings of your bikini top, undoing them with agonizing slowness.

You shiver, anticipation burning through you as his hands slide beneath the fabric, pushing it aside, palms gliding over your bare skin.

Chris exhales harshly, pulling back just enough to look at you. To really look at you. His pupils are blown, lips swollen from kissing you, his chest rising and falling like he’s trying to keep himself under control.

“Goddamn,” he breathes, shaking his head. “You’re so fucking perfect.”

You don’t get the chance to respond before his mouth is on you again, his head trailing lower, lower, leaving a path of heat down your torso.

Your back arches when his lips brush against your nipples, your fingers tangling in his hair, tugging lightly.

“Chris,” you gasp, breathless, already wrecked from just his mouth, his hands, the way he touches you.

He grins against your skin, his hands gripping your hips as he presses a kiss just above the waistband of your shorts.

“Tell me what you want, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick, grinning with mischief. “I wanna hear you say it.”

You bite your lip, hips shifting beneath him, your body begging for more, but Chris is waiting, his eyes locked onto yours, watching every reaction, every little movement you make.

So you give him what he wants.

“I want you to rock me,” you whisper.

Chris groans, dropping his forehead against your stomach for half a second, like your words just wrecked him.

Then, he looks up at you, and his expression is nothing but pure, unfiltered lust.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes. “Anything you want.”

Chris’s lips trail lower, leaving a path of heat down your stomach, his breath warm against your skin. His hands are everywhere but they’re so fucking slow and deliberate. His fingers tracing over your hips, brushing the frayed hem of your shorts. His eyes flick up to meet yours, dark and wanting.

He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your shorts, tugging just enough to make your breath catch. “Can I take these off?” he murmurs, voice low, rough with restraint.

You nod, but it’s not enough for him.

“Need you to say it, baby.”

“Yes,” you whisper, voice barely audible, but it’s all he needs.

Chris groans softly, dragging the denim down your legs, the slow feeling of fabric moving against your heated skin making your core wetter. When he finally tosses them aside, his eyes roam over you, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip like he can’t believe you’re real.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his hands sliding up your thighs, spreading them slightly as he presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, then higher, higher.

Your fingers dig into the sheets, breath coming in uneven pants as he moves closer, his mouth leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

“Baby,” you breathe, and he hums in response, lips brushing against the last piece of fabric between you.

You lift your hips instinctively, silently begging, and he chuckles, shaking his head. “So impatient,” he teases, but his voice is thick, strained and you can tell he’s just as desperate as you.

He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your bikini bottoms, dragging them down with the same agonizing slowness, his lips following the path they leave behind. When they’re finally gone, when there’s nothing left between you, he just looks at you, his hands gripping your thighs, holding you open for him.

“I’ll never get tired of this,” he murmurs, completely wrecked and full of nothing but love.

A gasp rips from your throat as his mouth moves against you, soft and slow and perfect.

His tongue slides up and down your folds, separating them and pushing his face even deeper into you if possible.

His hands tighten on your hips, keeping you still as his tongue finds flicks against the most sensitive part of you, drawing a moan from your lips that makes him groan in response.

He loves this. Loves the way you tremble beneath him, the way you say his name like it’s the only thing you know.

“Chris- fuck.” Your fingers find his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan against you, the vibration sending sparks down your spine.

He takes his time, savoring every reaction, every shaky breath, every whisper of his name. It’s slow and unhurried, like he wants to memorize you, like he needs to.

His tongue moves in slow, deliberate strokes at first, teasing, tasting, savoring every inch of you. He groans into you, the vibrations shooting straight through your core, and the sound alone is almost enough to make you fall apart.

But you don’t want it to end yet. And neither does he.

His nose presses against your clit at such a delicious angle as his tongue moves in and out of you, setting a ruthless pace- the pace he knows you need, the one that drives you crazy, the one that has your thighs shaking against his shoulders.

Chris moans against you, gripping your hips harder, pulling you closer, deeper, like he can’t get enough. Like he needs you more than air.

And God, he’s so deep, his face buried between your thighs, the heat of his mouth sending sparks all through your body. You’re gasping, your fingers tugging at his hair, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t let up.

You whimper, arching against his tongue, and the cocky bastard grins against you before diving back in, licking into you like it’s his last meal.

“Chris,” you gasp, voice wrecked, breathless.

His grip on you tightens, keeping you exactly where he wants you. “Mmm?” he hums, the vibrations sending another wave of pleasure through your body.

You whimper again, unable to form words, unable to do anything but take what he’s giving you.

Chris pulls back just enough to look up at you, lips glistening, pupils blown. He smirks, dragging two fingers through your slick folds before slipping them inside, curling them just right, making you cry out.

“There we go,” he murmurs, watching your face twist in pleasure. “That’s what I wanna hear.”

You can barely breathe, barely think, as he starts moving his fingers in slow, deliberate strokes, his mouth returning to your clit, wrapping around it and sucking softly before licking over again and again.

Your hands fly to his hair, tugging hard, and he moans into you.

“Baby,” you whisper, barely able to get the words out.

Chris just grins against you, his tongue flicking faster, his fingers thrusting deeper.

And fuck, you’re so close but he knows your body too well. Knows exactly when to stop, exactly when to pull back, leaving you on the edge, aching for more.

You whine in protest, hips bucking up to chase his mouth, but Chris just smirks, pressing a teasing kiss to your inner thigh.

“Not yet, ma,” he murmurs, voice dark, wrecked. “I wanna take my time with you.”

Moments later he dives right back in. His tongue is everywhere, working in you with slow, teasing flicks one second and deep, dragging strokes the next. His fingers pump into you at a perfect pace, curling just right, pressing into that spongy spot that has you moaning his name like a prayer.

He loves it when you moan his name. Loves the way your body responds to him, the way your thighs twitch around his head, the way you can’t stop moving and arching into his touch, chasing his mouth, desperate for more.

Your fingers are buried in his hair, tugging, pulling, and he groans against you, pushing you further into the mattress at the same time without even thinking about it.

The vibrations shoot through your core, send a spark of electricity down your spine, and suddenly, you’re right there. Right on the edge, breath coming in broken gasps, body trembling.

Chris feels it, knows it, and he doubles down, fingers fucking into you harder, his tongue relentless, determined to push you over that final edge.

“That’s it, mama,” he murmurs, words muffled against your soaked skin. “Give it to me. Wanna hear you.”

His voice is practically a moan that’s full of pure need, and that’s what does it. His voice, his mouth, his hands- everything.

Your body seizes up, a sharp gasp ripping from your throat as the orgasm crashes over you, hard. Pleasure pulses through you in waves, your back arching off the bed, your thighs tightening around his head, but Chris doesn’t stop.

He groans as he licks you through it, his hands gripping your shaking thighs, his tongue still working you over, dragging every last bit of pleasure from your body until you’re whimpering, too sensitive, too overstimulated to take any more.

You tug at his hair, trying to pull him away, but he presses one last kiss against your soaked skin before finally, finally lifting his head.

Chris looks like he just fell from heaven. His lips are swollen, glistening, his pupils blown wide, his breath coming in ragged pants.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning as he moves up your body, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses against your stomach, your ribs, your collarbone.

When he reaches your lips, he kisses you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

You sigh against his mouth, fingers still tangled in his hair, your body boneless beneath him.

Chris chuckles, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Goddamn, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick with awe. “You’re so fucking hot when you come on my mouth.”

You let out a breathless laugh, still trying to catch your breath, and Chris just kisses you again.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his thumb brushing lazy circles against your hip.

You were still feeling the after effects of your orgasm, chest rising and falling rapidly, skin burning from his touch, his mouth, him. But as the haze of pleasure started to clear, you noticed something else, something that made heat flood your stomach all over again.

Chris was rubbing himself against the mattress.

It was subtle, but once you saw it, you couldn’t not see it. The way his hips pressed into the bed, slow and desperate, his breathing just a little too uneven, his grip on you just a little too tight. His jaw was clenched, brows furrowed, his body tense like he was trying to hold himself back.

“Chris,” you whisper, realization hitting you all at once.

Chris huffs out a breathless laugh, pressing his face into the crook of your neck, like maybe he could hide from how completely fucking gone he is for you.

“Shut up,” he mutters, voice strained, like he’s embarrassed, like he can’t help it.

You feel another rush of heat pool between your legs, because fuck, he looks so good like this. Flushed and desperate, still clothed while you’re bare beneath him, his self-control hanging by a thread.

“You get off on eating me out?” you tease, running your nails lightly down his back, feeling the way he shudders at the touch.

Chris groans, exhaling sharply through his nose. “Ma-”

Your fingers dip lower, tracing the waistband of his swim trunks, and his whole body jerks, his hips pressing down harder into the bed.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, squeezing his eyes shut, but it does nothing to hide the way he ruts into the mattress again, like he needs it.

You grin, pressing a slow kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You’re so hot when you’re needy.”

Chris groans, his hands gripping your hips harder, like he’s trying to keep himself from losing it. “I’m about two seconds away from ruining these fucking shorts,” he admits, voice whinny.

You shiver at his words, your own arousal sparking all over again. “Then take them off.”

Chris swears under his breath, kissing you hard, all tongue and teeth and desperation.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, forehead pressed against yours as his fingers fumble with the waistband of his trunks. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You giggle breathlessly, helping him push them down, and the second he’s free, you feel just how much he had been holding back, how worked up he is.

And God, you want him so bad.

Chris presses his lips to your jaw, your neck, everywhere, his body hovering over yours, his hand wrapping around himself as he exhales a shuddering breath.

Then, he looks down at you, pupils blown, expression full of nothing but pure, unfiltered hunger as you wrap a hand around his girthy length.

Chris groans, deep and guttural, his forehead pressing against yours as your words sink into his skin like fire. His fingers twitch against your waist, gripping just a little harder, like he’s trying to ground himself.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice wrecked, desperate. “Don’t do that. I’ll finish way too fast.”

You simply laugh but oblige, taking your hand off him. “You always say that but then last all goddamn night.”

He simply smiles down at you. And then he’s kissing you, messy and deep, his body pressing into yours, his hands roaming everywhere and gripping your thighs, your hips, your ribs, like he can’t get enough.

You whimper against his lips, still sensitive, still pulsing from the high he just pulled from your body, but it’s not enough. Not even close.

Chris must feel the way you shift beneath him, the way your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, because he grins against your mouth, his hips pressing down just enough to make you gasp.

“You want more, baby?” he teases, voice rough, laced with something dark and needy.

You nod, breathless, fingers digging into his shoulders.

Chris chuckles, low and knowing, his lips trailing down your jaw, sucking a bruise into the sensitive skin just below your ear.

“You’re so greedy,” he murmurs, nipping at your throat, making you shiver. “So fucking sweet.”

His hands skim down your body, fingertips dancing over your waist before settling on your hips. His touch is warm, steady, as he spreads your legs further, settling between them like he belongs there. He knows he does.

Your heart is pounding, anticipation burning through your veins as he shifts, pressing his length against you, dragging his tip through your slick folds, teasing you, making you ache.

You whimper, tilting your hips up, desperate for more, and Chris moans, the sound vibrating against your skin.

“God, baby,” he rasps, rolling his hips just right, making your head tip back against the pillows. “You’re so fucking wet for me.”

You whine, fingers clutching at his back, nails digging in just enough to make him shudder.

“Chris,” you breathe, voice wrecked, full of want.

He exhales sharply, his forehead pressing against yours again, his hips rolling into yours at a slow, torturous pace.

“I got you, mama,” he murmurs, voice softer now, full of something deeper, something more.

And then he pushes inside you, slow and steady, stretching you perfectly, filling you inch by inch, until he’s buried deep, his chest heaving, his body trembling against yours.

Your breath catches, pleasure coiling through you at the sheer feeling of him.

Chris groans, his hands gripping your hips tight, his head dropping to the crook of your neck.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters, voice muffled against your skin. “You feel so good. So tight.”

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer, pressing your lips to his temple.

“Move,” you whisper, your voice barely a breath.

Chris lifts his head, his eyes locking onto yours. And then he rocks into you. Slow, deep, intentional.

His lips find yours again, swallowing your moans, his hands sliding under your thighs, pulling you closer, pushing in deeper, making you feel everything.

You sigh into his mouth, body melting into his, completely lost in him, in this, in everything you are together.

Chris groans, resting his forehead against yours, his breath ragged, his movements slow and torturous.

“God, I love you,” he murmurs, hips rolling faster, voice thick with emotion, with need. “So fucking much.”

You gasp, clinging to him, eyes fluttering shut, overwhelmed by the intensity of it all.

“I love you too,” you whisper, your voice shaking.

Chris moans at that, his pace picking up just slightly, just enough to make your toes curl, just enough to make you feel the depth of his love, his devotion, his everything.

The world outside ceases to exist but Chris doesn’t stop.

Not after you moan his name like it’s the only word you know. Not after your nails rake down his back, leaving behind marks that will be there for days. Not after he kisses you, slow and deep, like he wants to drown in you.

Not after he pulls another orgasm from you, his name spilling from your lips in a broken, desperate cry as your body clenches around him in a way that was almost painful.

If anything, it only makes him hungrier.

His lips never leave yours, even as he rides you through it, even as he groans into your mouth, hips stuttering, body trembling. But he doesn’t stop. He won’t stop.

He won’t stop until he’s given you everything.

Until the summer heat isn’t the only thing making you sweat. Until the only thing you can think about is him. The way he fills you, the way he ruins you, the way he worships you like you’re the only thing he’s ever believed in.

Chris exhales a ragged breath against your lips, slowing his thrusts just enough to make you shiver. His forehead presses against yours, his body heavy against you, but not in a way that suffocates. In a way that makes you feel safe. In a way that makes you feel like his.

“You okay, baby?” he murmurs, voice rough, wrecked.

You nod, but it’s not enough for him.

Chris pulls back slightly, searching your face, brushing a stray strand of hair from your damp forehead. “Talk to me,” he whispers.

You swallow hard, your fingers tracing down his spine, reveling in the way he shudders beneath your touch. “I want more.”

Chris groans, low and needy, like your words just broke him completely. “Fuck,” he breathes, his grip tightening on your hips. Then he flips you over.

You gasp, a surprised giggle slipping from your lips before Chris cuts it off with a kiss, pressing you into the mattress, his body covering yours. His hand slides up your spine, trailing goosebumps in its wake, before tangling in your hair, tilting your head to the side as his lips move to your neck.

“You sure you can handle another round?” he teases, dragging his teeth along your pulse point, making you whimper.

“Yes please,” you breathe.

Chris chuckles darkly against your skin, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the base of your neck before rolling his hips forward, sliding back inside you with ease.

You both moan at the feeling, the delicious stretch, the way your bodies mold together perfectly.

Chris grips your waist, holding you steady as he starts moving again, slow but deep, drawing out every sound he can.

“You feel so good, baby,” he mutters, voice husky, full of reverence. “So fucking tight and wet.”

Your head falls forward, pleasure sparking through every inch of you, your thighs trembling as Chris pounds into you, his name slipping from your lips like a mantra.

His pace picks up, hips snapping against yours, the headboard knocking softly against the wall with each thrust, the room filled with nothing but the sounds of your moans and his ragged breaths despite the fact his entire family lay sleeping behind the walls.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, pulling you up so your back is flush against his chest, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “You were made for me.”

You whimper, overwhelmed, overstimulated, but you don’t want him to stop. You never want him to stop.

Chris’s hand drifts lower, fingers slipping between your legs, rubbing tight circles against your clit, his other arm wrapping around your waist, holding you in place as he ruins you.

“One more, baby,” he murmurs, voice dripping with want. “Give me one more.”

And you do. Your body tightens around him, your head falling back onto his shoulder as another orgasm crashes through you, sending sparks down your spine, making you tremble in his arms.

Chris groans, his grip tightening as he follows, spilling into you with a deep, shuddering moan, his body stiffening, then relaxing against you.

Silence settles between you for a moment, the only sound being the heavy rise and fall of your breaths.

Then Chris laughs, his lips pressing against the side of your neck, arms still wrapped around you.

“You’re actually gonna kill me,” he mumbles, voice hoarse, spent.

You smile, turning your head slightly to catch his lips in a soft, lingering kiss.

“Guess I’ll have to bring you back to life,” you whisper against his mouth and within seconds he has you flipped on your back and has slipped inside you, cock already hard again.

His skin warm and slick with sweat. His breath is heavy against your cheek, his lips barely ghosting over your jaw as he tries to steady himself, tries to regain control.

But there’s no control here.

Not when you’re beneath him, body still trembling from the pleasure he just wrung out of you, looking at him with those wide, needy eyes, lips swollen, chest rising and falling like you need him just as badly as he needs you.

Chris groans, dropping his head into the crook of your neck, kissing your skin lazily, but keeping himself buried inside you because he can’t pull away.

“I can’t stop,” he admits, voice low, desperate. His hands grip your thighs, spreading them wider, tilting your hips up just enough to make you whimper. “I don’t want to stop.”

You tilt his chin up, forcing him to meet your gaze, your fingers tangling in his messy, sweat-damp hair.

“Then don’t,” you whisper, lips brushing against his.

And fuck, that’s all it takes.

Chris kisses you hard, stealing the breath from your lungs as he starts moving again. He sets a deep, steady rhythm, pushing into you, filling you completely, making you feel every inch of him.

Your back arches, hands clutching at his shoulders, nails raking down his back, and Chris groans, rutting into you harder, deeper.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he mutters against your lips, hands gripping your thighs, keeping them spread as he rocks into you, slow and deep, like he needs you to feel this, to know how much he wants you.

Your head tips back against the pillow, a whimper slipping from your lips, and Chris takes the opportunity to drag his tongue down your neck, sucking and kissing, leaving marks he knows you’ll complain about tomorrow.

His hands slide up your body, cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing over your sensitive peaks, making you gasp, your legs tightening around his waist.

Chris grins, pressing another kiss to your lips. “You’re so fucking sensitive, ma,” he teases, voice wrecked. “Still not over the first one, huh?”

You shake, legs trembling, body overstimulated but still aching for more.

“Chris,” you breathe, tugging him closer.

He groans, pressing his forehead to yours, moving his hips in slow, deep thrusts, dragging out every ounce of pleasure.

“Say it,” he mutters, voice dark, demanding. His hand slips between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing slow circles. “Tell me what you want.”

Your breath hitches, your nails digging into his arms as he keeps going, his pace slow but ruinous, building you up again, bringing you to that edge.

“More,” you gasp.

Chris smirks, but there’s nothing cocky about it this time. It’s adoration, it’s pure fucking need.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, his lips brushing yours. “Then take it, baby.”

Chris snaps his hips forward, thrusting into you harder, his fingers pressing against your clit, pushing you higher, closer, and you can feel it. You can practically taste the pleasure you were so fucking close.

“Cum for me, ma,” Chris whispers, his voice wrecked, full of love, full of you.

You cum hard, your body clenching around him, your back arching off the bed, your head falling back as you cry out, his name tumbling from your lips for what felt like the billionth time today.

Chris groans, his pace faltering, his grip on your body tightening as he watches you fall apart beneath him, as he feels you squeeze around him, pulling him deeper, dragging him with you.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck- mama” he mutters, his movements growing sloppy, desperate. He thrusts into you one last time, burying himself deep before he shatters, his body trembling, his breath coming in ragged pants as he spills inside you again, pressing his forehead to yours, his lips brushing your cheek.

You both stay like that for a moment, tangled together, skin slick, hearts pounding, chests heaving.

Then, Chris chuckles breathlessly, pressing a slow, lazy kiss to your lips and pulling out.

“Round three?” he teases, smirking against your mouth.

You roll your eyes, laughing softly, wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

“Shut up and kiss me.”

Chris doesn’t hesitate.

The second the words leave your mouth, he kisses you. Deep, slow, filthy. Like he’s already planning on making good on his round three comment. His hands slide up your sides, warm and steady, fingers brushing over your ribs before cupping your face, holding you there like you’re his entire world.

And you knew you were.

Your body still burns from everything he’s already done to you, but you want more. You need more. You can feel him pressed against you, still hard, still ready, and it sends another pulse of heat straight to your core.

Chris groans as your nails scrape down his back, his hips shifting against yours, already chasing that friction. His breath is ragged when he pulls back just slightly, his forehead pressed to yours, his pupils blown even wider, his lips swollen and wet from kissing you.

“You’re such a dirty girl,” he mutters, voice wrecked, his hands gripping your thighs, pulling you closer, pressing his length against your slick heat that’s covered in two rounds of both yours and his cum.

You grin, breathless. “And you love it.”

Chris lets out a dark chuckle, pressing a lazy kiss to your jaw, down your neck, sucking another mark into your skin just because he can.

“Damn right, I do,” he murmurs, shifting above you, lining himself up, dragging the tip of his cock through your cum covered folds, making you whimper.

Your body shakes, overstimulated but aching for him again, and Chris feels it. He feels how sensitive you are, how badly you need him.

“I love fucking my cum back into you,” he groans, his voice full of something dark, something possessive. “God, and you’re still so tight.”

You whimper, tilting your hips up, and Chris chuckles, pressing a teasing kiss to your lips.

“Still so desperate, too” he murmurs. You roll your eyes, tugging him down, biting at his bottom lip, making him groan.

“Just fuck me already.”

Chris laughs, but it’s rough, strained, like he’s barely holding himself together.

“Whatever my girl wants,” he mutters but sinks into you nonetheless. It was slow and deep, stretching you all over again, making your eyes roll back and having your nails dig into his shoulders as he fills you completely.

Chris groans, his head dropping to your shoulder, his arms tightening around you.

“Fucking hell,” he breathes. “I’ll never get tired of that feeling.”

You whimper, still sensitive, still ruined from him, but you don’t want him to stop. You never want him to stop.

Chris lifts his head, tilting your chin up, forcing your eyes to meet his.

“Look at me, ma,” he murmurs. “I wanna see your pretty face.”

And fuck, the way he watches you as he starts moving, the way his eyes burn into yours as his hips roll in deep, deliberate thrusts- it’s enough to destroy you.

He drags it out, keeping his pace slow, making sure you feel everything, making sure you need him as much as he needs you.

“Chris,” you gasp, legs tightening around his waist, your hands tangling in his hair, tugging him closer, and he moans, his hips stuttering just slightly.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he mutters, his lips pressing against your temple, your cheek, your jaw. “So beautiful. So fucking mine.”

You shiver, the possessiveness in his voice making another wave of heat crash over you, making your stomach tighten with pleasure.

Chris feels it, knows it, and he speeds up just slightly, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath hot against your lips.

“Gonna cum for me again, baby?” he murmurs, his fingers slipping between your bodies, finding your clit, rubbing slow, tight circles. “Gonna let me feel you?”

You nod frantically, barely able to speak, barely able to breathe, the pleasure building so fast.

“Say it,” Chris demands, voice dark, hungry. “Tell me who’s making you feel this good.”

“You,” you gasp, barely able to get the words out. “You, Chris- fuck, I-”

You shatter before you could even finish your sentence. It’s intense, your entire body shaking, pleasure ripping through you harder than it ever has, your hands clinging to him, your mouth falling open in a silent scream.

Chris groans as you tighten around him with such power, his movements growing sloppy and desperate. And then he’s there too, his hips stuttering, his body tensing before he lets go, burying himself deep, moaning your name way too loudly as he spills inside you.

Chris collapses beside you, breath still ragged, body still warm and sticky from everything you just did. His arm immediately wraps around your waist, pulling you into him, like he physically can’t be apart from you yet. His nose nuzzles into the crook of your neck, his lips pressing a lazy, open-mouthed kiss to your damp skin.

For a long moment, neither of you speak, just basking in the quiet, in the aftermath, in the absolute mess you’ve made of each other.

Then Chris shifts slightly, adjusting his body when he suddenly feels it.

His lips twitch, his fingers gripping your thigh as he slowly drags them up, grazing over the sticky mess between your legs.

“Baby,” he murmurs, his voice thick with amusement.

You hum sleepily against his chest, barely registering the shift in his tone. “Hmm?”

Chris grins, tilting his head slightly to glance down at you, his fingertips brushing against the inside of your thigh again, feeling the both of your cum still leaking out of you.

“You’re dripping,” he murmurs, his tone smug as hell, his fingers teasing as he lightly traces over the mess he left inside you.

Your eyes snap open, a gasp catching in your throat as you immediately squeeze your legs together, heat flooding your cheeks.

“Chris!” you shove at his chest, your voice shrill with embarrassment, but he’s grinning now, the tiredness in his eyes replaced with something cocky, something full of pure male satisfaction.

“Shit,” he mutters, dragging his fingers up your thigh again, spreading the wetness slightly just to watch you squirm. “That’s so fucking hot.”

Your face burns, and you slap at his arm, kicking at the sheets. “Chris, get something to clean it before I kill you!”

Chris just laughs, looking absolutely pleased with himself, shaking his head as he presses a slow, teasing kiss to your forehead.

“Relax, mama,” he murmurs, but he’s already moving, slipping out of bed, stretching his arms above his head before sauntering off to the bathroom completely naked, because of course he is.

You bury your face in your hands, groaning as you hear him rummaging through the cabinets. “I hate you so much.”

Chris’s laugh echoes from the bathroom. “You love me.”

You roll your eyes, still burning with embarrassment, but when he returns with a warm washcloth, his expression softens. He kneels on the bed beside you, gently running the cloth over your thighs, taking his time, making sure he’s thorough.

His fingers brush over your skin, slow and warm, and suddenly, you’re not embarrassed anymore. Suddenly, it’s just Chris. Your golden boy, your love, the boy who takes care of you even when he’s teasing the hell out of you.

When he’s done, he tosses the washcloth into the laundry bin, slipping back into bed, pulling you against his chest once more.

“Better?” he murmurs, pressing a lazy kiss to your hair.

You sigh, melting into his warmth. “Better.”

Chris chuckles. “Good. ‘Cause I’m still gonna remind you of this in the morning.”

Before you could reply, Chris inhales a panicked breath and mutters, “Shit, I’m gonna need to buy you like seven Plan B’s tomorrow.”

You snort, laughter bubbling past your lips as you roll onto your side, draping an arm over his chest. “Seven? You planning on going another few rounds in your sleep?”

Chris grins, brushing his fingers up and down your spine. “I mean, if you’re up for it…”

You swat at his chest, making him chuckle, but then your grin turns wicked, teasing. “Your mom is definitely gonna be disappointed that we didn’t use the condoms she bought for you.”

Chris groans, covering his face with his hands. “Jesus Christ, don’t remind me.”

You giggle, propping yourself up on one elbow. “She literally walked in on us once, Chris. She knows you’re not a virgin.”

Chris peeks at you from between his fingers, giving you a deadpan look. “Yeah, and I still can’t look her in the eye.”

You smirk, resting your chin on his chest. “I think she was just trying to be supportive. Making sure her son’s being safe and all.”

Chris grumbles, shaking his head. “She left them on my bed, Y/N. With no note. Just a silent here, please stop traumatizing me moment.”

You burst into laughter, curling into his side as he groans dramatically. “Aw, baby, your mom just wants what’s best for you.”

Chris scoffs. “She probably heard all that too and is currently regretting every decision she’s ever made.”

You giggle, pressing a kiss to his collarbone before whispering, “I think she’s just proud her son has stamina.”

Chris lets out a strangled noise before flipping you onto your back, pinning you beneath him, tickling your sides until you’re screeching with laughter.

“Oh, you’re funny, huh?” he teases, grinning down at you as you squirm beneath him. “You think you’re so fucking hilarious.”

“Chris- stop!” you wheeze between laughs, kicking your legs as he keeps going.

Eventually, he relents, rolling off of you with a satisfied smirk. You’re still giggling, breathless, and Chris watches you with this soft look, like he’s completely and utterly gone for you. And you know he is.

Then he sighs, stretching his arms above his head. “Alright, c’mere, baby,” he murmurs, sitting up and reaching for the hem of the t-shirt he tossed onto the floor earlier. “Let’s get you fully cleaned up.”

You hum in contentment as he helps you sit up, grabbing another rag from his nightstand and running it gently between your thighs, collecting more of your release that spilled out. The whole time, his eyes stay locked on yours, full of something deep, something warm.

When he’s done, he grabs one of his t-shirts from his drawer that was soft, oversized, and smelling exactly like him and slips it over your head, his fingers brushing over your skin as he helps you adjust it.

“There,” he murmurs, voice low, fond. “My girl in my shirt. Fucking perfect.”

You smile, curling into his chest as he tugs the covers over both of you. His arms wrap around you tightly, his fingers tracing slow, lazy circles against your back.

You sigh, completely melted into him, your body still humming with the remnants of everything he’s given you tonight. His skin is warm beneath your cheek, his heartbeat steady, grounding.

Chris presses a slow, lingering kiss to your hair, his fingers continuing their soft path over your spine, tracing lazy, absentminded patterns like he never wants to stop touching you.

“You okay, baby?” he murmurs against your forehead, his voice thick with exhaustion but still full of that quiet, unwavering care.

You nod, nuzzling closer, your legs tangling with his beneath the sheets. “Mhm. Perfect.”

Chris exhales softly, tucking you even closer somehow, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he loosens his grip.

“Good,” he whispers, his lips brushing over your temple. “Gotta take care of my girl.”

Your chest tightens, warmth blooming inside you at how soft he is now, how different this moment is from the desperate, hungry way he had fucked you just minutes ago.

This is what you love about Chris.

That he’s wild and reckless and cocky, but then he’s this, too. He’s gentle, protective, utterly devoted in a way that makes you feel so unbelievably safe.

Your fingers rub absentmindedly against his chest, your eyes growing heavy, exhaustion slowly pulling you under.

Chris hums, his breath slowing, his hold on you never faltering.

“Sleep, baby,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your forehead again, soft and lingering. “I got you.”

And with that, wrapped up in his warmth, in his love, in him, you finally let sleep take you, safe in the arms of the boy who always has you and always will have you.

[stevenrogered]

Oh, I love this. Classic!

[fairqves]

﹙ 🎬 ﹚ ────FOREVER SOUNDS PERFECT.

(🐚) ── 𝓛EE HEESEUNG﹙희승﹚ ꒰ 𝓰. oneshot ៸ fluff ៸ established relationship ୨୧ㅤㅤ WARNiNGS : not proofread ៸ kissing ៸ petnames ៸ ❞ fiance! 𝓁ee heeseung x 𝑓! reader ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ ꒰ WC : 0.6K ꒱ SYPNOSiS 𐙚 in the late hours of the night, you and heeseung indulge in a late night talk about your soon to be married future together .ᐟ ── LiBRARY

THE APARTMENT WAS SILENT WITH YOUR THOUGHTS.

the world outside could be heard slightly from the open windows, but now, wrapped in lee heeseung’s arms, everything feels still and perfect.

he’s lying on his back, and you’re curled against his chest, your legs tangled like it’s second nature. his fingers play gently with yours, occasionally spinning the engagement ring on your finger like he still can’t believe it’s there.

“you’re thinking about something, aren’t you?” you say, tilting your head up to catch his gaze.

his lips twitch into a small grin, warm and familiar. “maybe.”

you raise an eyebrow, shifting slightly to lift yourself on your elbow. “okay mr. nonchalant, spill.” ── 𝖱𝖤𝖲𝖳 𝖡𝖤𝖫𝖮𝖶!

heeseung sighed dramatically, letting his head fall back against the pillow with a thud. “i was just thinking about our wedding.”

your feel your heart skip a beat, but you play it cool. “oh? what about it?”

he taps his chin as if he’s deep in thought. “i’m still debating if i should cry when i see you walking down the aisle or just faint on the spot. both feel very in character for me.”

you giggle at his words, hitting his chest lightly. “be serious, hee!”

“i am serious,” he insists, catching your hand and pressing a gentle kiss to your palm. “you’re going to look so beautiful. i’m probably gonna cry a little… just so you know.”

you roll your eyes affectionately, your cheeks pink and insides warm. “good. then i’ll cry too, and we’ll be a mess together.”

heeseung grins and tugs you down so you’re lying on his chest again—his arms wrap securely around you, like he’s afraid you might slip away.

“i was also thinking about our first dance.”

“really?”

“yeah.” his fingers traced lazy patterns on your back. “i don’t know what song we’ll pick, but i know i’m not letting you go, even when the song’s over. we’ll probably have to be dragged off the dance floor.”

you can’t help but smile at the image forming in your imagination. “god—you’re such a sap.”

“for you? always.” he presses a kiss to the top of your head, lingering on your skin.

“and then after the wedding… we’ll go somewhere far away for our honeymoon. somewhere with a beach, maybe. just us, no schedules, just sleeping in, exploring, eating too much good food.”

“sold,” you mumble, snuggling closer into his embrace if possible. “but you know the best part?”

“what?”

“coming home.” you trace small circles on his chest, where his heartbeat is steady and comforting.

“starting our life together. making breakfast on the weekends, falling asleep on the couch watching dumb movies, annoying you until you can’t take it anymore.”

heeseung chuckles, tilting your chin up so you’re nose to nose. “i love the sound of that.”

you grin. “even the annoying you part?”

“especially that part.” his voice softens, feeling the seriousness despite the teasing. “i want all of it. every boring, silly, annoying little moment.”

you lean up and press a soft kiss to his lips. he smiles into it, chasing after you when you pull back like he’s not done yet.

“we’re gonna have the best life,” he says so surely, eyes sparkling. “even if we burn dinner or lose our keys or—i don’t know, accidentally adopt five dogs someday.”

“accidentally?” you laugh.

he laughs too, tipping his head back against the pillow. “intentionally. whatever you desire, baby. as long as it’s with you.”

you smile, settling back into his arms, feeling so impossibly safe and loved. “forever sounds pretty nice.”

heeseung hums contentedly, his lips brushing your temple. “forever sounds perfect.”

© FAIRQVES 2024 do not repost, plagiarize, or translate.

NOTE. i love heeseung so much:( i think this will be my second to last fic of 2024!! my birthdays on tuesday that’s the only thing keeping me going rn ☹️ BUT HAIR APPOINTMENT ON THE 30TH GUESS WHOS GOING BLONDE🔥🔥🔥

୨୧ TAGLIST OPEN ‹𝟹 @mioons @nshmuras @suneng @pnghoon @shawnyle @laylasbunbunny @privareum @briefsaladfun @cyjzzl @sol3chu @txtlyn @d-dilemma @deezbin @iluvnikism @rikibwn @wonsprincess @niawonn @pockyyasii @kiss4noo @nineooooo @loves0ft @ancnymcnzjy @dazzlingjaeyun : COMMENT OR SEND AN ASK TBA.

[regressionschool]

A Quiet Afternoon at Home

The sun streamed through the window of the cozy living room, bathing the space in warm, golden light. Kim sat perched in her highchair, legs swinging idly in the air, her bunny-covered footie pajamas crinkling softly with every move. A large pink bib, embroidered with "Daddy's Little Angel," hung around her neck, slightly smeared with the remnants of mashed bananas from her lunch.

Her expression was one of mild distraction, lips pursed around her thumb, eyes fixed on the colorful cartoons playing on the TV. But the occasional wiggle of her bottom betrayed something else entirely—an unconscious habit born of her complete lack of control. Her diaper, already swollen from the morning, gave a faint squish as she shifted in place, unaware of the telltale signs of what had just happened.

“Kimmy,” called a warm, sing-song voice from the kitchen. It was Sarah, her caretaker, carrying a sippy cup filled with apple juice. She approached with a practiced patience, as if dealing with a little one who had long accepted her place. “Did you make another present for me?”

Kim blinked at her, thumb slipping from her mouth with a soft pop. Her cheeks flushed pink, a mix of embarrassment and resignation crossing her face. She didn’t need to answer; the sagging weight of her diaper said it all. Sarah gave her a knowing smile, setting the sippy cup down on the tray of the highchair.

“Aww, it’s okay, sweetie,” Sarah cooed, reaching over to tousle Kim’s blonde hair, now tied into two childish pigtails. “That’s what your diapers are for, isn’t it? You tried to hold it, didn’t you?”

Kim nodded faintly, her lower lip quivering. “I-I felt it, but…” She trailed off, glancing down at her lap, where her hands nervously fidgeted with the edge of her pajama sleeves. “It just… happened.”

“It always does, baby,” Sarah said softly, crouching down so she was at eye level. “You’re just not big enough to make it to the potty, are you?”

Kim bit her lip, tears threatening to spill. She didn’t protest, didn’t argue, because deep down she knew Sarah was right. She’d been through regression school, where every ounce of her adult independence had been carefully stripped away, replaced with the routines and instincts of a toddler who might think about potty training but could never follow through. The smallest flutter in her tummy was always too late, her body betraying her before she even realized it was happening.

Sarah leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to Kim’s forehead. “No tears, sweetheart. Mommy’s here to keep you dry and happy. Well… maybe not dry,” she teased with a light chuckle. “But happy, for sure.”

Kim managed a small smile, the corners of her lips twitching upward despite herself. She clung to the comforting reassurance in Sarah’s voice, even as her soggy diaper grew cold and clammy against her skin. This was her normal now—no responsibility, no expectations beyond simply being the little girl she’d been molded into.

“Now,” Sarah said, lifting Kim from the highchair with ease, her arms cradling her protectively. “Let’s get you cleaned up and into a nice fresh diaper, okay? Then maybe we’ll do some coloring. Or would my little princess like to play tea party instead?”

Kim wrapped her arms around Sarah’s neck, resting her head on her caretaker’s shoulder. She didn’t answer right away, simply snuggling closer as Sarah carried her to the nursery. The familiar scent of baby powder and plush toys greeted them as they entered, the pastel pink walls and crib a constant reminder of just how far Kim had regressed.

As Sarah laid her down on the changing table, Kim let out a small sigh, her thumb creeping back into her mouth. She didn’t fight it, didn’t squirm. There was no point. Her future was as padded and protected as the diapers she’d never leave behind.

For Kim, this was forever. She’d always be the toddler stuck on the cusp of potty training but never quite making it. And, as Sarah lovingly taped up a fresh, crinkly diaper around her waist, Kim couldn’t deny the tiniest spark of comfort in that reality.

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

mornings with suguru feel like a pipe dream.

there’s something honeyed in the air, bleeding into the scent of freshly brewed espresso, fried eggs resting on the stove, newly bought flowers on the windowsill — apricot nectar heavy on your tongue, dripping down your lip in a sticky stream. his thumb reaches over to wipe it away before you can even try.

suguru is sitting right in front of you, looking like what dreams are made of. eyes a little bleary, mind still sinking into the reality of morning, hair put up into a messy bun; raven strands tickling his forehead and framing his eyes, warm and fond, a nice mocha brown. he’s wearing a white button-up, the scent of laundry detergent seeping into the fabric. he’s smiling, and you’re so in love you can barely breathe.

he always wakes up before you. always has breakfast prepared, or half-done, by the time you stumble into the kitchen on unsteady feet — you love clinging to his back while he cooks. but you love this even more.

outside the frail glass of your window, the world is subdued by the changing seasons. autumn is in full bloom, the sky enveloped by wet, molten clouds, a light layer of mist; on the ground are a row of golden trees. it’s a cozy, indoor kind of morning, the kind that makes your veins feel all sleepy, heart all tender, as if melted down by the gentle rain — the kind that has you sipping from your cup, rubbing your eyes, watching your fiancé from across the kitchen table.

there’s nectar on your tongue, espresso behind your teeth, and you wish you could open your mouth and speak. but you’re too tired, still far too groggy — far too sentimental. you can scarcely breathe. you can only sit there, and silently think: i could never love anyone like you. could never even come close.

do you have any idea what i’d do for you?

you’re sure he doesn’t. sure he prefers to see himself as your protector, not the other way around — that he’s most comfortable being a caretaker, rather than someone who gets taken care of. you know how he is. it’s in everything; the cup of coffee he made for you, the shirt he draped over you last night. his own, always, as if he thinks the fabric will bring you sweet dreams. it’s in the way he holds your hand when you cross the sidewalk, the way his thumb rubs over your knuckles when you’re anxious. it’s in the rain, gentle and comforting, watering your plant-like heart.

there’s nothing you wouldn’t do for him.

nothing. absolutely nothing.

i’d drink a million cups of coffee, one after the other — i’d run out in the rain and pluck the apricots from every tree. i’d listen to that song you like. i’d listen to it until my eardrums bleed, and still wouldn’t stop.

nothing, nothing, nothing.

he turns his head, to gaze out the window, his bangs swaying gently as he does — and your gaze gulps down the lines of his jaw, the bridge of his nose, every flutter of his lashes. he parts his lips, and murmurs something about the weather. he’s smiling, a soft curve, his eyes just barely crinkled —

and you can’t breathe.

you’re so lovely it kills me.

your chest aches with yearning. you want to reach across the table and touch him, but you’re still too immobilized by how beautiful he is, how intense this love has come to feel. how devastating it is, to have this kind of life, to know you can do nothing but savour every bit of it. you can’t stop staring, drinking in his softened features, that content look in his amber-coloured eyes — the rasp under his velvety voice. your baby, your angel, your sun. 

(you want him to shine forever.)

when you look down at the table, there’s an open palm waiting for you. smooth skin, soft lines, gleaming under the dim glow of the kitchen lights. 

you look up, and suguru smiles.

he doesn’t speak until you’ve lifted your hand, tangled your fingers together with his. it feels good, the skin to skin contact, the sight of your rings pressed up against one another. his thumb begins to rub gentle circles into the knots of your knuckles, just the same as always. soothing, rhythmic, a mantra you’ve learned by heart.

”something on your mind?” he asks, softly.

(everything.)

”nothing,” you answer, a quiet lull of your tongue, averting your gaze with a heat to your ears. it’s too early for him to be so gorgeous, to aim his unbridled attention in your direction. ”i just love you…”

his lashes flutter, for a moment.

then his mind catches up to your words, and he laughs — breathy and sweet, the slightest gravelly residue. squeezing your palm in his own.

”i love you too,” he croons, lips curled upwards, and you swear you could never tire of hearing him say those words. ”is someone still a little tired, hm?”

”… maybe.”

a low chuckle. he tugs at your hand, gently, bringing it to his lips; they’re warm against your skin, his hot breath seeping out, gliding across your knuckles, stopping right by your ring finger. his eyes gleam with mirth, like the golden leaves just outside your window, pressed against the glass. his voice comes out as a purr. ”do you need another cup, my love?”

his lips trails down, all the way to your wrist, catching onto your pulsepoint. you can’t help but shiver.

”or should i wake you up just like this?”

he’s smiling, and something about it seems smug. he knows exactly how weak you are. and he must think he’s flustering you, acting so suave — but that’s not quite it. when he’s tilting his head like that, he looks more like a puppy than anything, so cute you think you might just melt right through the floorboards.

through the sleepy haze of your mind, to the tips of your fingers; your brain retaliates.

you tug his hand back, bringing yours with it; all the way to your puckered lips. lazily smearing a kiss on the inside of his palm, just barely catching the hitch of his breath, the inhale his heartbeat deigns to swallow down. it makes you smile, against his skin.

(and the tips of his ears bloom with heat.)

everything i need is you. the words are silent, unspoken, only barely mouthed against his skin. i don’t need the rain or the sun. just you, only you. 

when you pull away, your intertwined fingers finding their way back to the tablecloth, suguru gives you another smile. almost painfully tender.

you can’t help but feed into each other, like this. on sleepy mornings, when the words don’t come as easy, so actions are all you have. that, and loving gazes. all you can think is that you want more autumn mornings; you don’t want any of them to end before you’ve finished sipping from your cup of espresso, finished watching him from across the table. not until you’ve woken up enough to spill the words helplessly building up in the back of your throat, the butterflies stuffed in between your ribs. 

until then, this morning mantra will have no choice but to continue. until then, you’ll opt to stay silent.

until then, all you can do is stare.

(and all your mind can think, is nothing, nothing, could ever measure up to this. nothing in the world.)

[allthesmutl0vers]

Dating Fred and George Weasley Headcanons

MDNI, 18+, NSFW

Masterlist Requests/Asks: OPEN (please read) Pairing: Fred Weasley x Fem!Reader x George Weasley Request: Not a request just wanted to write to fight writer's block. TW: Sexual Situations, Kinks, Some Fluff, Pseudo-Twincest A/N: I feel like I ate with this, tbh. Been working on it for two mf days. 😮‍💨💞 I hope you enjoy! Comment here if you want to be added to the tag list for any/all HP content.

Please feel free to let me know how you feel about this. Comments and reblogs are always appreciated. ✨💞

How you got together:

You had been friends with them forever, but you never expected them to have the same feelings towards you as you did for them. None of you were willing to admit it until it was called out by Ginny and her loud ass mouth when she told you guys to 'just fucking kiss already, for Merlin's sake.'

They had just finished a match against Slytherin and won, of course, so their adrenaline was already flooding. You had opened your mouth to fire back at Ginny with some sarcastic ass comment when Fred grabbed your face and smashed his lips to yours, stealing the breath right out of your lungs.

When Fred finally pulled back, your head was in a daze, and before you could suck in a breath, George grabbed you by your waist, dipped you, and kissed you with the same passionate intensity.

After that, everything else was history, and the only thought any of you could form was, 'Why didn't we do this sooner?'

Fred

Song that best describes your relationship with Fred:

Good Girls Go Bad - Cobra Starship (Iykyk)

Nicknames he has for you:

Darling: His go-to nickname, he uses it all of the time.

Love: Uses this one when he is being extra lovey, or giving you presents.

Sweetheart: (this one is for when you're in trouble and he wants you to know it)

Kinks:

Biting: Fred loves to bite you while he's fucking you. Leaving trails of bite marks all over your neck and going down your collarbones and, especially, between your thighs when he's eating you out. Though he never breaks the skin, he does bite hard enough to bruise. Fred's biggest turn-on is the sounds that leave your lips when he bites down hard and then licks and kisses the same spot, melting pain with pleasure until you can't tell the difference.

Bit of an exhibitionist: Nothing revs Fred up more than the risk of getting caught, especially if it's George walking in when he has you bent over, face down, ass up. He knows you're with George, too, but it's not necessarily about who catches you two in the act. It's about simply being caught.

"Looks like we've been caught, darling," he taunts with a dark chuckle and pulls your head back by your hair to make you look at George while he pile drives into you from behind. "Show Georgie how good I make you feel. Come on, let him hear how I make you scream."

Begging: Hearing you beg, 'Just fuck me already,' almost makes him break and do it. His response? Shoving his cock down your throat, all the while taunting you with little phrases like, 'What was that, darling? Didn't quite catch that,' or 'But you look so good, down on your knees begging for me.' He will definitely give you what you want, but only after tears are running down your cheeks as your need becomes almost too much to bear. Almost. He's not a complete sadist, after all.

Honorable Mentions:

Hair Pulling I mean, need I say more?

Teasing at the MOST inappropriate times, family dinner? Ha, his fingers are right at the apex of your thighs, silently challenging you to keep your facial expressions schooled.

Breeding Kink: You think he doesn't fantasize about filling you up so fucking full with cum, that it's only thanks to your birth control you haven't gotten pregnant yet? That's fucking adorable.

Favorite Positions:

Face down, ass up: What's not to love? It's the perfect position for Fred to slam into you at the brutal pace that leaves you cock-drunk. Perfect for him to either hold your hips still or slam you back onto his cock to match his pace, all the while leaving perfect little fingertip bruises on your hips. Even better is when he pulls you back, flush to his chest, a large hand holding just under your chin, supporting your weight while he leaves a trail of bite marks down your neck and shoulders while you whimper and plead for mercy, not that you actually want it, he just loves to hear you beg.

Against a wall: Being the exhibitionist he is, Fred will fuck you any and everywhere. An empty classroom, a broom closet, the locker room after an intense quidditch match, win or lose, he doesn't care. So long as he gets you. But there is just something about holding you up with your legs wrapped around him, back pinned to the wall (or a locker), that makes Fred fucking feral. The way he can watch your pupils blow with arousal, your lips part and quiver as your orgasm crashes into you like a fucking freight train, the way you tug on his hair as if you're trying to keep some semblance of grounding as you feel your soul leave your body. Fuck, he's sure he's never seen a more beautiful sight in his entire life.

Spit roasting: When you're on all fours on the bed (or anywhere, really), and he pounds into you while you suck off George. Fucking you so hard it forces you to take more of George down your throat. What are brothers for? He's not sexually attracted to George, but there's nothing like watching you take his other half while he slams into you. Both of them work in a delicious and synchronized rhythm, filling you up so full that you might just burst, will burst. Body trembling while George offers you sweet praise and Fred reaches around your body, rubbing tight and fast circles over your clit; all the while, they drag you further and further down to hell or up to heaven. Is there even a difference anymore?

Random Head Canons:

Fred is more possessive, not so much that you're not allowed to have friends of the opposite sex. He knows full well he can trust you to tell him if someone makes you uncomfortable. He knows damn well you're not going to be fucking around with anyone else, given how fucking incredible he and George make you feel. Possessive in the aspect that he will brutally, if not mercilessly, prank anyone who so much as looks at you in any way that isn't platonic.

When you chastise him for these methods, he stops because you are bloody terrifying when you're truly angry. He switches to pulling you onto his lap or brushing your hair over your shoulder in front of them to reveal the litter of bite marks he made or the hickies that George made all over your neck, all with the cockiest fucking smirk on his face.

Fred's Ideal Date: While he loves being buried deep inside of you, he loves treating you to an adventure. His favorite? Walking into the forbidden forest, finding the perfect place to swim (he found the best swimming hole with a ledge to jump off of.) In the warmer months, he'll pack a lunch and take you here, loving the adrenaline rush of jumping and diving off of the small cliff ledge. Swimming behind the waterfall and exploring the caves inside with you. In the colder months, he will challenge you to a snowball fight in the courtyard, George is allowed, too, of course, but one of them will always be on your side against the other. Otherwise it's not really fair, is it?

George

Song that best describes your relationship with George:

Ride - SoMo

Nicknames he has for you:

Baby/Baby girl: Uses this as a placement for your name.

Little One: Uses this when he's teasing you; typically whispers it in your ear when his hands are around your waist. Or when he is watching Fred fuck you before he steps in and joins.

Mine/Ours: Uses this one the most in the bedroom when either he or both of them are fucking you.

Kinks:

Hickies: While Fred loves biting, George is a little more gentle. Note that I said a little. He'll fuck you like a whore in church, but he prefers to drag out the pleasure by sucking the soft skin right behind your ear all the way down your body down to your clit, right to his favorite part on your body, which brings me to my next point-

Eating you out: Holy. Fucking. Shit. If this was an Olympic sport, George would take the gold every single fucking time. Sure, Fred knows how to send you over the edge, but George takes his time. Licking and sucking your clit with slow, purposeful movements, drawing out sounds from your throat that sound inhuman. The way his fingers curl just fucking right inside of you, thrusting against that spongy spot inside of you, scissoring them to spread your walls and thrust his tongue in and out. Seriously, this man would live between your thighs if he could. Sending you over the edge again and again with just his devilish fucking tongue and fingers, he gets off on that shit, literally. This man has cum simply from eating you out before.

Edging: Remember how I said George is 'a little more gentle'? This is what I meant by that. George's favorite hobby when he's buried deep inside of you is bringing you right up to the edge, then pulling out, leaving you feeling empty as your walls clamp around nothing. You whine, and you whimper, and suddenly, he thrusts into you with a snap of his hips. Only to do it all over again.

"You want me to fill you up, baby? Is that what you want?" He teases as he only pushes his tip inside. You try to rock against him, to take him in deeper to satisfy the craving inside of you. "Hmm, I'm not sure you deserve it," he taunts as his thumb lands on your clit. Just as you open your mouth to beg, his hand grips your throat, and he slams into you so hard you see stars, his cock buried so deep that you swear you can feel him in your guts as he finally lets you cum with an Earth-shattering cry around him.

Honorable Mentions:

Choking: Because you know what would make you even more beautiful? A hand necklace. His, to be specific.

Bit of a voyeur: He loves watching you get pounded hard and fast when he typically fucks you hard and slow. The way your face contorts slightly differently when Fred is fucking you amuses him like no other.

Breeding Kink to the fucking MAX: He wants your pussy flooded with cum, if some spills out? No big deal, he'll fuck it right back into you. And after you finish school? Yeah, that shit is going into the fucking trash. (But you have no arguments, tbh.)

Favorite Positions:

Riding him: Guiding your hips, thrusting up into you as your hands rest on his chest to hold yourself up. Sure, George is dominant. But that doesn't love to see the look on your face above him as you come apart, over and over again, until you're a sweaty, shaky mess. George doesn't mind reverse- cowgirl, but he'd much rather see your face as his hand wraps around your throat just hard enough to make you dizzy as he tosses you over the edge, following right behind you.

Missionary (hear me out): Who says missionary is boring? Not you. Sure, nothing beats a bed, but George prefers you laid out across his desk. Or with your legs thrown over his shoulders, ass hanging over the bed as he stands and pounds into you. His thrusts are slow and firm, sliding into the hilt and then grinding against your core, making damned sure to draw out every last moan your body can produce.

Between him and Fred: George is not biased when it comes to fucking you in your ass or your pussy, if he's honest. So long as you're on your knees on the bed, while he's in either hole while Fred is in the other, both slamming into you with an animalistic ferocity. Filling you up so full with their cum that it'll be dripping out of you for days.

Random Head Canons:

George LOVES it when people stare/flirt with you. It drives Fred up the fucking wall when George doesn't try to brutally prank or show off just how much you're theirs. But it gets George off when guys try to flirt with you only to have a drink thrown at them, or you simply laugh at them before pointing out him and Fred. While Fred's anger is palpable, George just winks at you with a shit-eating grin on his face. Maybe it's the voyeur in him, but he loves watching you interact with people, male or female, because he knows you're not going anywhere except right back to him and Fred.

George's Ideal Date: George loves to fly with you on his broom, you in front of him as he grips the broom between your thighs. His favorite time to do it is at night, flying up so high you swear you can almost touch the stars as you soar over the clouds. You know this is what you two are doing when he bundles you up in one or maybe two of his sweaters. Because Merlin forbid you get cold. If it's too cold to fly or it's snowing, he loves to take a walk to Hogsmeade and share a butterbeer. So long as he's spending time with you, he couldn't be happier.

I hope you all enjoyed reading this as much as I loved writing it. Please don't forget to reblog and comment! ✨✨🤞🏻😇

[rafesangelita]

hey sweetie, can i request please [🍪] chocolate chip cookie with rafe cameron and based on the song " hard times" by ethel cain. you know how much i like her (both of you are so talented). you're free with the plot, you can make it angst, fluff, smut, whatever you want with a soft or a dark!rafe. as you please. tysm for considerate it and also congrats on your 5k. so proud of you. and take your time !! so excited <3

౨ৎ ˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 “i’m tired of you still tied to me, it’s just the way that you are. i’m tired of you, too tired to leave.”— the never ending cycle of rafe causing you pain and making you feel better.

warnings: a lot of angst, barry being the mediator, crying, shouting, description of unprotected sex, emotional abuse (?)

a/n: i won’t lie, i hadn’t really given ethel cain a chance but when i was reading the lyrics to base this fic off of- MY HEART. i related to this song so much, it shocked me how i never gave it a try. thank you for participating and sending in this request :( i love you so much!! @nemesyaaa

wc: 0.5k

you were everything rafe wasn’t. sweet, gentle, nurturing, patient. surely you two couldn’t work, right? instead of your differences driving you two apart, it drew you closer like the pieces of a puzzle. you filled his voids while he filled yours. maybe you were too young, but you couldn’t recognize that love, this love, could be bad. you clung onto the remnants of rafe that was good, to you it overshadowed everything else. the rage, the cruelty, the possessiveness, the pain. it was who he was, and you were okay with that.

“why are you cryin’? i told you about that shit already!” you jumped when rafe slammed his fist down on the table, his knuckles already split and bruised. “you’re shouting at me, what do you expect?” you cried more, your pink nails glittering under the light of barry’s dingy trailer. barry cleared his throat awkwardly, flashing you an apologetic look as you rushed to wipe your eyes. rafe ignored your sniffles while he sorted out his product. “do you really ‘gotta make her cry bruh?��� barry took a seat after you left the kitchen.

rafe was quiet for a moment, eyes trailing up to look at your curled up form on the worn out couch. he saw the shake in your shoulders, the ruffles of your long skirt disheveled from laying on the thin fabric. you didn’t ask to be here. you didn’t ask for any of this. rafe’s jaw clenched as he handed the scale over to barry. “weight this out, i’ll be right back.” he grumbled, walking over to you. rafe was terrible at comforting people, let alone you who just happened to be the most sensitive person in the world. “hey..” his voice was low as he squatted down.

you took a breath, moving your hair away from your face as rafe turned you around. your skin was flushed, your cheeks hot while your lips swelled from biting on them so hard. “you look pretty.” he wiped a stray tear from your cheek before pressing a kiss to your temple. “you scare me sometimes.” you rasped, tracing his jaw as he picked you up, scooping you in his arms as your head rested on his chest. rafe walked you two down the dark hallway, and entered a bedroom where he laid you down.

you knew what was coming, your hand finding rafe’s as he hiked your skirt up around your hips. rafe knew you wanted intimacy, unfortunately this was the only way he knew how to give it to you. with every thrust of his hips bringing you closer and closer to that peak, you watched his expression morph into one of confliction. like he was sorry for doing this, but also on the edge of pure euphoria himself. you came with a cry of his name, your fingers wrapping around his digits while you felt him empty himself inside of you.

in those few minutes of post orgasm bliss, he held onto you and kissed you like you were the only thing that existed. it was pure heaven. and like always, just when you think you can stay like this forever, he gets up and leaves you naked and vulnerable. “me and barry got some stuff to do. we’ll be back later.” he stroked your cheek before shutting the door. there, in the pitch black darkness, you listened as the engines of rafe and his business partner’s dirt bikes roared to life, the sound fading away as he left you again.

[sykoangels]

cockwarming with wade wilson 💋

cockwarming is such a comforting concept for mister Wade Wilson. you just sitting on his cock keeping it warm as he does miscellaneous tasks he teases your nipples and aching clit. “you know what’s nice about this hun I get to feel you squirm on my cock begging for movement while I sit back and relax and watch adventure time.” wade giggles before nipping at your neck before turning back to the tv enjoying his cartoons like some latch key kid. In your opinion, cockwarming felt like a punishment from the depths of hell, like yes let’s sit on your boyfriend's dick and don’t move but constantly feel it twitch inside your pussy like a goddamn Beyblade. You bit your lip, trying to suppress a moan as his words sent a shiver down your spine. The sensation of Wade's cock inside you was unbearable, a mix of pleasure and pain that made your body tense. You could feel it twitching, like a restless beast trapped within you, desperate for release. “Wade, please," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the adventure time theme song. "I can't take it anymore.” He chuckled again, a soft, amused sound that made you want to both scream and cry. "Shh, it’s the time sandwich episode I need the perfect sandwich recipe told to me by Jake the dog and BMO” he murmured, his fingers lightly tracing circles on your inner thigh moving scarily close to your clit. You closed your eyes, trying to focus on anything but the throbbing between your legs. But it was impossible. Every slight movement Wade made sent waves of electricity through your body, making your breath catch in your throat. Suddenly, Wade shifted beneath you, adjusting his position slightly. The change was minuscule, but it was enough to send his cock pressing against your cervix. A sharp spike of pain shot through you, followed by an overwhelming wave of pleasure that made your head spin.

"Fuck!" you gasped, your hands gripping his thighs tightly, nails digging into his skin. Wade's laughter filled the room, a deep, rich sound that echoed off the walls. "Feeling a little sensitive today, are we?" he teased, his voice thick with amusement. You didn't answer, couldn't answer. Your mind was consumed by the sensations coursing through your body, every nerve ending alight with a fiery intensity that threatened to consume you. "Maybe I should give you something else to think about," Wade mused, his voice dropping to a whisper as he nips at your neck before licking it. Before you could respond, his hands were on your breasts, cupping them gently before giving them a sharp squeeze. You cried out, a mix of pain and pleasure that made your body arch involuntarily. "Wade!" you gasped, your eyes wide with surprise. He just laughed again, the sound sending vibrations through your body. "What? Can't handle a little attention? I thought you could since you always beg for me to touch you like some two dollar hooker.” he taunted, his fingers pinching your nipples hard enough to make you wince. "Please, Wade," you begged, your voice cracking under the strain. "Don’t stop p-please.” But he only chuckled, leaning closer until his lip were brushing against your ear. “Oh baby weren’t stopping till you are dripping cum out of that pretty pussy.” he whispered, his breath hot against your skin. You whimpered, your body trembling with a mixture of fear and desire. You knew there was no escape, not from Wade, not from this relentless torment that seemed to go on forever. Just when you thought you couldn't take any more, Wade's hands moved lower, sliding down your stomach until they reached their destination. With a cruel smile, he began to stroke you, his fingers dancing across your clit with practiced ease. “I’m gonna c-" you screamed, trying to squirm away, but it was too late. The damage was done, the floodgates opened, and there was no stopping the torrent that washed over you. Your body convulsed, every muscle tightening as you came undone, a wild, untamed creature caught in the throes of passion. Wade watched with a satisfied smirk, his hands still moving, still driving you deeper into the orgasmic delight.

you collapsed against him, gasping for air, your body limp and spent. Wade just chuckled, leaning back and returning his attention to the TV.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" he teased, his voice light and carefree.

You didn't answer, couldn't answer. All you could do was lie there, feeling the aftermath of the storm, wondering what would come next.

[iwanthermidnightz]

When I think back on the Speak Now album, I get a lump in my throat. I have a feeling it will always be that way, because this period of time was so vibrantly aglow with the last light of the setting sun of my childhood. I made this album, completely self-written, between the ages of 18 and 20. I've spoken about how I feel like those ages are the most emotionally turbulent ones in a persons life. Maybe when I say that, I'm really just talking about myself.

I think they might just be the most idealistic, hopeful years too. At this point in my life, I had released my second album, Fearless. It became the breakthrough moment I'd always dreamt of, one that catapulted my career to new realms of success. It had brought with it a tidal wave of pressures and pitfalls and growing pains. All the while, I was encountering the milestones and checkpoints of normal teenage growth. I had cataclysmic crushes and brushes with heartache. I moved out of my parents' house and set my bags down in a new apartment. I hung photos on my own walls and decorated the space where I would sob and cackle and shatter and dream. Sometimes I felt like a grown up, but a lot of the time I just wanted to time travel back to my childhood bed, where my mom would read stories to me until I fell asleep.

In my darker moments, I was tormented by the doubt that swirled loudly around my ascent and my merits as an artist. I was trying to create a follow up to the most awarded country album in history, while staring directly into the face of intense criticism. I had been widely and publicly slammed for my singing voice and was first encountering the infuriating question that is unfortunately still lobbed at me to this day: does she really write her songs? Spoiler alert: I really, really do.

In the years since, I've developed a thicker skin about public criticism and the cynicism with which some people approach the music I make. At that time, it leveled me. I had these voices in my head telling me that I had the perfect chance and I blew it. I hadn’t been good enough. I had given it all I had and been found wanting.

I wanted to get better, to challenge myself, and to build on my skills as a writer, an artist, and a performer. I didn't want to just be handed respect and acceptance in my field. I wanted to earn it. To try and confront these demons, I underwent extensive vocal training and made a decision that would completely define this album: I decided I would write it entirely on my own. I figured, they couldn't give all the credit to my cowriters if there weren't any. But that posed a new challenge: It really had to be good. If it wasn't, I would be proving my critics right.

I had no idea how much this pain would shape me. That this was the beginning of my series of creative choices made by reacting to setbacks with defiance. That my stubbornness in the face of doubters and dissenters would become my coping mechanism through my entire career from that point forward. This exact pattern of enacting my own form of rebellion when I feel broken is exactly why you're reading these very words, and I'm re-releasing this album now.

I went through my first worldwide scandal (the mic grab seen around the world). I experienced the weirdness of trying to get to know a boy while a swarm of paparazzi surrounds the car. Media contacting my publicist for an official statement on why two teenagers broke up. These are weird experiences to have at any age, but even more surreal when you're 19.

I had the nagging sense that in the most intense moments of my life, I had frozen. I had said nothing publicly. I still don't know if it was out of instinct, not wanting to seem impolite, or just overwhelming fear. But I made sure to say it all in these songs. I decided to call the album Speak Now. It was a play on the speak now or forever hold your peace' moment in weddings, but for me it symbolized a chance to respond to the chatter and commentary around my own life.

Some of these emotional revelations were surprising to people. Some expected anger and instead got compassion and empathy with 'Innocent'. Some expected a kiss-off breakup song but instead got a hand-on-heart apology, 'Back to December. It was an album that was the most precious to me because of its vast extremes. It was unfiltered and potent. In my mind, the saddest song I've ever written is 'Last Kiss'. My most scathing is 'Dear John' and my most wistfully romantic is 'Enchanted'.

I'll be forever proud of setting a goal and seeing it through. I'lI always feel shivers all over when I remember singing 'Long Live' to close the show every night on tour. The outstretched hands of those bright and beautiful faces of the fans. Their support was like an open palm that reached out and helped me up off the ground when others were, frankly, mean.

These days I make my choices for those people, the ones who thought I had been good enough all along. I try to speak my mind when I feel strongly, in the moment I feel it. I'm still idealistic and earnest about the music I make, but I'm less crushed when people mock me for it. I know now that one of the bravest things a person can do is create something with unblinking sincerity, to put it all on the line. I still sometimes wish I was a little kid again in a tiny bed, before I ever grew up.

I always looked at this album as my album, and the lump in my throat expands to a quivering voice as I say this. Thanks to you, dear reader, it finally will be.

I consider this music to be, along with your faith in me, the best thing that's ever been mine.

Yours,

Taylor

[telanadasvhenan]

thinking more about the psychological aspect of solavellan, and before I start, I'd like to stress that this is NOT CRITICAL of it, I actually think it's what makes part of the dynamic interesting. My word isn't the be all and end all, however, this is just my musings on the topic :] Also, REALLY long post! so, more under the read more lol

From Lavellan's point of view, I would personally struggle to see her trusting another lover or close one again for a long time, if ever again. I don't really think people ever talk about the real impact of the things she goes through, or what solas put her through, and the hurt as a result of it. The relationship is never defined between the two of them, it's always spoken about in vague undetermined words from their companions and poetic elvish between the two of them. Are they lovers? companions? partners? it's really up to the player. Leliana says that "you were close", Sera says Lavellan is "in it." Vhenan means home, heart, it's not a word said lightly imo and he tells you he loves her by their second kiss. It's never an official thing, so how secure can Lavellan truly feel?

This could go both ways when it comes to the break up. Crestwood, as a scene, is so interesting to me because the first portion seems like a man brought to his knees by weakness for the woman he loves. The two of them never cease to touch, fingers entwined, shoulders brushing, skin to skin. It's so reminiscent of how Lavellan matches his Hallelujah cadence. They're two parts of a song singing together. It's a gorgeous scene and it's understandable how so many are angry at how it ends because the whiplash between how it starts and what it leaves you with is severe. Imagine this from lavellan's shoes.

You're desperately in love with someone at odds with your people, who is wonderful and enticing and smart. Loving solas feels like loving the whole world, like being free and connected with the stars. But you don't know what this is. And, if you thought you did, how far can you presume? Is Lavellan always on edge, scared to love him deeper and richer than he loves her? or is she in a false sense of security, assuming his affection is forever hers. So when he not only breaks away your faith and trust in your history, plus potentially the vallaslin, she is clearly deeply upset. This isn't a minor fact that simply can be swept aside. The vallaslin is important. And Solas, even with the best intentions, has hurt her. He knows it and there's a reason why he apologises (bc he wimped out on the real truth). How much more does he know about her people that he has refused to tell her or kept from her by omission? Can you imagine the embarrassment, the utter humiliation of that secret? how many memories of them together where she replays his distaste for her people in her mind, knowing that he has access to knowledge that could change her perception of her past? Its ALOT. and thats even before the breakup.

Solas is not kind about the break up. It's rushed (impulsive to me) and doesn't do their connection justice. His composure cracks in places and it's very unlike him. It absolutely blindsides the player, so imagine being in Lavellan's place, AFTER THE VALLASLIN? personally, I wouldn't have been able to function. I half suspect that a sad, calm Lavellan is also in shock or disassociation. Because how else do you cope? The lack of communication between them alone is enough to raise my eyebrows. He promises answers. He confides that she saw through his mask and doesn't tell her what was real, and what was fake. He has given her a kernel truth whilst keeping her in the dark. Everything he told her could be a false, imaginary polite mask or it could be the truth. Where does it end? Where does he begin? Where does she stand?

I don't know if everyone has experienced what it's like to be ghosted or for a friend to simply disappear one day, but it changes you. I say this as someone who has both been avoidant as well as anxious, but you never recover. Someone disappearing like that makes you doubt any reassurance that people won't just evaporate from your life. So when Solas just disappears, the game's single conversation with Leliana feels a little lacking to me. I understand that they can't really dedicate a lot to it, I get that, so I'd like to fill it in. At first, it's search parties. Solas wouldn't just leave her like that. He promised her answers. He started another mural just before they left for corypheus. He didn't intend to just leave, surely.

Days, weeks and months pass. The question is worse than the truth. Is he dead? Did he use them? Was he being truthful when he spoke to her in those ruins, or another polite mask he could hide behind? Is it better if he's dead or better than he didn't deem her worthy enough to even say goodbye? We, as the players, obviously know this isn't true, but she doesn't know that. Does your lavellan assume the worst and be overcome with grief that her one love, her heart, her home, was nothing more than a lie of omission? or is there anger there at his betrayal of her trust once more? I seriously doubt it was easy to forget or dismiss. That kind of disappearance ruins your trust with people. Something. Anything would have been enough.

Again, this is all my opinion on how these emotions would play out and DEFINITELY NOT canon nor do they have to be! But I seriously struggle to see how Lavellan could even come to heal from these wounds within even a two year time skip. By the time of trespasser, almost everyone has left her side. She's almost entirely alone again, save Cullen and Josie (and leliana if she's not divine). And thats okay: they all have rich lives to return to. But that must just reaffirm to her that no one will stay. She is alone. How does she trust again?

And then there is Fen'harel. Lavellan's reaction to fen'harel has always lacked the fear I kind of hoped would be there? I mean this isn't just a minor deity, this IS THE antagonist of her entire faith. I'm assuming that she's lost hope in the gods, even though it's confirmed to her that they're real, but that message has been a part of her since childhood. So learning that he is the dreadwolf, again not from him, but from the fragments of his past must cut her deeply.

Her love was never who he said he was, she knows this, but who is the real man? She's never known him in a context where he can truly show her. Her love is fragmented between each identity he holds. Her trust that he is who he said he is fragments with it. The knowledge that not only has he been watching the inquisition, her, for years without a single hint that he lives or is okay must destroy her. Could you imagine how insignificant you must feel to him? And he essentially affirms to her that yes, in the greater scheme of things, his love and hers are inconsequential. They cannot matter to him because he cannot strive from his path. His indulgence was a mistake. And it's undeniably cruel. I love solas and I cannot argue that he was kind to Lavellan because he wasn't. To me, there is no way to see his actions as kind. Understandable, absolutely and definitely without malicious intent.

Lavellan learns that he loved her just as deeply, if not more. He loved her with all his heart and it did not matter. She changed him and it has only brought him more pain. He loves her too much to even allow her near him, to even give himself that weakness. They are apart from each other in an endless distance, only the two of them in the world. No one else.

Obviously, each Lavellan is different, and I've made a lot of assumptions, but I think it's worth considering. How do you love someone again after all of that? How much can you rebuild your faith after what you have learnt. Lavellan has loved a "god" (I know he's not a god, but for all intents and purposes, he has the power of a god and wears an evanuris crown.) and in turn, a god has loved her. And he left her with one last embrace that will leave its mark on her forever, then he leaves once more. Lavellan is alone.

Each love after is met with suspicion, distrust and comparison. Lavellan is entirely changed. How many pieces of her can be taken away until she is no longer herself? Each person wears a new mask she cannot determine. Where do they begin? Where can she find herself?

How lonely it must be to love someone like Solas and be at the other side of an endless distance.

[roanofarcc]

ONE DANCE, PLEASE?

pairing: trevor lefkowitz x ghost bride!reader

summary: since your death, weddings at Woodstone have been a source of bitterness for you but that doesn’t stop trevor from attempting to cheer you up with a dance

word count. 1.6k || masterlist

warnings: fem!reader, mentions of death, dead!reader

a/n: this is my first ghosts fic so please be gentle! I love the idea of a ghost bride and debated on making it into an OC or reader story. I think I like having it be in little one-shots! it’s a crime more hasn’t been written for trevor (or any of the show’s characters). feel free to request for trevor or any other ghosts characters <3

“Are you going to mope around for eternity?” Sasappis asked you, standing arms crossed in front of a beautiful garden decorated to the nines. The backdrop to your sulking was stunning flowers tied in bunches and pastel dresses moving around the patio-turned-dance floor. 

“Is that not the point of being a ghost?” you replied, jutting out your feet forever stuck in kitten heels and skin-colored pantyhose. Sass lightly kicked your foot with his and nodded his head to the corner just off the dance floor where the rest of the ghosts danced and laughed. A part of you was jealous of how easily they enjoyed themselves at weddings and how they were not plagued with an eternal hatred for them and what they represented. 

It always felt like a cruel joke, even though it never had anything to do with you, when Sam and Jay hosted a wedding at their B&B. As much as you loved the couple, you couldn’t stand what most considered a joyous event. The union of two people in love, not tainted by tragedy, grew your restatement each time. Weddings were a part of the business and helped Sam and Jay bring in the money they desperately needed to fix up the mansion, but that didn’t mean you had to enjoy yourself. Instead, you spent each event sulking on the sidelines, ignoring the pang in your chest, and avoiding your ghostly counterparts' advances to cheer you up. The only thing that would’ve cheered you up was a do-over of your big day that was ruined by a strike of unluckiness, resulting in your untimely death.  

Sass narrowed his gaze at you but decided against saying whatever he wanted to. Instead, he turned on his heel and headed back to the ghosts. You adverted your gaze back down to the beads sewn into your dress, picking at them with the wish you could pull the garment apart with your hands, but since it was what you died in, it would forever stick to you. 

A slow song played through the DJ’s speakers as the sun slowly began to set over the yard. Strung lights glittered warmly, bathing the attendees in a golden glow. The bride had looked radiant since she arrived at the mansion days ago, and all day you had to watch her and her husband’s love run circles around you. Your malice wasn’t aimed directly at the happy couple, but rather at what they represented and the reminder of what you almost had. 

Someone appeared beside you, their presence clouding your solitude-sulking. “What a bunch of losers,” the person said, causing you to turn your head and meet Trevor. “I mean, seriously, this song was lame when I went to weddings and people are still dancing to it? I get the appeal of throwbacks but let’s pick this snooze-fest up a little, am I right?” 

You rolled your eyes. “What do you know about weddings?” 

“I happen to have been invited to a lot of them, thank you very much. Well, the receptions and bachelor parties, usually. Those weddings had a lot more alcohol and single bridesmaids.” You said nothing in response, hoping your dimly lit mood would shoo Trevor away. You were mistaken, though. If anything, your silence only encouraged him further. He moved in closer to your side, standing with his hands on his hips as he gazed out across the crowd. “I think they may need some help livening things up a bit. Care to join me?” 

He often tried to do that, brighten your mood by offering to dance with you. And every time you turn him down, not because you didn't want to, but because you’re worried that the second you start to enjoy yourself at a wedding, tragedy will follow a second time around. You liked Trevor and couldn’t stand the thought of enjoying yourself only to hurt yourself, again, or him. In your head, as long as you moped around, everything would stay the same as they were, which you loved more than you’d admit aloud. You liked your ghost-mates and you liked Sam and Jay. If you somehow brought some unfortunate curse upon any of them because you enjoyed yourself just as you had on your own wedding day, you weren’t sure you could cope with that a second time around, not when you hardly coped with it from the first time. 

“Trevor…” you sighed, defeated and slumped-shouldered. 

Normally, he dropped it after that. He usually sat quietly at your side until his excitement and urge to join the party overwhelmed him and he resumed dancing with Flower or attempting to play pranks on the livings with Thorfinn. That time, however, he took you by surprise. He moved directly in front of you, face set with a certain tone of seriousness that was odd. 

“Nope,” he said, simply. “You are not moping for eternity. I won’t let you.” 

“That’s not your choice.” 

He smirked, cheekily and annoying but stupidly charming. Those three words suited him too well. Trevor extended his hand out, making a grabbing motion with his hand. “One dance, that’s all I’m askin’. That’s all I need to change your mind.” You tightened your grip on the skirt of your dress, unbudging at his request. “One dance. Please?” His voice was a little lower, pleading almost. 

One dance. You never got to dance at your wedding. Something bad could happen, it probably would. 

Trevor’s fingers grazed your knuckles, tapping them lightly and looking at you in a way, underneath the golden light, that made you consider it. He noticed your hesitation and dropped his hand back down at his side. 

“Okay,” he said after a beat before he turned away with a little frown on his lips that made you feel even worse. 

There was something wrong with you, maybe it was some kind of ghostly side effect of dying on your wedding day; perhaps you were doomed to live in the murky waters of what-if and why. 

The bride and groom were in the middle of the patio dance floor, spinning each other around in quiet fits of laughter and bodies pressed as close as they could get with the bride’s fluffy dress. They were married, dancing as two halves of a whole with nothing bad lingering over their heads. There was no impending doom, aside from you sitting on the outskirts. The doom was you and your mind, rippled with jealousy, sadness, and a million questions of what exactly you could have done differently that day. But the truth was, there was nothing you could have done. Fate was fate, as Flower had once said in one of her more insightful conversations. Fate was messy and included bear attacks, arrows in necks, and accidents. Fate found you there, at the Woodstone mansion forever a fiancee but now entangled with the fates of your ghost friends who also found themselves there forever. 

Forever was such a long, made even longer with eternity hanging on your shoulders. How many more weddings would you sit there, watching and sulking in your own unhappiness that others wanted to fix for you? 

Something between a groan and a sigh left your lips as you stood up, letting your wedding dress fall back down to the ground in the pristine condition you had died in it in. “Trevor,” you said again, louder as you called after him. He stopped, slowly turning around with a confused quirk of his brow. You nervously picked at the beads again, but that time wasn’t to pick them off but rather settle them back in place in a similar way to how you had picked at them awaiting your turn to walk down the aisle. A dance was not nearly as monumental as that, but it carried a weight that pressed down on your chest. 

“One dance,” you said. He stared at you for a moment like he wasn’t sure he had heard you right. It wasn’t until Thor punched him in the arm with a hardy laugh and Hetty pushed him forward towards you. 

Trevor approached you, smoothing out his tie. “Really?” he asked. 

You nodded. “If anything bad happens, I’m blaming it on you," you said only half joking.

He smiled, wide and toothy and the way that made you subconsciously want to copy it. “The worst thing that’ll happen is me stepping on your feet. I haven’t slow danced since prom.” Despite that, he dramatically bowed and extended his hand. “May I have this dance,” he said in a terrible accent. You couldn’t help but laugh lightly, some of that weight lifting from where it hurt your chest. 

Once you accepted his hand, he all but dragged you to a quiet corner of the dance floor, away from where any livings would walk through you two, and away from the other ghosts and their suggestive smirks and comments pointed at the two of you. 

When you danced, with his feet clumsily trying to avoid stepping on yours and hands rested on your waist, nothing bad happened. You did not die a second time around, nor did tragedy strike in the way you feared. The only thing that occurred was dancing, peppered with occasional laughter and a quick apology when Trevor stepped on your skirt and halted your movements. You recovered with a shake of your head and a slight lead in the dance, which he didn’t voice but silently appreciated.

[munsster]

sober thoughts

A/N: who let the WIPs out? 🙈 nah….. i was gonna continue but….. that was so corny. anyway, i am back from the hiatus No One saw coming. enjoy <3 (gif creds: @raiderlucy)

Pairing: Steve Harrington x GN!Reader

Summary: If drunk words are sober thoughts, Steve sure is talkative when he’s had a few. 1.3k words

Warnings: fluff, drunk/high steve, pet names (puppy, sweetheart, baby), mutual pining, cursing

It's New Year's, and you find Steve all starry eyed and bubbly in the center of a stranger's kitchen. You know exactly where to find him 'cause he always tells you the kitchen is the best place to hear the music without the fuss of the party. His hair's all tousled and you're pretty sure he lost the top button of his shirt somewhere. You can see the dainty chain looped round his neck in the warm light. The one you gave him.

You catch his eye, and suddenly he's grabbing for your hips like he can't balance without them. He's definitely been smoking with the way his smile reaches his eyes before anything else. Any other night, he would've stayed sober, but you promised to get him and Robin home safely before he could beat you to the punch.

He's hot like an oven up close. All pink in the cheeks and warm at the temples. You push his hair our of his eyes and squint up at him.

"Hi, puppy," you coo. His fingers press a little harder into your soft skin on impulse. Some kind of nonessential reflex or something, but it feels so essential holding onto you like this.

"I like that." The endearment, your eyes right now, the way you're holding his bicep, this song. "I like you."

He dies when you chuckle.

"I like you, too, sweetheart." But he knows you don't mean it like that. Not like how he means it. Everyday he's reminded you like him as a friend. And everyday he's reminded that he likes you as something much more and much less attainable.

Robin tells him it’s noble to play the long game, but in all honesty, he's not sure he's playing any game at all. If you like him one day, hallelujah, it's a goddamn miracle, but if you never like him like that, then that's it and he'll still be your number one admirer forever. Even if that means admiring you from afar.

Still, he whines about it: "You don't get it." You roll your eyes with a lighthearted smile. He's high. But to Steve, that doesn't matter. What matters is the way you let him look at you. He leans a little closer, brings his hand to the side of your neck. On instinct, his lips pucker a little and he bats his long lashes at you.

You put a pause on him with your hand to his chest.

"I'm not gonna kiss you while you're drunk. And high," you tease. You almost feel bad with the way he pouts, his hair all over the place even after pushing it out of his eyes.

“Why not? It’s New Years!”

“Yeah, an hour and a half ago.”

“Well. You kissed Robin, and I kissed no one.” And you think he’s laying it on real thick, playing into the bit for a little too long. You might even suggest it’s less of a bit now and suddenly something much more real and grating.

“Poor baby,” you coo, frowning sweetly in response to his more dramatic frown.

“Yeah. Poor baby. Nobody cares about baby.” Steve huffs like a discontented horse.

“I care about baby.”

“Then kiss me,” he whines.

“You’re inebriated.”

“No, actually. I’m sober as can be, I’ve got no juice in me at all.”

You try and act surprised but you both know he chugged and crushed four beer cans just to impress you. And that was when you first arrived several hours ago. You’re more impressed he hasn’t hurled, yet.

“Steve, I’m only not kissing you because I care. You must know that,” you sigh with your hands gliding easily back over his shoulders, fingers taken with the soft nape of his neck. The warm clasp of his chain.

“Ugh”—he rolls his glassy eyes, grumbling—“o’course I know that. In fact, it’s very thoughtful of you. Doesn’t mean I like it.”

You wish he didn’t seem so sad saying it like that. You wish it didn’t make you so sad to hear it said. Of course, he knows that. Steve is the sweetest, most considerate guy you’ve ever known, and those big, brown eyes are to die for even when they’re a little pink around the edges.

What really matters is that when he looks at you, your heart races like someone’s betting it’s the fastest. It beats even faster at the possibility that his ‘crush’ on you isn’t a joke. That it hasn’t been this whole time. That maybe his feelings are real and that would mean they’re reciprocated.

“Okay, fine, I’ll kiss you.”

Steve assumes the position almost immediately: puckered lips fighting a smile, eyes pinched closed, fingers subconsciously pulling your hips towards him.

You hook around to kiss the apple of his cheek. He groans, setting his heavy head on your shoulder. You pat his back, resting your temple against his peachy ear.

“You can have your kiss if you still want it sober.” At that, he lifts his head, and with it goes a presumptuous eyebrow.

“Sweetheart, I’ve been wanting it sober since I was thirteen. Don’t think that’s gonna change overnight.” He states it like it’s a fact of life; what an idiot! He wasn’t supposed to say it like that! He had planned on some totally romantic picnic or late night drive or some extravagant, life-altering, near-death-experience to set the mood. Anything but at the very beginning of a new year, intoxicated in every sense of the word.

“Steve!” You holler, “Since thirteen?!”

“Well, duh! You just have zero googoo eyes radar. I make ‘em all the time at you,” he says, shrugging it off. But you can only imagine thirteen-year-old Stevie waiting for the bottle to point to you, only for it to skip you every lousy turn. And thirteen-year-old you somehow jinxing the rotation of the bottle. No matter how hard you willed it to choose you, it never did. Not for Stevie.

“Well… stop that!”

He chuckles. “You can’t make me.”

You’ve never been more nervous talking to Steve. You’re so nervous, you can’t even remember when it used to be easy. His eyes are locked with yours, big and shiny and so brown and wide and soft. Windows to the soul, eh?

“You are so plastered,” you scoff. Who says he can peer into your soul. You divert him to the ceiling instead, knuckles to his strong chin.

Steve shakes his head. “That doesn’t change anything.”

“It changes everything,” you look at him to find a painfully familiar lopsided smile. “It changed everything.”

He tilts his head. Sweetly. Mischievous as ever, but sweet.

“So, you’ll kiss me tomorrow?”

You sigh. “Only if you ask nicely tomorrow.”

“Fine!”

What you don’t expect is for him to run out of the room. There’s muffled shouting, the slam of a door, a triumphant ‘yes’, and a beat of silence before he returns, scuttling across the floor, sharpie in hand.

One of his shirt sleeves is pushed to the elbow. Across his forearm is a smattering of permanent black ink.

“What’s this?” you coo as he excitedly presents his arm to you.

“It’s a reminder.”

Looking closer at the ink splotches, you can just barely make out the message: Ask nicely, coward. You squint up at him, trying your hardest not to giggle.

“It’s a threat and a reminder,” he chirps, brows raised, eyes wide, chest pounding. He thinks you look happy, smiling as you smack his chest.

“You’re really hopeless, yunno that?”

You could call him as many names as you wanted, he’d take them all as endearments. As long as you keep teasing him with promises of sober kisses and your hands in his hair.

He nods, “Now call me your puppy again.”

stranger things masterlist

[shaisuki]

｡‧˚ʚ°ɞ˚‧｡ ─── MY LOVE MINE ALL MINE.

when toji entered his shared home with you — he can hear the crying of his son. it hasn't stop since he left to get the medicine prescribed by his son's pediatrician. fever was it.

soft footsteps echoing in the floor. toji removing his coat and went to your bedroom. there he sees you. standing in front of the window. moonlight shining through it giving you a halo effect on you. he would be awestruck at you but his son's wailing had been relentless.

his baby with you, flushed skin with tears rolling endlessly in his chubby cheeks. a fever relief pad for babies pasted in his forehead to ease the heat of his fever. he watched as you cooed, rub the back of your baby but still it was useless.

toji sighs. it was rough. it wasn't all shit and giggles when parenting and seeing his baby isn't laughing or doing the same thing all over again plus you. exhaustion visible in your face and tiredness all over your body tending to his little boy. you didn't even notice him and before toji could take a step he hears you hum before you began to sing a familiar tune you always sing when you were pregnant with megumi.

“moon, a hole of light~” you began to sing the first verse and megumi's wailing turn to sniffles upon hearing your voice. the tears rolling in his cheeks turning into drops like dew in leaves after rain. the song hasn't been sung since your pregnancy and megumi stares at you wide eyed. the green in his irises similar to his father turning into one of calmer one.

you raised megumi to distract him while you continue to sing. “cause my love is mine, all mine~” his fingers making grabby motions to you and toji is entranced how you manage to calm your sick baby. “i love mine, mine, mine~” your voice soft. singing the song like a lullaby intended to heal the sick and mend broken hearts and the scarred man gazing at his son and especially to his wife can't help but to feel warm and giddy inside.

“nothing in the world belongs to me~” you continue to sing. your baby eyes wide while he stares at his mother. “but my love mine, all mine, all mine~” placing your son's body in your chest and his head into your shoulder. his breathing softening with hiccups. your palm rubbing his back to soothe the ache and megumi thankfully calmed down. sighing a small smile graces in your lips before bestowing a chaste kiss to his head. hair spiky and you softly laugh imagining how toji would look with his hair spiked up.

you began to sing the second verse and then you turned around to see toji. “my baby, here on earth~” he can see the words forming in your lips added by your angelic voice and he didn't know if he could love you better when you look at him to sing the words intended for him. “showed me what my heart was worth~....” the volume of your voice decreasing not breaking eye contact with your husband and then you greeted him. “toji.”

“megumi finally calmed down but the fever is still there. hopefully it'll be gone by morning.” you say. rocking back and forth to further your baby's comfort. “let me take it from here.” extending his arms and you slowly placed your baby in his. toji isn't good at it. stabbing a man's head is easier than carrying his blood and flesh but toji tries. be a good father and husband in which his father wasn't. it's different now. he thinks to himself. he wasn't alone. he have you and toji intended to make it this way until.... forever.

you rest your head in his shoulder while your hands softly brush megumi's hair. checking his temperature with worry etched in your face. “our child is strong.” toji comforts you. another feat he doesn't know he's capable of and the word our. you and him with your pride and joy resting in his chest. “he is.” smiling softly at your baby.

toji peered at you. his wife stronger than anything else. caring and loving with the voice that can touch one's very soul. calms the storms in its wake and toji thinks back on what good deed he must had done to deserve you. to deserve this life but nothing else matters with you and his life and this little brat.

and toji knows that he doesn't have love in him but now, he have and he intends to have it. to give it to you until there's nothing left in him cause his love didn't exist without you in his life.

[peachiejeongin]

I'm, I don't really have a specific request but lovemaking with seungmin sounds beautiful b/c I'm sure he can worship you just as much as he can tease you.

I think that can probably apply to changbin and Jeongin as well

Between the Notes | Seungmin

Synopsis: Seungmin writes a song to express his love for you, which ends up leading to a gentle lovemaking session.

Pairing: bf!Seungmin x fem!reader

Genre: Fluff, Light Smut

Warnings: Protected sex (reader is on birth control), nothing too extreme in this one ;)

Notice: I am getting fed with these Seungmin requests :D But hello, my love! This request was so adorable to write! I hope you enjoy it just as much as I do <3

The studio was dimly lit, the soft glow from the mixing board casting long shadows across the room. You were perched on the edge of the worn-out sofa, watching Seungmin hunched over the piano. His brows furrowed in concentration, his fingers lingering on the keys as he adjusted notes here and there. The two of you had opted to spend the aftermath of your birthday party in the studio, wanting a quiet place to relax after the loud transpirations of the event.

He made eye contact with you as he turned towards you, his lips curving into a genuine smile that never failed to make your heart skip.

"Close your eyes, love," he requested of you.

"What are you up to?" you questioned in response, narrowing your eyes out of suspicion. In the year that you have been dating Seungmin, a day has never gone by in which this boy has not caused a teasing type of trouble.

"Just trust me," he playfully rolled his eyes as he spoke, which you reciprocated, unable to hide your smile.

You eventually obeyed, gently shutting your eyes as Seungmin began on the piano once more. The first few notes were soft, delicate, a melody that wrapped around you like a warm embrace. As the song unfolded, the music shifted, the harmony deepening into something intimate; Seungmin never sang a single lyric, yet his love was prominent in the tune, like the notes were written just for you.

To which they were.

When the last chord faded, you opened your eyes to find him making his way over to you; he kneeled in front of you, his expression open and vulnerable in a way that stole your breath away.

"You wrote that?" you quiety asked. "For me?"

"Of course," he replied, taking your hand into his own. His voice was stead, yet soft. "I wanted to give you a birthday present that lasts forever. A forever reminder of my love for you."

Tears pricked the corners of your eyes as you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight embrace.

"It's beautiful, Minnie."

"You're beautiful," he countered, leaning in to brush his lips against yours. As the gap closed, the kiss became slow, deliberate, gentle, like an unspoken promise was wrapped in every motion.

He pulled back after a while, resting his forehead against yours as his hands cupped your face; beams were present on both faces.

"You know how much I love you, right?" he inquired. You nodded, your hands sliding up to rest against his chest.

"I do," you answered, feeling the steady beat of his heart quicken; a cheeky idea suddenly flashed in your mind: "But you can always remind me." Seungmin's resulting laugh was low, a sound that made the butterflies in your stomach flutter.

"Gladly."

He kissed you once more, with more urgency this time but still just as gentle as he had prior; his hands slid to your waist and pulled you closer. The way he touched you was a mix of teasing and authenticity, like he wanted to savor every moment of this memory. His lips parted from yours, moving to trail warm, soft kisses down the side of your neck; you gasped, your fingers kneading softly in his golden brown locks.

"Can I?" he murmured against your skin, his hands hovering just below the hem of your shirt.

"Yes," you breathed out, your voice barely audible.

From that moment, everything else in the vicinity faded, your focus only concentrated on Seungmin. He shuffled his way onto the sofa, just barely hovering overtop of you. His hands moved with care as he removed each layer of clothing, his gaze never once leaving yours. The teasing glint in his eyes softened into something deeper, more serious, as he took in every inch of you, committing your body to memory.

"You are so perfect," he complimented, his hands trailing over your bare skin.

The way he touched you felt like worship; every movement was intentional, every kiss filled with unspoken tenderness. He took his time, his teasing nature replaced with a tenderness that made your chest ache with desire. For every sigh, gasp, and other delicate sound he drew from you, he answered with whispered words of love.

When you pulled him closer, his teasing smirk flickered for just a moment.

"Eager are we?" he joked before he leaned down to kiss you deeply, pressing every ounce of emotion he had into it. He held on to the hem of his t-shirt, flicking your eyes up to meet his own to seek approval, receiving a smug nod in response.

You removed Seungmin's shirt, slightly messing up his hair in the process, followed by his jeans and boxers, relishing in how ethereal he looked as he was bare in front of you. He breathlessly smiled at you as he aligned himself with your entrance, bringing a hand up to carress your cheek.

"Ready?" he mumbled, eliciting an eager nod from you in response.

As he pushed inside of you, the world outside of the studio ceased to exist; his thrusts were slow, not wanting to rush the increduously intimate moment between the two of you. It remained that way for the entire duration as the both of you savored the memory. Each kiss, each light moan, every movement was some form of an unspoken, "I love you."

"You are absolutely amazing," Seungmin spewed out in between soft groans. "Feels so good, baby." His praises caused you to lightly clench around him, lost in waves of desire and pleasure; moans became more frequent, and while the tension thickened, Seungmin's light care remained. As you both approached your high, your bodies trembled together, the need to get impossibly closer to one another.

"Cum for me, pretty girl," Seungmin mellowly commanded of you, spewing out a plethora of praises as your body trembled. "Good, good girl. You're doing so well for me." There was one thing about Seungmin: he could worship just as well as he could tease. It did not take long before you came undone around him, your legs shaking lightly and your eyes rolling back in your head from pure euphoria.

The mere sight of you had Seungmin finishing before he could process anything; he filled you with his release, light thrusts still ongoing as he rode you both out from your highs.

He lightly let himself down, opting to lay beside you instead of overtop of you.

"You did so well, baby," he praised as his lips brushed against your temple. "Are you okay?" You nodded in response, barely able to move from reverance. He chuckled at your dazed stature, bringing you into his embrace and pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

"You're going to have a hard time topping next year's birthday gift," you smiled against his skin, tracing lazy patterns on his back. His laugh rumbled in his chest as he gave you a delicate, tender kiss.

"Challenge accepted."

[hotshotsxyz]

wide awake from the breeze

(buddie) (2.2k) i swore i was going to write something for @summerofbuddie so here i am with something on the last possible day lol. very in character of me. title from blue sky & the painter which i will continue to push as The eddie diaz song for season 8

The air is crisp and cold, and finally, finally, Eddie can breathe.

The San Gabriels are beautiful this time of year, but it’s hard to appreciate the changing leaves when he’s watching Buck. Their color could never compete with his light.

Buck’s fingers tap against the steering wheel as he hums along to a song Eddie’s certain has repeated at least three times in the past two hours. He’s beautiful like this. He’s always beautiful, actually, but Eddie thinks this might be his favorite version of Buck. Happiness suits him.

They’ve been tumbling towards something since Buck broke up with Tommy, since Eddie finally let loose the words that have been stuck in his throat for years. For once in his life, Eddie isn’t overly worried about time. For once in his life, he’s got plenty of it.

They reach a scenic overlook, and Buck pulls over. He takes his sunglasses off and drops them on the dashboard, then looks over at Eddie and grins.

“See,” Buck says brightly, “I told you it’d be worth the drive.”

Eddie twists in his seat so he can face Buck a little more directly. His curls are wild from the wind, and his eyes glow in the late afternoon sun. “I didn’t doubt you for a second,” Eddie murmurs.

Buck’s smile grows impossibly wider. The foliage doesn’t stand a chance. “You want to get out for a little? Stretch our legs?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Eddie agrees easily.

There’s a trailhead just a few hundred feet away, and Buck bounds toward it eagerly.

“Half a mile out and back?” he calls over his shoulder after studying the map for a second, as if there’s anywhere Eddie wouldn’t follow him.

“Let’s do it,” Eddie replies as he sidles up next to Buck.

Buck smiles at him again, and it’s a little like watching the first light of dawn stretch across the horizon.

They mostly walk in silence, but every few minutes Buck pauses to point out a particular tree or bird. It’s kind of incredible, the way he latches onto information and then gifts it to Eddie in a single excited breath. Eddie’s got his own personal guidebook to the world, and he makes everything feel new and special.

The trail ends at the bank of a small, placid lake surrounded by rocky outcroppings. Buck sits on one and pulls Eddie down next to him.

The sky above them is cloudless and clear, a brilliant blue that’s reflected in the water. A few leaves drift slowly across the surface, leaving behind tiny wake trails. It’s peaceful in a way Eddie’s rarely gotten to experience in his life. He isn’t sure he’d even be capable of appreciating that if it weren’t for Buck.

“I think I want to do this forever,” Eddie says as they stare out across the lake.

Buck knocks his knee against Eddie’s. “What?” he asks, “Watch the leaves turn?”

Eddie looks at him and finds a soft smile that tells him Buck knows exactly what he means. “Yeah,” he says, knocking his knee back, “something like that.”

For a long moment, Buck holds his gaze. “Yeah,” he says finally, “me too.”

Eddie leans to the side, allowing his weight to settle against Buck’s shoulder. He tries not to worry anymore about whether or not he deserves to have someone like Buck in his life. He has him. Buck picks him, over and over again, and even though Eddie’s not sure he’ll ever quite manage to wrap his head around it, he’s long since decided the only way he needs to feel about that is grateful. And god is he grateful.

Buck closes his eyes and tips his face toward the sun. His cheeks are tinged with pink, and it’s hard to tell if it’s the cold, the beginnings of a sunburn, or something else entirely that’s caused it. Eddie finds that he wants to know, wants to press his fingers to Buck’s skin and see if the redness fades or grows.  

It’s an impulse he could give in to; Buck would let him. There’s something about this moment he wants to freeze though, and if he moves it’ll change. Instead, he watches. He commits every detail to memory. When he’s old and gray and everything else is fading, this will be what he remembers.

A gust of wind blows down through the valley, and Buck shivers with it, nose scrunching. He opens his eyes and looks at Eddie. “I’m cold,” he admits with a sheepish smile.

“You’re always cold,” Eddie says, voice dripping with fondness.

Buck tilts his head in acknowledgement. He flexes his fingers a few times, probably stiff in the autumn air.

“C’mere,” Eddie says a little nonsensically. Buck will understand.

Buck holds his hands out and Eddie takes them. He vigorously rubs at them until they’re satisfyingly friction warm. He keeps them when he’s done, holding them together between his palms to protect them from the wind. Buck ducks his head and grins.

“You’re like a space heater,” he says, shuffling impossibly closer.

“And you’re like an icepack,” Eddie replies.

Buck blows out a soft, amused breath. “Makes me handy to keep around in the summer,” he quips.

“I always want you around.”

Another version of Eddie might’ve hesitated, might’ve buried that instinctive reply as far down as possible, shoved it next to all the things he refused to examine. Too bad for that Eddie; he wouldn’t get to see the pink on Buck’s cheeks darken and spread.

“I always want you around, too,” Buck says, quiet, like he might scare away the moment if he speaks too loudly.

Eddie’s been waiting. For what, he’s not entirely sure. For him and Buck to be alone, though that’s hardly a rare occurrence. For all the doubtful voices in his head to go silent, but Buck’s been quieting those for years. For him to feel settled in his skin. For the world to stop turning around them long enough to do it right. All at once, Eddie feels like there’s nothing else to wait for.

“I love you,” he says, and the words taste good. They’re the icy fresh snow melt that streams down mountains in the spring, the bright tang of citrus in the summer, the spicy warmth of mulled cider in the winter, and soon, he thinks, he’ll know for certain that they taste like Buck in the fall.

A small noise spills from Buck’s mouth and he sways forward, less like he’s leaning in and more like he can’t help but be caught in Eddie’s gravity.

“Eddie,” he whispers. His eyes shine.

“Buck,” he replies.

For most of Eddie’s life, he’s been afraid. He’s pushed past it, locked it down, pretended that the twist of anxiety in his gut was never more than passing butterflies. Here, though, now, he doesn’t even feel brave. He’s too sure, Buck makes him feel too safe; there’s no fear for him to fight against.

Buck blinks a few times and swallows visibly. Eddie rubs his thumbs in soothing circles against Buck’s wrists.

“You…” Buck starts, rough and awed.

“Take your time,” Eddie says, unable to hide his amusement.

Buck huffs and kicks at Eddie’s ankle. “Forgive me for taking a second to process literally the best thing I’ve ever heard,” he retorts without any bite.

“Oh no, I mean it,” Eddie says with a wide grin. “I’ll sit here all day. I’m not cold.”

A startled laugh jumps from Buck’s throat. “Be quiet, let me finish processing,” he says.

“Process away,” Eddie murmurs.

A few seconds pass and he watches the gears turn in Buck’s mind. Eddie knows the way they like to twist and catch, but he’s not worried. They’ll have a lifetime to discard all the worst-case scenarios.

 “Okay,” Buck says finally. “I’ve processed.” He pulls his hands from Eddie’s grip and raises them to his jaw. He leans in and Eddie meets him halfway.

Eddie was right, but also wrong. Buck tastes like love, yes, but he also tastes like home and joy and warmth and a little like the muscadines they’d stopped to buy from a roadside stand earlier in the day. Buck smiles against his lips and it feels like the rest of his life.

“For the record,” Buck says, pulling back just far enough to look Eddie in the eye, “I love you too.”

Eddie can’t help the bright peal of laughter that bursts from his chest. He feels free and alive and happy and everything else he was once afraid he’d never be able to. Buck skims a thumb along his cheek bone and grins.

“If you’re done, I really want to kiss you again,” Buck says once Eddie’s laughter has faded to a soft chuckle.

Eddie grips Buck’s waist and hums. “I don’t know, I think I need to process,” he teases.

“Oh, that’s fine, I’ll just sit here and freeze while you—” Buck makes a surprised noise as Eddie surges forward and cuts him off with his lips.

They break apart a second time and Eddie rests his forehead against Buck’s. “I’ve processed,” he says, quiet and smiling.

“Yeah?” Buck asks, a little breathless.

Eddie hums an affirmative. “Best thing I’ve ever heard, had to let it sink in.”

Buck presses a soft, chaste kiss to the corner of Eddie’s mouth. “It takes a second,” he agrees.

Another gust of wind blows past them. A few leaves begin their gentle descent to the ground and Buck shivers.

“Come on,” Eddie says, laughing lightly as he pulls back and stands. He holds his hands out and Buck takes them. “You’ve got a hoodie in the Jeep.”

Buck’s head tilts adorably. “I didn’t…” he says, trailing off as the confusion in his expression makes way for that quiet, disbelieving smile that seems to be reserved exclusively for Eddie.

“You’re always cold,” Eddie says with a fond eyeroll. He tugs at Buck until he stands.

“Not always,” Buck says, suddenly inches from Eddie.

Eddie swallows as a shudder of anticipation travels down his spine. “No?” he asks faintly.

Buck fixes him with a look Eddie’s seen before, though never directed at him. “Nope,” he says, eyes dark and lips curling.

The effect is lessened slightly as the breeze kicks up again and Buck cringes away from it. The tip of his nose is bright pink. Eddie wants to kiss it, so he does.

He laughs again and drops one of Buck’s hands. “Let’s go, cowboy, you can seduce me in the Jeep.”

Buck’s mouth opens and closes. “Uh, that’s—yeah, let’s do that,” he says in a rush.

They quickly make their way back up to the trailhead. Eddie can’t remember ever smiling this much, but even when his cheeks start to hurt it’s impossible to stop. He’s happy, happy in a way he didn’t even know was possible until very recently.

When they reach the overlook, Eddie pauses just long enough to lift their joined hands and press a kiss to the back of Buck’s.

Buck’s eyes widen. “When did you get so…” He gestures vaguely.

Eddie snorts. “I have game,” he says.

“No,” Buck says incredulously, “you don’t. Or—or didn’t.”

“It sounds like you think I have game,” Eddie teases.

“I think you should get in the Jeep so we can go home and test the theory,” Buck replies.

“Gonna have to let me go first,” Eddie says, nodding toward their intertwined fingers.

Buck blushes but makes no move to extricate himself from Eddie’s grip.  

“Or not,” Eddie says softly.

“I just…” Buck trails off.

Eddie squeezes his hand.

“I want to remember this,” Buck says, ducking his head. “How everything feels right now.”

“Even the cold?” Eddie asks.

Buck squeezes his hand. “M’not cold,” he says.

The wind blows, and Buck crowds in closer to Eddie, trying to hide from it.

“I think you might be a little cold,” Eddie murmurs.

“Maybe I just wanted to kiss you again,” Buck replies.

Eddie grins. “Don’t let me stop you,” he says.

Buck presses a feather-light kiss to his cheek, then his nose, then the corner of his mouth. Eddie feels his cheeks heat beneath his touch.

“Okay,” he says softly. He steps back and lets go of Eddie’s hand. He fishes his keys out of his pocket and unlocks the Jeep.

Eddie climbs into the passenger seat as Buck settles in front of the wheel, just like they’ve done a thousand times before. He reaches into the back and grabs Buck’s hoodie, the slightly oversized one that he loves to wrap himself in on days just like this one. He hands it to Buck. As he watches Buck wriggle into it, he’s hit with a wave of joy all over again.

“I love you,” he says when Buck’s head pops out from the hood, just because he can.

“You’re such a sap,” Buck says, but it sounds a whole lot like I love you too.

Buck turns the key in the ignition, and the stereo comes to life playing the same song as before.

Is that a blue sky? The singer asks.

“It’s about damn time,” Eddie can’t help but sing along.

Buck grins at him and grabs his hand.

It’s about damn time.

[erwinsvow]

𝐫𝐜 - 𝟏𝟏:𝟒𝟗𝐩𝐦

you roll your eyes—it’s instinct, since rafe is blaring his music again, probably waking up your neighbors and most certainly your parents. no matter how many times you ask him, he’ll never park a few houses away and turn his music down, so now the sound of the vibrating bass and whatever drake song fills the silent street. 

you close your window softly, running over to rafe’s truck as fast as you can to turn down his music. your parents have to know—the noise at this time of night is familiar to your entire block by now, but they don’t say anything. when you climb inside the passenger seat, your hand hovers over his volume knob, trying to lower it but rafe catches your wrist.

“leave it.” he says it sternly, and you understand quickly that it’s not a request, rather a demand. his own little test—how much do you care about everyone realizing you’re sneaking out with him right now instead of being tucked into bed like a good girl? the joke’s on him because you adjust the knob, making the music play even louder, so much so your seat and the windows are vibrating. you smile at him like you’ve just beat him at his own game and he takes off, turning the music down as soon as he turns off your street—eliciting another eyeroll.

he makes a few more turns, and the two of you end up on a quiet street along the beach—one of the many scenic lovers lanes on the island. 

“what’re you going to do if they actually wake up one time?” you question, playing with the strings of rafe’s hoodie that you’re wearing right now. 

“what’d you think i’m gonna do?” he asks, one big hand resting on your exposed thigh, rubbing the soft skin there.

“i don’t like to think about it,” you admit quietly, turning away to stare out the window at the waves. 

“why? y’think i’m gonna beat up your dad, or somethin’?” you laugh, shoving rafe’s arm.

“no, i just-”

“you just what?” you feel your face get hot. it’s easy to forget in moments like these, just the two of you alone and all the rest of the world ignored, that rafe is just that guy your friends hate, and you’re just the girl who sneaks out and lies to her family to see him. 

“i just think you’d drive away. but at least there wouldn’t be a witness, because they’d totally kill me.” you say it with a little laugh, but rafe grips your jaw and pulls you into a kiss—hard, like he’s proving something to you. rafe’s tongue finds its way into your mouth, everything feels hot and wet as you deepen the kiss and hold onto his shoulders. he pulls away to let you breathe, your chest heaving and his hands going underneath your—his—hoodie and pulling it off.

without words, without the need to speak at all except for your moans and rafe’s grunts, you end up folded in the backseat like always, knees hugging your chest, eyes rolling back, while rafe slams in and out of you. all you hear is rafe in your ear, murmuring low and quiet.

“lemme hear ya,” he encourages, and it’s easy to comply without the fear of someone hearing. “louder, baby, louder-” 

you’re not sure how much longer it is, but you somehow can’t avoid ending up like this—shaky limbs, sore throat, and eyes unable to stay open, focusing on the feeling of rafe’s cum spilling out of you and ruining his seats.

he eases you up, like he always does, leaning against his warm body while you try to even out your breaths. in the beginning he used to bring you back to your house, but now you almost always end up at tannyhill with him. your mind is somehow exhausted and overactive, thinking about how you’re gonna sneak back into your room in the broad daylight, since there’s no way you’re leaving tannyhill until after sunrise.

“what time is it?” you mumble against his chest, taking in how rafe strokes your hair. 

“doesn’t matter. go to bed.”

“gotta get back home-”

“i’ll get you home, kid. seriously. sleep, now.”

“g’night, rafe,” you sigh contently, ignoring a little ache in your heart that wishes you could stay here forever.

“and jus’ so you know, there’s nothin’ your parents could say to keep me away from you.”