tuesday...
Some nights are, in general, rougher than others in ethan's life, and this was one of those nights.
It wasn't that the day was a complete disaster, it's just that editing had kept him much later than he'd anticipated. He was a very tenacious guy, but two long days in a row was just a bit much on his end. As he drove home, all he could think about was pouring himself a glass of MacMurray pinot and having an unwise later-evening nap. He sloppily dug his key into the lock and kicked his shoes off the second he was inside.
As he wandered through the halls of his house, he yanked out his headphones to reveal his roommate's voice coming from the kitchen. Given that it wasn't accompanied by another voice, he assumed she was on the phone.
Sure enough, he poked his head into the kitchen to see (y/n) with her phone cradled between her shoulder and her cheek. She was making dinner while talking and didn't appear to notice Ethan had arrived. He should've made his presence known given how this situation usually ended up, but he remained silent.
"You're lucky you have so many hoes,lei" (y/n) noted, checking on boiling noodles and stirring them with a purple spoon. "If I'm trying to get fucked, I don't exactly have a lot of options."
At her words, he ducked out of the kitchen and hid in the hallway. Ethan could chastise himself for being nosy later—he had to hear this conversation. There was some silence as leilani responded before (y/n) continued.
"I mean, dating for-real at this age sucks, and one night stands aren't what they used to be. All the attractive guys are cuffed up so now the only people prowling the bar scene are ugly or shit in bed." The two of them laughed. "And there's only so much my own hand can do," they giggled again before dissolving into a conversation about leilani's new dog (how fast they were able to switch topics is beyond his grasp).
Ethan took this as a chance to go back upstairs and pretend he never even heard that. Jeez—how many times will he have to remind himself that was the plan? How many times was this going to happen before it stuck? What was with him and barging in on (y/n) during intimate moments and conversations?!
***
Ethan woke up in the middle of the night with lips pressed against his neck.
At first, he couldn't tell exactly whose lips were on him, but could tell it was some attractive female and decided to let it continue. He loved when girls spent a lot of time on his neck but didn't give him love bites. He was so sensitive on his throat and chest that any kissing or sucking would leave him like putty in anyone's hands. Ethan decided to not question this and enjoy the lovely treatment.
The mystery girl did all the things he loved—she brought a hand up to rake through his sweaty curls, the other forced two fingers into his mouth to get them wet, and her kisses left wet patches all over his taut skin. The fingers between his lips dropped down, presumably to touch herself.
Finally, Ethan needed to see who was doing all this to him. He lightly tugged the girl off by her hair, only to make eye contact with none other than his roommate (y/n).
"(y/n/n)?!" he blurted. He was in utter shock—not only was he hard as a rock, but one of his closest friends is bare naked in front of him and trying to make out with his neck.
"Don't worry about it, sweetheart," (👴🏽) she purred, mocking him. (y/n) tossed a leg over his body and grinded down onto his dick, kept separate by his boxers and the sheets on his bed. He could practically feel the heat coming off of her, if only it wasn't for the barriers between them. In fact, the sheets seemed so tight around his legs.
Ethan was suddenly washed over with anxiety and thrashed around, struggling to kick the sheets off his legs. (y/n) stared at him like he was a maniac, which only made him panic more. Why wouldn't the sheets come off his legs? Why wasn't she helping him? Why was it suddenly so hot in there?
Ethan woke up with his dick straining up against his stomach, forehead covered in sweat and bedsheets tangled around his feet just like in his dream. You know, the dream where he was about to have sex with (y/n).
He was grossed out when he thought about it, even though he had no control over his dreams. How could he be actually thinking about his totally platonic, totally innocent roommate like that? It almost felt dirtier dreaming about her than it did watching her touch herself. One of them was just a goofy accident and the other was rooted in some sub-conscious desire to bury himself in someone who probably trusted and respected him as a co-habitor.
God, did he need a therapist?
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