𝐨𝐤𝐚𝐲, 𝐛𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐢

𝟹𝟶. 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝 & 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚎

❥ 18+. mdni. nsfw (kinda ish) ?? it's there ig, like if you squint really, really hard you can see it.
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The chill girl. The laidback one. The most casual of them all. The nonchalant person who sits back, bites her tongue, lets the words in her throat fizzle out, and the feelings in her heart die, brushing things off as 'no big deal.'

That's who you should be.

That's who you want to be.

That's who you've always wanted to be.

But, let's face it... you just can't, no matter how much you want to sit here with your back awkwardly pressed into Jean's car door while your heart nearly fists itself through your chest, trying to persuade yourself that you can. Your soul knows this, but your mind is, and always will be, the stubborn bull, telling you that you are still going to try, anyway. You have to.

It's pure self gaslighting at this point.

Your inner thoughts shift to outer happenings when Jean, who is still slightly hovering over you, pushes himself all the way out from between your spread legs, and hooks his right forearm under the bend of your knees. 

You attempt to take a breath but he's moving the lower half of you before you can, pushing your calves and feet up so he is able to maneuver his weight off his knees, and give himself the relief of sitting down like a normal person after being uncomfortably cramped for such a long period of time.

Feet barely swept out from under himself, ass barely hitting the leather of the far right seat, and he's already sliding himself back into the middle seat next to you, draping your legs over his thighs.

You can feel him beneath the fat of your right calf that's resting right over his crotch. He's still rock hard.

Veins zapped, you swallow a couple of times, attempting not to concentrate too much on the strain of his dick, and how it feels pressed against you. Your thoughts, however, keep falling back to it every time you try to drift your groggy mind to something else.

Reddened shadows collide in your vision when Jean leans his upper body forward toward the front of his car to grab what he needs to clean up the mess you made out of the center console. His right hand, which is busy drawing listless circles upon your shin resting nearest to his lower abdomen, disengages from your skin. You instantly run cold.

Body moving faster than your empty-fueled mind is able to keep up, you don't realize that your hand has wrapped around his left wrist until you feel his muscles flex beneath your frail grip.

You stop him before he can even graze the leather surface, "wait." Your voice is small but generously cherry, considering how worn out you are, bones half asleep.

Jean freezes over at your anemic demand. His level head turns, focus dropping to you. "Yeah?" he rasps, husky.

Jesus. His eyes are dreamy. So dreamy—the entire milky way packed away inside those rounded fields of speckled gold. It's nearly impossible not to get sucked right into their void.

You can hear your heart in your ears, the cadence echo hurting your brain a bit. You're not fully aware of what your flexing tongue is about to say, but you do know that it's the truth of your desire, the way your mouth is watering shows for it.

You release your frail grip. "Wanna taste." You sound a mess, unsteady, weak, barely even legible.

But still, knowing you blind and backwards, Jean understands.

His starry eyes go wide for a moment, the insides wild—a bit caught off guard by your request—before he blinks, returning them to their traditional size. His weight reclines. Sinking back into the leather seat, he minimally angles his upper body to face you better.