Jack/Eric One-Shots

The thing about the couch

Eric | Jack

There's almost nothing I wouldn't do for you.

There's no distance I wouldn't cross.

There are practically no lines for you to cross.

That being said.

I'm not cleaning this motherfucking couch one more time.

This is the last fucking time.

I know I said last time was the last time, but I'm really going to make you clean this thing yourself next time.

Or just burn it.

That's always a good option.

You know what?

When you get home from wherever you are, I'm going to give you a piece of my mind.

First, though, I'm going to clean some random guy's fluids off of my couch.

I see the problem, I do.

But my bed is so far away.

And no one likes the couch, anyway.

Both you and Shawn prefer to sit on the floor.

I think I'm the only one who actually sits on it.

And you always clean it up when it gets messy, so what's the matter?

Speaking of, I hope you're done by the time I get back, I think this girl's into me...

I can't believe you.

Do you ever stop?

Last night, it was Jason.

Tonight, it's Piper?

What, are you going to sleep with someone every night now?

Is this your new pastime?

I swear to God.

If you take her on that couch, I will kick you the fuck out.

And you can take the disgusting thing with you.

This was probably stupid.

Now he's going to think I'm a whore.

Am I a whore?

Probably, I don't really care.

But he does.

Damn it.

Fine.

This one time, I'll make the trip to the bed.

This one time.

And then I think I'll take a break from it for a while.

I don't even remember her name.

Or the name of the guy from last night.

I wish I had gotten his name.

He made omelets.

Oh, these walls are way too fucking thin.

And her voice was way too fucking high-pitched.

I swear to God, if you say a single word before I drink my coffee, I might just slit your throat.

Forget mystery guy's omelets.

Jack made toast.

That may sound lackluster, but Jack's toast is slightly burnt and over-buttered.

That sounds worse than it was supposed to.

It's soft on the inside, crunchy on the outside.

And it tastes like warm butter.

It melts in your mouth better than any fine delicacy.

I need to talk to him.

But I can't look him in the eye when he's moaning into a slice of toast.

I really don't know why he likes it so much.

It's way too salty, and it's soggy in some places and hard as rock in others.

You can sort of soften it if you suck on it for a minute.

How do I even begin this conversation?

'Hey, so you know how you didn't fuck that girl on the couch last night? Can you keep doing that?'

I can't use the word fuck, that's too forward.

God, would he stop fucking moaning-

Let me think, goddamnit

No, it's not turning me on, I promise you

Shut up.

I don't mean to tell, but I've heard enough of that sound.

Fuck, I'm not going to be able to get up and storm away.

No, that's not why-

My foot is stuck.

Shut up!

He does think I'm a whore
Am I a whore?
Probably
I don't know how to respond
Flirt?
Flirt.

Fuck
Fuck
Holy shit
Fuck
Fuck
Holy shit
Did he really just say that?
I mean, I guess I wouldn't mind it-
Yes I would, of course I would, what am I thinking?
f u c k

Well that strategy worked
What do I say next though?
Oh, a sneeze

What the fuck
What the fuck
His weird sneeze things are always right
What the fuck do I do
Is he making it up?
I wouldn't touch that couch with my bare hand, let alone my body

I don't know how I got here, it's really a blur, but I am on the couch, and it's wonderful.
I'm going to shower afterwards, but it's wonderful.
Holy shit holy fuck
Holy mother of holy shit fuck
e r i c