the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be a part of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.
maybe something about sid accidentally finishing inside younger reader and then freaking out??
nsfw content below, some breeding stuff
The first time it happens, it’s an accident, an indulgence that slips past Sidney’s ironclad control because the moment feels too good, too raw to break. You’re beneath him, your knees hooked over his forearms as he folds you in half, thrusts hitting deep enough to drag whimpers out of your throat. The room smells like sweat and sex and the faint vanilla lotion you slathered on after your shower. Your nails score his shoulder blades, urging him deeper, and something cracks in him—decades of discipline fraying under the way you look up at him, pupils blown, mouth slack, pleading quietly, “Please don’t stop, daddy, please—”
He doesn’t. He chases it blindly, hips snapping with a force that rattles the headboard against the wall. You clamp down around him, tight as a fist, and he feels his resolve go molten. He’s supposed to pull out. He always pulls out. Condoms, pills, barriers, precautions stacked like sandbags against disaster, knows your cycles, keeps track more carefully than you do because he has to—because he’s the adult, the one with everything to lose. He whispers it every time, “Tell me when you’re close, baby… I’ve got to—” and you nod, promise, because you’re sweet and eager and want to be good for him.
But tonight you’re gone, pleasure-drunk, giggling breathlessly as you cup his face in your little hands and breathe, “Feels so good, Sidney, I love you,” and he breaks. He slams home, holds there, buries his face in your neck, and empties himself inside you with a guttural groan that vibrates through your whole body. It’s hot, flooding, spreading through you like molten honey, and you choke on a gasp, thighs trembling. He stays deep, grinding as if he can get further, his muscles locking, spine arched, every vein in his neck standing out. He hasn’t come inside anyone raw since before you were legal. The feeling is dizzying—silken walls milking him, no latex dulling the wet heat. He feels your pulse against him, feels your cunt flutter as you follow him over the edge, clinging and gasping his name.
Now his breath shudders. His pulse roars. He feels the reality of it in the way his cock throbs inside your tight channel, in the warm flood still pulsing out of him. He’s still inside you, softening slowly, and he knows he should pull out, knows he should reach for a towel, for anything, but he’s transfixed.
“Oh my god,” he mutters, voice ragged, forehead dropping to yours. “Baby, what did I just— fuck— what did we just do?”
You stare up at him, pupils blown wide, lips parted in that blissed-out smile he’s obsessed with. You’re flushed, skin glowing, hair wild across the pillow. You blink, hazy, a dreamy giggle bubbling up. “You came,” you say, stating the obvious like it’s the funniest thing in the world, your voice a breathy lilt. “Inside me. It was so warm.”
Your words punch the air from his lungs. He braces his hands on either side of your head, trying to steady himself. “Yeah. I did. I—” The panic shivers through him cold and sharp, cutting through the fading pleasure. You’re young and so damn fertile he’s seen you get flushed and needy just from ovulation. He shouldn’t have let himself slip. He’s the careful one.
He pulls out slowly, groaning as your walls cling to him, and both of you hiss at the wet stretch. The moment the tip leaves you, his cum spills out in a milky rush, pooling between your thighs, and that’s when he loses his composure. He can’t look away. The sight of his release dripping from your pink slit captivates him in a way that’s part terror, part savage hunger.
“Jesus,” he breathes, eyes locked on the slow roll of white sliding down to your ass. “Look at that.”
You lift your head, peering down your body, then flop back onto the pillow with a little squeal, covering your face with your hands. “It feels so weird,” you giggle, voice tinged with fascination. “Like… like it’s still throbbing?”
“That’s me,” he says hoarsely, fingers trembling as he spreads your folds to watch more of his cum seep out in thick, pearly strands. “That’s all me. God, baby.” He runs his thumb gently over your slick entrance, smearing his release across your swollen lips. You gasp, hips twitching, and he feels another pulse of lust kick despite the dread coiling in his gut.
He reaches for a towel, hesitates. He can’t bring himself to wipe it away yet. Instead he cups your pussy with his palm, pressing lightly to feel the warmth, the way you flutter against his hand. “We need to get Plan B,” he says, voice steady even though his mind is racing. “Right now. I don’t care that it’s midnight.”
You peek at him through your fingers, eyes glassy and soft. “Do we have to?”
“Yes.” The word is a command, firm, but tinged with something else—fear, protectiveness, self-reproach. “You know how easily— baby, your hormones are everywhere. I shouldn’t have—” He exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his beard. “I got caught up. You make me crazy.”
You lower your hands, tracing the line of his jaw with gentle fingertips. “I liked it,” you whisper, the honesty in your voice gutting him. “Liked feeling you inside me like that. All warm. Felt like you were everywhere.”
His nostrils flare. The temptation to push back in, to plug you up with his cock and keep his cum inside you, surges hard enough to make him sway. Instead he breathes through it, reminding himself who he has to be for you. “Don’t tempt me,” he mutters, but his thumb is already rubbing slow circles around your clit, spreading his spend over your skin like he can’t help himself.
You moan, soft and floaty, your hips rolling. “Sidney…”
“Yeah, baby?” He can’t stop staring at your drenched slit, at the obscene glisten. He dips a finger inside, shallow, scooping up a mixture of you and him, and you whimper, lashes fluttering. He pulls his finger out and watches another line of cum follow, dripping onto the sheets, and he almost loses his mind. “You feel that?”
Your giggle turns into a sigh. “You’re obsessed.”
“With keeping you safe,” he says automatically, snapping back to his senses, though it comes out rougher than intended. He drags the sticky finger up to your mouth, strokes your lower lip. “Open.”
You obey, still dazed, and he slides his finger between your lips. You suck lazily, tasting the mix of both of you, and his cock twitches, half-hard again already.
He shakes himself, forces focus. “Stay right there. Don’t move. I’m gonna clean you up, then we’re hitting the pharmacy.”
You pout, the motion adorable and infuriating. “Can’t we stay like this for a minute? It feels… kinda nice.”
“Of course it does,” he growls, grabbing his phone from the nightstand to check the time. “That’s how nature tricks you. Your body’s like, ‘oh wow, this feels good, let’s make a baby.’ Yeah, no. Not tonight.”
You collapse into giggles, delirious. “You’re so dramatic.”
“Damn right I am.” He tosses the phone aside, leans down to kiss you, slow and deep, the taste of you and him still on your tongue. “I just creampied the most perfect girl on planet Earth. I’ve earned the right to be dramatic.”
You hum into the kiss. “You called it a creampie.” You sound delighted. “You’re so filthy.”
“I’m being clinical,” he lies, and slides off the bed, reluctantly stepping away from the enticing sight of your thighs slick with his cum. He grabs a clean towel, tosses it over his shoulder, then pauses to admire you one more time—sprawled on the sheets, hair fanned out, belly flushed, the open, trusting smile still lingering at the corners of your mouth.
He sits beside you again, raising your hips gently to slide a pillow under your lower back to stop gravity from doing too much damage while he wipes you. He knows it’s counterproductive, but part of him can’t stand the idea of his cum dripping onto the sheets instead of staying with you.
“Hold this,” he says, pressing the towel between your thighs, firm enough to catch the mess but gentle enough that you sigh instead of flinch.
You obey, pressing the towel tight, biting your lip, still dreamy. He strokes your hair back from your face, eyes soft despite the nerves jittering through him. “We’re gonna get dressed,” he says quietly. “We’ll get Plan B. Then I’ll tuck you back in, Okay?”
You nod, that same sparkling trust lighting your features. “Okay. Whatever you say.”
He kisses your forehead, then stands, gathering discarded clothes. He catches sight of the ruined condom still in the wrapper on the nightstand and swears under his breath. Lesson learned. Never again, he vows. No matter how sweet you moan, no matter how tight you clamp around him, no matter how badly his instincts scream to fill you up and watch it spill out. He’ll protect you, even from himself.
Still, as you sit up, towel slipping, another ribbon of cum sliding down your inner thigh, he has to squeeze his eyes shut for a second, battling the dark, possessive part of him that thrills at the sight. You look down, giggle, and swipe it with your fingers, bringing them to your mouth without thinking. He groans, half horrified, half aroused.
“We’re leaving,” he says, grabbing his keys. “Right now.”
You hop off the bed, still lost in the moment, still giggling, wrapping his oversized sweatshirt around your bare body. “I love you,” you sing, leaning up to kiss his cheek.
He swallows the panic, the hunger, the awe. “I love you too,” he whispers, guiding you toward the door, still half in shock at what he’s done even as he knows he’d do it again if you begged the right way.
Series Summary: Unable to control your abilities, you’re stuck in the present with Billy Butcher, his team, and America’s first asshole. At this point, you’ve become Soldier Boy’s personal punching bag. But when an accident leaves you stranded in 1942, you run into a familiar face and suddenly rely on your future tormentor’s help as your only hope.
Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x supe!Reader
Warnings: 18+ due to language and mature themes, reader is a supe with chronokinesis (time manipulation), a lot of time travel talk, set partially in 1942 and the present (alternate S3 ending), PTSD, Soldier Boy before Soldier Boy (aka no powers yet, plus meet his childhood home and parents), slight Beauty/Beast vibes, enemies to lovers, slow burn, smut, fluff, humor, angst
A/N: Been wanting to write about time travel again since this fun one-shot. Got the idea while writing Bad Reputation years ago but never got to it. Felt challenged again after rewatching the Community episode where Dean Pelton whines, "Time travel is really hard to write about." Welp, challenge accepted 😂🤍
Main Masterlist || Soldier Boy Masterlist || Tag List
Chapter 1: Of All the Gin Joints…
Chapter 2: Is This the 40s?
Chapter 3: I’m Going To Be a Lady If It Kills Me
Chapter 4: After All, Tomorrow Is Another Day
Chapter 5: We'll Always Have Paris
Chapter 6: I Don't Mind a Reasonable Amount of Trouble
Chapter 7: Lions and Tigers and Bears, Oh My!
Chapter 8: Frankly, My Dear, I Don't Give a Damn
Chapter 9: As Time Goes By
Chapter 10: Here's Looking at You, Kid
Chapter 11: When You’re Slapped, You’ll Take It and Like It
Chapter 12: You’re Not Just a Man, You’re a Monument!
Chapter 13: It's Alive! It's Alive!
Chapter 14: I'm Going to Have a Lot of Drinks
Chapter 15: I May Be a Thief, but I Am Not a Cheat
Chapter 16: I Don’t Care What the Papers Say!
Chapter 17: The Stuff That Dreams Are Made of
Chapter 18: Love Means Never Having to Say You’re Sorry
Chapter 19: You’re Gonna Need a Bigger Boat
Chapter 20: What We’ve Got Here Is Failure to Communicate
Chapter 21: Round Up the Usual Suspects
Chapter 22: There’s No Place Like Home
Chapter 23: The World Is Not a Pleasant Place to Be…
Chapter 24 – …Without Someone to Love
Epilogue: Until It Ends, There Is No End
|| SERIES COMPLETE ||
One-Shots & Drabbles:
A Study in Emerald
Le Miracle de la Rue Grenelle
Headcanons, Imagines & Other:
💌 15 Questions about creating TAT
💌 Headcanon: Would Ben sacrifice himself for you in a worst case scenario?
I finished this whole series in one night even though I promised myself I would take my sweet time and savour it because from the first interaction between Ben and the reader I knew that this story is IT. But I couldn't put my damn phone down.
This is amazing. Like I have no fucking words. The way every interaction was so intentional, the way you dived into every miniscule detail that connected '42 to the present. Take a bow author I'm so in awe. I was genuinely in tears towards the end because I was so scared that they wouldn't get their happy ending, but hey I should've had more faith in them right? They rewrote their timeline, they passed through time and space to find their way back to each other, what's a little supe like Homelander gonna do? I can't wait you read all the other stuff you've got (I genuinely did a happy dance when I looked at your master list and saw more soldier boy series!!!!)
[looking at people younger than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at people older than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at myself] its over
having your own money is fucking dangerous because the only person stopping me from buying whatever I want is myself. and myself has bad judgment sometimes
Pairing: Sidney Crosby x Hollander!Reader, Quinn Hughes x Ex!Reader
Warnings: Trump mention, US men’s national team, cursing
Summary: I was so prepared to fight a war on your side
Authors Note: anything to distract me from the bigger picture (my 30k word Sidney Crosby Olympic fic)
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ynhollander
liked by quinnhughes ilyarozanov81 and 6,877,155 others
ynhollander my olympic bestie 💋
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user1 “bestie” girl, you kiss that man on the lips
user2 like she’s seen more of that man than god has, that is not just her best friend
user3 so proud of Quinn
user4 so excited to get to see the Hughes brothers in the Olympics!!!
user5 idk why I giggle everytime Yn posts Quinn as if they haven’t been dating for like six years
user6 it’s the fact that we all know Shane and Ilya are in her DMs telling her to dump him
user7 girl get that man out the way I wanna see u
user8 I don’t come to this page to see a man
user9 they’re adorable
user10 kinda the cutest couple OAT
user11 she litteraly has an Oscar but she’s dating a man who plays hockey, this is the representation Canada dreams of
user12 Yn you were so good in one battle after another
quinnhughes ❤️
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user13 I will #notice that her family never comments on posts with Quinn in them
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ynhollander
liked by mackinnon29 evgeni71malkin and 8,611,811 others
ynhollander Pittsburgh film festival I love you!!!
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user13 girl broke up with her boyfriend and moved to….Pittsburgh????
user14 serving
user15 love her so bad
michaelbjordan 🔥
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laila_edwards you’re the cooler Hollander
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teyanataylor I LOVE YOU!!!
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user16 she’s kind of the coolest person ever
user17 so obsessed
zendaya you’re glowing
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user18 she really broke up with Quinn and didn’t look back
ilyarozanov81 the coolest
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yunahollander my sweet girl!!!
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shanehollander24 you need to teach me how to dress
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leonardodicaprio 🌆🌆🌆
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user19 yn’s insta comments kinda the hottest place to be for celebrities im ngl
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ynhollander
📍Canada
liked by evgeni71malkin shanehollander24 and 10,611,511 others
ynhollander moments from this summer
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user20 WHO IS THAT
user21 Yn saw Twitter speculating that she’s dating Sidney Crosby and said “oh, let me confirm that for you”
user22 SIDNEY CROSBYYYYY
ilyarozanov81 😎
user23 my dream date….cute
user24 oh to be an actress model model actress dating Sidney Crosby and having Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander as your brothers
user25 the concept of Sidney Crosby spending his summer with Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander
user26 who remembers the time Ilya fought Sid
user27 and then they started playing for Canada together so everything’s fine
user28 so glad Yn escaped the curse of dating an American
shanehollander24 ☀️☀️☀️
lando 🙌
user29 lando what are you doing here 😭
evgeni71malkin what is this “soft launch”? I have photos of you making out with him
ynhollander Geno.
user30 Yn never replies to comments this is so funny
yunahollander my VOGUE cover girl!!!!!!!
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user31 Sidney Crosby log in your beautiful gf is soft launching you but you don’t have Instagram to post a really vague comment neither confirming nor denying
krisletang 🐧🐧🐧
sabrinacarpenter you’re the hottest
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ynhollander
📍Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
🎵 bloodonmyhands - Tate McRae
liked by ilyarozanov81 shanehollander24 and 16,872,987 others
ynhollander bounced back and found another (and he hates you)
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user32 that soft launch really went out the door
user33 the concept of Sidney Crosby talking shit about Quinn Hughes
ilyarozanov81 I also hate him
shanehollander24 me too 🙋♂️
user34 I love this
yunahollander my favorite couple 🫶
shanehollander24 ?
user35 QUINN HUGHES FIGHT BACK WHERES YOUR ANGER
user36 the mostly cropped pic of Sid omg I’m melting
user37 just the cutest couple ever
evgeni71malkin showed him this post and he wants me to comment “my beautiful girl” do not make me communicate for him ever again this has disgusted me
user38 IM DYINGGGGG
user39 Sidney’s never ending commitment to being a digital nomad will never not make me giggle
user40 how quickly the Hollander-Rozanov’s accepted Sidney actually warms my heart
user41 mind you they NEVER liked Quinn this much
user42 the concept of Yn using a song by her ex boyfriends brothers Canadian girlfriend to shade her ex boyfriend and posting her new Canadian boyfriend….there’s levels to this
liked by author
haydenpike I like him! 🇨🇦🇨🇦🇨🇦
liked by author
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ilyarozanov81
🎵 Free Bird - Lynyrd Skynyrd
liked by ynhollander yunahollander and 21,345,911 others
summary: you come across a photo of sid you haven't seen in ages and are convinced he could ruin your life at any age
request: yes
word count: 1.6k
a/n: today im thinking about sidcros playoff beard.... alright! enjoy and thank you for all the well wishes :))
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You have a bad habit, and honestly, you are fully aware of it, yet you indulge anyway because it feels good. It’s not drugs or gambling or anything like that. It’s far simpler, far stupider, far more addictive.
Social media.
Specifically, the corner of social media dedicated to your fiancé. You should be getting ready for the day. You should be doing the grown up things on your to do list. You should be answering emails or maybe folding the laundry that has now reincarnated itself as a second mountain range in the corner of your bedroom. But no. Your phone is warm in your hand, the brightness on low, and your thumb is doing that lazy scroll thing that Sid swears is frying your brain cells one by one.
He tells you often. Sometimes playfully, sometimes with that bewildered concern of a man who lived his whole adult life without needing the internet to validate anything about himself. “It’s not good for you, baby,” he’ll say, leaning in the doorway with a towel slung over his shoulder after practice. He always looks so serious when he says it too, like this is some personal thing he needs to solve. “All that staring at a screen, you won’t sleep right.”
And then you remind him, every single time, that you sleep perfectly fine. Mostly because he exists. Mostly because he exhausts you in ways technology never could. He blushes when you say that.
Still, the habit lives.
Because he doesn’t get it. He thinks it's black and white, that people dislike him because of rivalry reasons, or love him because they live somewhere that sells black and gold bumper stickers on every street corner. He thinks it’s all about teams, logos, markets, the geography of fandom.
He has no idea.
Goodness gracious, the editors. The talented, brilliant ones who take game clips and turn them into cinematic thirst traps that would make a nun reconsider her vows. The people who sync his skating stride to sinful RnB beats. The ones who isolate that stupid little smirk he does after scoring, or the way he adjusts his helmet during warmups like he’s auditioning for the lead role in your private fantasies.
You would pay them. Commission them like a wealthy patron of the arts. You’d happily slide into their DMs with hi, yes, I have exclusive footage of this man in sweatpants, please do something with it.
You never do, because you know Sidney would implode. Spontaneously combust. Turn into dust and float away on the next breeze over Pittsburgh. Sometimes he catches you watching one of them and gets so adorably flustered. He’ll groan, “Stop looking at that shit,” and then fail to hide the way his neck turns pink, as if he didn’t just walk into the room looking every bit like the reason thirst content exists.
You follow a handful of accounts, and by handful you mean at least eight of them, all dedicated to one very specific niche. Not the highlight-clip editors, not the thirsty TikTok mashups, not the fan cams. You love those, obviously, but the pages that absolutely own your soul are the archives: the people who dig through old game photos and year-by-year folders and forgotten press day albums and upload a new Sidney Crosby picture every morning like it’s the weather report.
They’re your daily vitamins at this point. Hydrate, eat breakfast, scroll the Sid archive pages.
You don’t have to go spelunking through ancient Tumblr graveyards or internet forums from 2010. These beautiful, generous strangers have done the digging for you. They drop little gems constantly. Young Sid with the longer curls. Sid in bad jeans that somehow look good on him. Sid smiling. Sid holding puppies. Sid holding babies. Sid in his early captain era, too serious for his own good but pretty enough to make your knees touch.
Your life is improved by this content. You’re not ashamed.
And then it finds its way to your screen. A photo you haven’t seen in a while. A photo that reminds you exactly why you followed the account.
The 2011 Winter Classic.
Sid in that navy/powder blue jersey. The outdoor game. The helmet. The jawline. The absolute peak of early-20s Sidney Crosby, stupidly handsome in a way no human being had any business being. You literally freeze with your thumb mid-air. You blink once, twice, like the image might disappear if you stare too hard. Spoiler: it does not. It only gets worse, because you pinch and zoom.
Holy shit.
You can’t help it, you roll onto your stomach, elbows digging into the mattress, feet kicking once behind you because the photo hits you with that oh, no, he was hot before he even knew how hot he was.
You stare at him. Handsome now, handsome then, handsome always. It’s honestly unfair that someone could be that talented and look like that. Some people struggle with one decent photo a year. Meanwhile, Sids looked like a walking heart attack since puberty.
“Wow… I’d let him ruin my life even then.”
You say it like an absentminded confession to no one in particular. A private admission. A truth you would absolutely never say to his face because he’d probably never shut up about it.
Except.
Except you don’t realize you’re not alone anymore.
Not until the mattress dips on either side of your body, one large arm planting down beside your left elbow, another beside your right. A shadow falls over you. Warm breath brushes the back of your shoulder.
Then a voice.
“Who?”
You turn your head slightly, just enough to see him out of the corner of your eye. He is leaning over you, caging you in with his arms, chest brushing your back. His hair is still damp from his shower.
You click your phone off like that will erase the evidence. “No one.”
He hums. “Who?”
You shake your head, face hot enough to preheat an oven. “No one, seriously. Don’t worry about it.”
He lowers himself enough for his chest to settle fully against your spine.
“I didn’t ask if I should worry,” he murmurs, still hovering over you, still way too close. “I asked who.”
You bury your face in your pillow because of course. Of course this is happening. Of course the universe decided that he needed to overhear you being a thirsty menace to past versions of him. You giggle because panic does that to you.
“It’s nothing,” you say into your pillow, voice muffled and way too high-pitched to be believable. “Seriously, drop it.”
Sidney does not drop things. Not on the ice, not in real life. He’s smiling. You don’t have to see him to know it. You can feel it. That stupid little grin pressing into your shoulder blade.
“Who?” he says again.
“Sid,” you whine, kicking your feet against the bed once. “It’s nothing.”
“Doesn’t sound like nothing.”
He moves one hand from the mattress to your waist, fingers curling in that way he does when he wants your attention. When he wants information. When he wants to win.
You stiffen.
“Oh no,” you breathe, because you know exactly what’s coming.
He pokes your side.
Not just once, either. He pokes again, a little more purposely, right in that spot that makes your legs jump and your stomach contract.
“Sid,” you squeak, swatting blindly at him, your elbow hitting air because he dodges like the trained athlete he is. “Quit it.”
“Who are you talking about?” His fingers skim your ribs. “Who would ruin your life, huh? Who sounds so interesting this early in the morning?”
You laugh and twist under him, the phone wobbling in your hand as you try to keep it from slipping. “Stop stop stop, I’m serious!”
He doesn’t stop.
“Oh my god,” you cry, half laughing, half mortified, pushing at his forearm. “Sidney! Knock it off!”
“Just tell me who.”
You bury your face deeper into the pillow, your voice muffled, your dignity on its last breath. “It’s embarrassing.”
“Baby,” he says, “you literally drool on me in your sleep. You can tell me.”
“Sid!”
He pokes your side again.
“Okay! Okay, fine!” you gasp, grabbing his wrist to get him to quit tickling you. “You. You handsome idiot.”
You can practically hear the gears in his brain screeching to a halt.
“Me?” he asks, sounding so genuinely confused that you almost burst out laughing again.
“Yes, you,” you groan, rolling halfway onto your side to look back at him. His face is right there, close enough that your noses almost brush.
“You’d let me ruin your life?”
You smack his arm. “Yes, Sid. Any version of you could’ve walked into my life and I would’ve rolled over like a puppy.”
He blinks, absorbing that. Then he blushes. A bright red starting at his neck and blooming up toward his cheeks like a sunrise.
“Show me,” he says quietly.
You groan again, but for a different reason this time. “No, you’re gonna make fun of me.”
“Baby. Show me.”
You unlock your phone with a sigh so dramatic it should win an award. You scroll back to the photo and hold it up over your shoulder so he can see.
“Aww geez,” he mutters, and then he buries his face in your back like a man trying to escape the world. His forehead presses against the back of your neck. “Why that one? I look twelve.”
“You look hot,” you correct, wiggling your hips a little because you know it will make him groan harder. “Really hot.”
“I can’t believe you said you’d let that guy ruin your life.”
“I would. Happily.”
He groans again, louder this time, face still hidden in you like he’s trying to disappear. His hands slide to your hips and squeeze.
“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he mumbles into your shirt.
