Eirene

If he stops, she'll do something awful to every single one of his plaid shirts, like turning them neon pink. Same with his underwear. She groans, accepting and absorbing his thrusts, and returns each in equal measure, her hands sliding up to cradle his cheeks between them before threading into his hair.

"Love-- love you," Eirene gasps back, both words heavily slurred underneath the influence of what appears to be a supernova building inside her, centered where he, and his fingers, are coaxing more response than she thought possible.

And the creaking gets louder.