Per aspera ad astra

Summertime is regarded as a ‘favorite season’ by many for various reasons; relaxing vacations, blooming greenery, more time to spend with friends, or the simple victory of knowing that Winter’s reign of terror was long over. You shared most of these sentiments, especially when it came to having a nice drink by the poolside, or sitting on the porch in the morning to watch the sun rise.  

There were downsides of course—the heat could be downright miserable at times, not to mention unwanted tans, and God forbid it be humid outside...But for you, there was still a bright side to it all. A sight like no other: Seeing your husband hard at work in the backyard.  

You fold your arms against your chest, cross your ankles and lean against the patio doorframe, withholding a dreamy sigh. 

He makes basic lawn care look so mesmerizing, it baffles you to no end. Every so often, he’d wake up just before the break of dawn, gather all the tools he needed, and head out back to begin a dutiful process of tidying up the yard. He typically started by tending to his garden, watering them, checking the soil, and picking any ripened fruits or vegetables that he could spot. This year he’d dedicated himself to growing kale, cucumbers and honeydew melons amongst a few other fruits, all of which were developing nicely from the looks of it. 

With that taken care of, he’d move on to mowing the lawn, the sound of which was always a rude interruption of your ‘sleeping in’. But at the very least, being awake meant you got to watch your husband. It became routine for you, jumping out of bed and trudging to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee while you stared out at your beloved through the window above the sink. If not for trying to be modest about the whole thing, you’d have a lawn chair set out and a pair of sunglasses thrown on in no time. Regardless, he never noticed you, or at least pretended not to, and only continued his task with his eyes focused on the lawn mower.  

The real show began when the sun finally started to peak. Lacking an awning or any cloud cover, the direct sunlight beaming down on your husband's back would quickly become unbearable. He’d eventually be urged to peel off his t-shirt, revealing a beautifully dark complexion, broad shoulders, and a sturdy stature that made you hold onto your mug a bit tighter. Sweat would begin to form, making his skin gleam as it trailed down the curve of his lower back and between the harsh line created by his brows. He’d use his discarded shirt as a makeshift rag as he squatted down to feed the chickens, or swept debris off the patio...you weren’t sure what excited you more: seeing him taking care of the things that matter to him, or seeing him grunt and put his muscles to good use.  

Either way, you were eternally grateful for the sacrifices he made to keep your home looking presentable. As such, it was only fair that you did something nice for him in return, even if it meant taking your eyes off of him for a few moments.  

You step back inside, retreating to the kitchen pantry where you pull out a large pitcher and a few other items to whip up a light breakfast. It only takes you ten minutes or so before you’ve sat out two plates arranged with toast, fried eggs, and small sausage links on the counter. You took the liberty of making some lemonade as well, figuring it might quench his thirst better than orange juice could. With one last satisfied glance over your contribution, you return to the patio door, resuming your nonchalant stance. You spot your husband now going around the edges of the fence with the weedwhacker, back facing you as the invasive stocks are kicked up into the air and tossed into the open grass.  

“Mo!” You shout, immediately realizing that it’s going to take a lot more than that to grab his attention with how loud his machine is. Cupping your hands around your mouth, you attempt another yell, this time with a bit more bass and vigor.  

Perhaps only catching onto the echo of your voice, your husband's head perks up, and he powers off the whacker, turning round as he sets it against the fence. Upon seeing you, his face breaks into a familiar smile, soft and loving, the kind that set your heart’s pace askew. He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, making his way over to you in a few calm strides. You can practically feel the heat radiating off him as he stands before you, and you almost feel bad for not calling him in sooner.  

“Good morning, Mr. Avdol.” He says cheerily, leaning in to place a kiss on your forehead. The statement sets off alarms in your mind: there was no feeling as good as being reminded that you had taken on such a wonderful last name.  

You briefly close your eyes and grin, hardly concealing the adoration in your tone. “And to you as well...I see you’re hard at work, yet again.” You gesture towards the yard.  

Mohammed looks over his shoulder, pursing his lips at the progress he’d made so far. “Mhm. I’ve still got a lot of maintenance left to do, but it’s looking much better than before.”  

“Agreed. But uh...I made you some breakfast. Maybe take a break and have a bite, replenish yourself a bit?”  

When he glances down at you again, his expression looks a tad shocked. He sighs heavily, lips drooping into a weary, but grateful smile. “You shouldn’t have, my dear.”  

You raise a brow, “Don’t even. I’ve got to make myself useful around this place somehow. It’s the least I could do.”  

He chuckles, cupping your jaw lightly in his clammy palm. “You do plenty already, I assure you.” Mohammed tips your head up, allowing him to press his lips to yours. “..I appreciate it nonetheless. I won’t deny that my stomach was starting to get antsy.”  

“The consequences of hard labor. It’s a damn miracle you didn’t faint out there.”  

You take hold of his wrists, pulling him inside the house and closing the door behind you. He allows himself to be dragged in, humming in relief as he’s met with the chill of the AC. At your words, he laughs a little, heading to the sink to wash his hands. 

“Who do you take me for? I was made for this weather, habibi.”  

“Yeah, you say that every time.” You stand opposite of him, smirking whilst pouring him a glass of lemonade, the ice clicking quietly as you do so. “No harm in being at least a little bit more cautious though.”  

“Mm..if it would make you worry less, then I suppose I have no choice. I quite hate to see that crease between your brows.” He mutters, grabbing a few paper towels. 

“You mean to sound sweet, but I guarantee you’ll be right back in the scorching sun the minute I take my eyes off you.”  

Mohammed leans over the island, lips curved ever so slightly. “No comment.” He gazes down as you push his plate and drink towards him, face alight with interest. “Looks delicious. Shall we eat?”  

With a nod of confirmation, the two of you dig into your meals. Your husband, a typically polite eater, makes a poor attempt at pretending he isn’t near starving... The facade crumbles when he starts using both his fork and hand simultaneously to shove food into his mouth, and you watch with awe as he clears his plate in less than a few minutes as if it were a mere snack. 

He waits until he’s chewed and swallowed before he speaks, “Remind me, what’s on the calendar for today, my love?”  

You blink back into consciousness, setting your toast down to look back at the refrigerator. “Grocery shopping, phone conference with Mr. Joestar at five, and dinner with Jean-Pierre at eight. You also mentioned wanting to stop by your shop, something about a book you’d forgotten to bring-” 

In turning back to your husband, your words die off into silence. Now that his food was demolished, he’d moved on to his drink, and it is...definitely a sight to behold. Mohammed has his head titled back fully, large hand almost engulfing his glass as he holds it up to his lips. Built up condensation rolls down between his fingers as he chugs, and a few streams of escaping lemonade trail along the length of his neck to mix with the glistening sweat that had yet to dry up.  

You aren’t sure if it was just because of your previous ogling, but this felt so...strangely erotic. There’s an inexplicable heat piling at your nape and in your cheeks, like you’ve just come down with an awful fever the longer you watch him; His throat bobbing when he swallows, the relived sigh he huffs when he sets the glass back down, and the gradual droop of his eyelids as he relaxes.. 

He raises his brow once he notices that you’ve stopped talking, and a little pout forms on his lips when he sees you staring so intently. “..Are you alright?” And then with a small smile he adds, “Have I got something on my face?”  

You cover your mouth with your hand pensively. Glance back at the calendar. Then to him again.  

“Mohammed.”  

His expression visibly tenses at the call of his full name. “Yes, that’s me.”  

With the way your thoughts are bouncing all over the place, you where to start with what you want to say... Circumventing this, you take a few steps back, slowly rounding the counter until you stand next to him, hands clenched by your side. He looks down at you in silent confusion, waiting patiently for your next words.  

You raise your hand to his shoulder, letting your voice sink lower. “..Think you could hold off on finishing the yard for a few minutes?”  

He cocks his brow, twisting to face you fully. “I mean, I could, but it’s already a little past twelve. It’s only going to get hotter from here on out..It’d be ideal for me to finish up as quickly as possible.” 

“Well yeah, but..” You slip your hand from his shoulder to his chest, fighting to not bite your lip as you feel over his torso, fingers traveling down until they settle on the waistband of his burgundy shorts. You lift your eyes to him, seething with whatever seduction you can muster. “You can always finish it tomorrow, right..?”  

Your husband seems to catch on, his skin twitching at your touch. His gaze sharpens like he’s ready to accuse you of something, but you swear you see the corner of his mouth curl up. He remains quiet for a moment longer, narrowing his eyes in what you assume is contemplation.  

“..What did you in this time, hm? This early in the day, too?” Mohammed smiles playfully, leaning one hand on the counter while the other lightly scritches your jaw.  

You lean into the touch, but frown in mild embarrassment. “It’s not my fault you make everything look so...enticing.”  

He laughs boisterously, “You are a strange one...but as your spouse, I will refrain from making fun of you too much. After all..” He looks over his empty plate, quieting his voice. “..your little ‘good deed’ you set up has me feeling a certain way myself..”  

You snicker, shaking your head. “And you dare call me strange...getting turned on by a small favor is ridiculous.”  

“But I am turned on, nonetheless.”  

... 

The sudden seriousness in your husband's tone stuns your senses. He is a generally forward individual in all that he does, but hearing him speak with such impropriety was still jarring at times. You feel a little kick of adrenaline rush through you, and with Mohammed’s heated glare focused on your own, you wondered only why neither of you had made a move yet.  

“I know you’re probably tired and all but..I could help you with that...if you want.” You mumble, half-shrugging.  

“That is exactly what I want.” He smiles, holding your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Right after I shower.”  

Immediately, your frown returns. “What? No.”  

“..No? What do you mean ‘no’?” He pouts right along with you.  

“The sweat is part of the appeal; you can’t just get rid of it.” 

“Oh..” Mohammed pulls a grimace at first, but it slowly softens into a smirk the longer he thinks about your proposition. “’This a new kink of yours, my love?”  

You settle for a quiet, “..Maybe.” Calling it ‘new’ was a bit of an understatement. It was more like you’d never made your stance known out of shame.  

Your husband hums and raises his thumb to your cheek, caressing the tinted skin as he speaks plainly. “Alright...I’ll indulge.” 

The small smile that follows lightens the strain in your chest, and you press your face fully into his palm. “You don’t have to-”  

He tuts, cutting you off as he moves his hands to your hips. “None of that, mister. You should know by now that I mean what I say, and I say what I mean. Now,”  

Mohammed’s expression holds both reverence and curiosity, that fiery gleam in his eyes reflecting a frightening burst of energy suddenly driving through him.  

“Let’s get to work, shall we?”  

The best you can give in response is a vigorous nod of your head.  

You ease Mohammed backwards with a hand to his chest until his knees have hit the edge of the bedframe, your lips pecking intermittently as he lowers to sit on the mattress. Subconsciously, you cringe at the idea of his outside clothes touching the blanket and sheets, but they needed to be cleaned anyways, so you let the thought pass.  

The bed creaks as he leans back on his hands, allowing you room to press your knee between his legs and slide your fingers beneath the fabric of his shorts. He shudders, grabbing at the sheets when you rake your nails along his outer thigh. Your free hand cups his face, steadying your balance so that you can press your lips more insistently upon his, kissing away lingering citrus and sugar crystals.  

Mohammed reaches out for you, eager to touch, laying his palm against your lower back, and lifting your pajama shirt just enough to where you can feel his signature warmth. You control the rhythm of the kiss, gently coaxing his mouth open until you can nudge your tongue inside to roll against his. He reciprocates your forwardness with a quiet chuckle, but you get just the tiniest groan out of him when you bite the edge of his bottom lip. You don’tlet up either, continuing to kiss him languidly until he’s breathing heavily and balling his fist into the hem of your shirt.  

You pull back, now kissing his jaw as you murmur, “You okay, baby?” knowing full well what you’re doing to him. With your knee still between his thighs, you can feel he’s pitched a sizeable tent, which only spurs you on.  

Mohammed turns his eyes away, a prominent red undertone painting his cheeks. “..You know I hate it when you tease, habibi.”  

“’Wasn’t on purpose, I swear.”  

He huffs, “You can’t expect me to believe that.”   

You smile, dipping down to his neck just to stare at the shimmering skin. It seems the closeness and stimulation have made him start to perspire again...You feel a tingle in your fingers, and you barely hesitate to glide your knuckles against his throat. Mohammed quivers, clenching his teeth and swallowing hard.  

“..Maybe not. But can't a guy have a bit of fun? I like watching your expressions.” You admit, gaze flicking back up to him.  

You feel him take in a deep, composed breath that comes out jagged. “No...not when I want you this bad.” 

 Your eyes widen, a tinge of both guilt and arousal striking your nerves. Again, he has this focused look on his face, brows lightly furled, soft lips straightened as he tugs on your shirt once more. He has no idea how impossibly sexy he is, and that almost frustrates you.  

“Mo..” You groan and drop your forehead to his shoulder, letting go of whatever act you had been putting on.  

He turns to kiss the shell of your ear, whispering, “Are you through being cruel to me..?” 

 You huff a laugh, leaning to the side until your body flops over onto the mattress beside him. “You’re being dramatic...but yes. I apologize.”  

“Good.”  

The moment you’re off of him, Mohammed begins to shuffle around, prompting you to do the same, both of you maneuvering until your husband is kneeling between your legs, his hands placed on either side of your head while yours stay wrapped around his neck. Sunlight peeking through the bedroom window casts a golden aura around his frame as he leans over you, breathing heavier the longer he stares.   

“..Have I ever told you how gorgeous you are?” You hum, curling your fingers around his long ponytail.  

A smirk. “Every day, my love.”  

“Well, what’s one more, mm?”  

You smile and pull yourself up, reveling in his gasps when you attach your lips to his neck. You begin licking careful stripes along his jugular where the heat radiates the most, and suck the salt from his skin. The taste is not entirely pleasant on its own, but knowing it’s from him is the aspect that really counts. Your hand lowers to his chest, where incoming peach fuzz is coated in a layer of sheen that transfers to your fingertips the further you drag them. Mohammed’s muscles flex and relax simultaneously, and you can tell he’s making a conscious effort not to make any humiliating sounds.  

“Enjoying yourself?” He asks.  

You nod against his neck just as your lips come off with a quiet ‘smack’, “Entirely too much. You?”  

He trembles ever so slightly. “..I am certainly enjoying your attention. But..”  

You draw back to look over his face as his words trail off. At first, you think you might’ve done something wrong, but that pout on his lips says otherwise. You nearly laugh, but hold it in for his sake.  

“But you want more..?”  

“I have been patient..” Is all he utters, lid’s drooping as if he’s asking for your sympathy. Not like he needed to.  

You grin and return to lying flat on your back, but keep your hands on him. "You're needy today.”  

He tilts his head, “Don’t make it sound as if you aren’t the exact same. You haven’t stopped clinging to me since we entered the room.”  

“...Touché.”  

With a final, victorious quirk of his brow, Mohammed leans down on his elbow to kiss you properly, one of his hands snaking around the small of your back and down into your pajama pants. You chuckle against his mouth when he playfully grabs at your ass, but the sound devolves into rasp when he begins a gives a little pinch. He removes his hand to place it on your side instead, bringing himself in closer until his crotch is pressed fully against you, hips beginning a faint grinding motion that has your stomach dropping. You angle your own hips upwards so that you can feel more of his bulge, heart setting to an increasingly passionate beat. 

“Feels good?” He inquires between kisses, yet somehow it feels more like a statement. Like he knows. 

Still, you nod weakly, turning your face away to curse under your breath. You feel strangely sensitive even with all this fabric still between the two of you, and you have half a mind to be embarrassed about it. Ever disapproving of such a notion, your husband gently grabs your chin, guiding you to look at him once more. His smile is soft and charming, but in your mind, it feels crass, especially considering the phrase that follows,  

“Words, please.”  

You huff routinely, eyelids flitting as you try to wrap your brain around a coherent sentence. “Yes..’ts good..so good, Mo..”  

Mohammed’s fingers twitch against your face, and his movements slow to a halt. He looks dazed, but the flare in his gaze seems to surge. Before you can even think to whine in complaint, your pajama pants are being done away with, tossed to bedroom floor to be forgotten for the next few minutes. You watch in shock as your husband strips you bare, clearly doing his best to be careful in his haste, but you can already see the apology forming in his brows when he leans over you again.  

“’Didn’t mean to startle you, I just-”  

You grin and shake your head, quick to reassure him. “It’s fine. I’m okay... Keep going.”  

He still gives you a once over for his own sake, but soon enough he’s reaching towards the nightstand, one hand pressed against your hip while the other digs around the drawer for some lubricant. He fumbles through squeezing it out on his fingers, but takes the time to admire you all the while. In truth, you’re both admiring each other...despite his skin being mostly dried of the sweat that had previously got you going, your husband is still an absolute beauty, a full fledge painting of desire... 

The feeling of him softly pushing your knees apart brings back your focus, and you willfully comply, shifting on your back to get in a more comfortable position. You get a complete sense of clarity when he lowers his hand past where you can no longer see, a testament to the amount of trust you’ve placed in him since the day you said, ‘I do.’ Mohammed appears to have the same mindset, as he doesn’t say a word when he begins to press his fingers to your rim, but rather closes his eyes and kisses over your forehead, cheeks, and lips.  

You try to reciprocate whatever he gives, but with the quiet moans now following your every breath, it’s growing difficult. His fingers continue a slow circling motion, applying a subtle pressure with each pass that has you biting the inside of your cheek. Even with your eyes half-lidded, you can see the tiniest smile spreading on your husband's face as he feels your muscles twitching and relaxing, opening up for him without a fight. It isn’t long before he’s able to wedge the tip of his middle finger inside, and even that already feels like too much. If there was one thing you loved about your husband, it was his heavy stature, which included his thick...appendages.  

Your hips slant upward as he slowly works his finger inside, pumping in increments until he’s able to get down to the knuckle. No matter how many times you’ve done this with him, it’s like he gets more attuned to your body every time. With just one finger, he reaches the spots that make you clench and whine, intensifying the pleasure by sucking hickeys just below your collar bone, and dragging his hot tongue along your Adams apple. When he adds the second finger, you swear you’ve lost your breath, gasping over the sound of your own squelching as he stretches your hole. You’ve deduced that he takes some kind of secretive pleasure in feeling you try to desperately grind against his fingers and hearing your broken calls of his name considering his current heavy breathing against your neck, but you know he’d never admit it out loud.  

“Fuck, Mo..” You whimper, pressing your head back into the pillows.  

He murmurs an acknowledgement. “I know...just a while longer.”  

“’Don’t think I can wait..-” Your voice cracks and breaks off into a cry when he unexpectedly curls his fingers, back arching off the mattress.  

He merely kisses your cheek, speaking lowly, “Try, for me?...I like seeing your expressions.” 

You want to feel angry at him using your own logic against you, but all you can do is close your eyes and moan to the ceiling, precum dripping helplessly onto your stomach. Mohammed continues to take his sweet time, spreading and scissoring his fingers in practiced motions despite you being more than prepped at this point.  

“Are you some sort of sadist?” You grit out.  

“Of course not.” He laughs breathily, “You think you’re the only one having a hard time here?”  

“Well, that’s your own fault. No one is holding you back.”  

“Sure..but patience is a virtue, you know.” He says it with a hint of malice, and you’re certain he’s messing with you again.  

“My god, you cannot be serious..”  

He smiles insidiously, bringing his fingers to a complete stop and pulling them out slowly. Your muscles clench and seize around nothing, and involuntary whine escaping you at the loss of contact. He tilts his head at the sound, 

“Seems you don’t quite want me to leave yet.”  

Your chest heaves as you mourn the loss of fullness, and the delirium of lust almost has you nodding and agreeing with him. Your mouth hangs open as you search for a proper comeback,  manifesting senseless groans and whimpers that only prove his point.  

Mohammed looks down at you sympathetically, grazing his knuckles against your side and speaking calmly. “Do not worry. I know exactly what you need..” 

The stress of indecision melts away as you watch your husband sit back on his heels and hook his thumb into the band of his shorts and boxers, tugging them down his hips until the fabric bunches at his knees. His cock hangs heavy between his legs, curving eagerly upwards in your direction. You watch in idle hunger as Mohammed caps the tip with a thin condom, sliding it down the rest of his length with ease. He keeps a steely expression as he gives himself a few light strokes, but you catch a glimpse of a smirk before he whispers,  

“You’re staring.”  

You want to say you’re ashamed, but... “When am I not?”  

He scoots closer, setting your calves on either side of his hips. “Some might find it rude...” 

You hold in a chuckle, “Yeah? Well, do you?”  

Mohammed trails his fingers against the tops of your thighs, smiling tenderly. “No. I wouldn’t want your eyes anywhere else.”  

How infuriating. Even in a situation like this, he finds time to be adorable...You sigh deeply and reach up to touch his face, tracing the bridge of his nose and jaw. 

“..I love you.”  

His eyes flutter like the phrase could've struck him dead, a wider smile on his lips. “I love you too.”  

You drop your hand back to the bed, flooded with anticipation as he positions himself at your entrance, gaze on you all the while. He waits for your breathing to even out before finally starting to press inside, rewarding you with an even more intense stretch than before. Your body is invaded with a delicious heat as you take every inch, akin to the beat of the summer sun on your skin. Even with your eyes now closed, you can feel Mohammed watching your face, studying it for signs of pain or discomfort...but they never come, not when he’s halfway in, and not when his hips make contact with your ass.  

He rests the side of his cheek against yours, uttering a soft, “Good.” such a simple word, yet it makes your heart pound every time.  

He gives you a moment to adjust, lips finding their way to yours again while he whispers more appraisals, letting them linger between the two of you until he feels they’re far enough ingrained into your mind. With him this close, you can smell the musk of high noon not yet gone from his skin, which is practically a sedative of its own kind.  

When he feels you're ready, he starts cautiously pulling his hips back, before sinking himself inside again, letting out quiet moans into your ear with each thrust. The sensation is dizzying, thick veins pressing against your walls, and just the general girth pumping you full.. 

Mohammed fucks you deep and slow, making sure you can feel every drag, and that he can feel every tweak of you constricting, as if subconsciously trying to trap him inside. Your arms wrap around sun kissed shoulders, back arching as your moans are absorbed into his mouth, craving nothing more than to be completely full of him for the rest of your godforsaken life. You shift your hips to a slightly higher angle, gasping aloud as his cock now nudges divinely against your G-Spot.  

“Fuck- right there-”  

“I’ve got you.” Your husband's voice is similarly shaky, his face dropping to your shoulder. “Want it faster?”  

You shake your head vigorously, clinging to him tighter. “No- just like this, don’t change a thing.”  

Mohammed responds with an uncharacteristic moan, proceeding with long, steady strokes that begin to push your body up against the headboard. It’s like your insides are being massaged in all the right ways, an itch scratched that you can never reach.  

“Shit I’m-” 

You know you’re done for when you can feel your hands starting to tremble. As much as you would’ve like to last longer, trying to hold back is entirely too taxing. You shut your eyes tight, hanging on to every spark of pleasure that he delivers until it builds into a full-on blaze in your gut, the feeling consuming you wholly. Your legs quake and try to squeeze around his torso as you reach your climax, cum sputtering onto your stomach as your voice cracks beneath the pressure of a jumble of curses and groans.  

With a hand to your hip, Mohammed quickens his pace just slightly, using shallower thrusts before orgasm seems to claim him too, his moans barred behind clenched teeth. One day, you’d get him to break that habit, you swear.  

You keep your hands pressed to his shoulder blades, and he continues to goad quiet sounds out of you until he brings himself to a complete stop, panting against your collar bone. You both remain like that for a while, just breathing and taking in the buzz of relief. Eventually though, he slowly pulls out and lies his head on your chest without a word, the rest of his body essentially smothering you like a warm weighted blanket. You smile blearily, rubbing his back and enjoying the feeling of your hearts beating against each other, gradually returning to a natural rhythm.  

“..I think I’ve over exhausted myself.” He mutters. “You’ve got me sweating again..” 

You lazily trace around the knots of his hair with your forefinger, laughing under your breath. “Mm..I’m sorry.” 

“No need. It was worth every ounce of energy.” He turns his head just enough so that he can kiss your skin. “’Love the way you make me feel..”  

The statement is like pure bliss. “..Me too.” Biting down on a boyish grin, you close your eyes, thanking whatever god for sending you such a perfect man. “Couldn’t have asked for a better start to my day..” 

“I’m glad to hear..” Mohammed is cut off by his own fit of yawns. “..that.”  

He's quieter as the seconds pass, and it’s obvious that it won’t be long before he drifts off to sleep entirely. As much as you want him to stay awake, you’re technically at fault for tiring him out.  

You gently pat his back, speaking softly, “Taking a nap, baby?”  

Theres a short delay before he hums in affirmation.  

“Okay...could you move a bit so I can go shower? Promise I’ll come back.”  

You wait..and wait...and wait, for a response... 

 But all that you get is the sound of him snoring. 

You suppose it’s just another well-deserved taste of your own medicine. So rather than trying to wake him up, (which would be impossible anyways), you kiss the top of his head and wrap your arms around him, trying to get as comfortable as you can.  

a/n: As much as I write about summer, it is my least favorite season. It's only good for its aesthetic and I stand by that. (Also first time writing bottom reader..can you tell...)