Beside

33.5 - deeper

"Fox, if I was a bug, would you still talk to me?"

"Depends."

"What if I was one of those ugly ones with too many legs. Would you squish me?"

"I could carry you in a leaf."

"Even if I'm all wiggly and gross?"

"It's still you, Jellybean."

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

c h r i s

I'm full. Not just stretched, not just open, but filled in a way that makes my ribs ache. I bury my face into the bed, damp with sweat. There's no room left for a full breath. Not when he's so far inside me.

The pillows under my pelvis keep me propped high enough to take all of Fox over and over again in this slow, unspeakably deep rhythm. He's draped over my back like a fever, every inch skin-to-skin. His hand cradles my chest beneath me, palm flat to my breastbone. Holding me still. Holding me here. His thumb strokes softly above my nipple, but only when I twitch.

Sweat drips from my hairline, sticky trails slipping down my throat, vanishing into the pillow I'm breathing into. My hair's half-plastered to my temple, frizzing in spirals, blocking my sight in a haze. Dust hovers in the air. Flecks of glitter shimmer. They even move backward. We've fallen out of time.

I hear only a few things over the bloodrush in my ears. That soft slap of his hips into the backs of my thighs. That drag of his stomach as it brushes my spine. The creak of the mattress, and another wet slide when he plunges deeper. I hear him, too. Not words, just little catches in his throat when I clench my thighs together. My breast shifts in his hand each time his pelvis rocks forward. He squeezes harder. It's never enough.

I cross my ankles and lock out my knees.

He tries to swallow a moan, but it leaks through his teeth anyway, a raw, broken sound.

My fingers clutch at the sheets, bunching them under my knuckles. I don't know when I started shaking, but it's getting worse. Liquid heat curls behind my navel. I need release. I need to burn.

His palm slides up the hollow of my throat. He catches the underside of my jaw and lifts, drawing my head back into the cradle of his shoulder. The motion flexes my body up. It's enough for him to see my mouth, my breath, and the flutter of my lashes. My head rolls against the curve of his throat as he thrusts as deep as I can take him.

I choke, pressing my palms down into the mattress.

He waits, always waits, until my breath returns. I realize I never want him to move at all. Not even to finish. I just want to feel him here, with me, and know it's enough.

No one moves like this by accident.  I want to ask him why it feels like this. What it means. But I already know he won't answer.

He holds me tight as I splinter straight up the centre without a sound.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

F O X

I nick my jaw with the razor. It's not deep and doesn't bleed long. But still—fuck.

I drop the blade and press the hand towel against my skin, watching in the foggy mirror how the red blooms like a tiny rose in snow. Might as well be a billboard: Hey, look, I got distracted thinking about her again.

I toss the towel on the counter. The sink's cluttered with the usual. Deodorant. Comb. Cologne. I've got one of Chris's hair ties looped around my toothbrush for some reason. She doesn't even know she left it in here. She sheds things like she's moulting: stickers, socks, glitter pens, half-eaten granola bars, and her scent. God, she smelled like clementines in winter tonight. I had to shower just to escape it.

She didn't say much when I went to her room. Didn't ask for it rough or gentle. Not fast or slow. She just lay there and let me have her. All of her. No roles, no script, no jokes. After, I whispered something soft, I think. I always do that. Then I got up. I pulled away. I couldn't even kiss her.

I never wanted this to be complicated. It was supposed to be practical. No strings, no pressure, no pain. Just comfort in a fucked-up world.

But she eats toast crust-first. She peels all the stickers off our fruit. She hums when she's nervous. She hums when she's not. She lines her pens up by colour and never uses the red ones. She only drinks coffee if someone else makes it. She cries at dog rescue commercials. I know her bedtime routine by heart. I know she reaches for the chipped pink mug when her eyes are still half-closed in the morning. I know the sound of her laugh when it's sure, and when it's not.

And I know—fucking know—her.

I step out of the bathroom in my sweats, still damp. Leftover warmth ghosts down my spine.

Noah's in the hallway, crouched by the coat closet, trying to fix the jammed door with a screwdriver.

He glances up. "You good?"

I pause. "What?"

He points vaguely at my chin. I swipe at it with the corner of towel.

He stands, resting the screwdriver on the little table by the door. "You've been off."

"I'm not off."

"You're a shitty liar. You've got that face again. It's not a girl, right?"

"I'm fine," I snap, sharper than I meant.

Noah just looks at me for a moment. Then says, "Okay."

Then he's gone, disappearing into the kitchen, and I'm left standing there, throat tight with something that's got nothing to do with the cut on my chin.

_______________________

A bonus scene.
Thoughts?

💚

If you're not reading this on W🅰️TTPAD, it's been stolen. My username is @immorallaurel