Truth Serum Pt. II
For a second, they just breathe.
His words are still hanging there between them–obsessed with you, the whole thing, more time to figure it out–and her ribs haven’t quite caught up.
“Okay,” she manages finally, voice thin. “Rude.”
He huffs out a laugh, tired and fond. “It was literally a consented boss-level question.”
She kisses him, projector light splashing wild shapes across the ceiling, playlist sliding into yet another song about two idiots in too deep.
When they break apart, she props herself on her elbow. He looks tired and loose and too honest.
“Jack,” she says quietly.
“Pen.”
“One more,” she says. “Boss level. Then we can just… make out until our brains fall out.”
He studies her like he’s checking his reserves. The mushrooms answer for him.
“Fine,” he sighs. “Boss level. But if you ask me about my childhood, I’m ejecting.”
She hesitates, then looks down instead of at his face.
His legs lie slack and easy on the comforter. The top knee is already slightly bent toward her. Her hand moves before she finishes thinking.
“Can I…?” she starts, already sliding her fingers under the back of his knee.
He blinks, surprised by how careful she sounds. “Yeah,” he says. “You don’t have to ask, you know–”
Her fingers curl into the warm, solid back of it. He can’t help; the joint just folds over her hand, heavy and completely, ridiculously yielding.
He goes very still, watching.
She pulls.
Not rough. Just sure. She drags his leg over her hips, up high, until his thigh crosses that soft hollow at her waist. His foot drags loose across the mattress, landing wherever gravity takes it.
He doesn’t say anything. Just lets her.
The weight settles over her–solid, anchoring, undeniably there.
They’re on their sides now, face to face, his leg draped heavy over her waist, tangled in a way that looks nothing like two people keeping their options open.
Her breath catches. “I love this.”
It comes out before the safer sentence has any chance.
Jack’s eyes flick from her hand on his thigh up to her face.
“…What,” he says.
She swallows, suddenly very aware of every point of contact. The heavy bar of his leg over her. His calf against her. The way his foot doesn’t hook or adjust, just… stays where she put it.
“This,” she says, thumb brushing the side of his thigh. “You. Like this. The weight. The way it–”
She almost chokes on the word, then makes herself say it.
“–stays,” she finishes quietly.
He looks at her like he’s trying to figure out if this is a very elaborate prank.
“You love… having my dead weight on you,” he says, voice light, eyes not.
“Don’t call it that,” she says immediately. “It doesn’t feel like that.”
“How does it feel?” he asks.
He’s not looking away. No teasing, no escape hatch. Just the question and whatever deranged courage the mushrooms have gifted them.
She squeezes his thigh, fingers digging into muscle that used to move and now just… doesn’t.
“It feels like…” She hunts for it, fingers tightening. “Like you’re letting me pin you to the planet for a second.”
His mouth twitches. “That sounds extremely dramatic.”
“Shut up, I’m on drugs,” she says. “I mean–usually you’re managing your body away from people. You’re tucking your legs, stacking them, doing the polite-angle thing so no one has to see how they really are.” Her fingers dig a little into his thigh. “This is just… you. All the way, on me. No arranging. No making yourself smaller. Just here.”
He doesn’t have a joke for that.
“Oh,” he says.
It’s not much, but it’s loaded.
“That’s…” he starts, then aborts.
“Too much?” she asks quickly. “I can move you, I didn’t mean–”
“No,” he cuts in, sharp enough she freezes. “No. Don’t move. I’m just… adjusting to the idea that you’re up here having feelings about my leg draped over you like a faulty space heater.”
She huffs a little laugh. “It is a little hot.”
“You’re welcome,” he says automatically. Then, quieter: “So that does it for you.”
He’s asking, but he already knows. It’s in her face, the way she’s looking down the length of him.
“Yeah,” she says. “A lot.”
“What part?” he presses, because apparently it’s his boss level too.
She lets herself actually look–down the line of his body: his thigh across her, both legs lying in whatever crooked configuration they landed in. None of it looks like a stock photo of a couple in bed.
“All of it,” she admits. “But if you’re making me pick… it’s that it only does this because it’s you. Because it’s your body and your situation. If you could move it, you would, and I wouldn’t get this exact…you.”
Something in his face shifts. Softens and sharpens at once.
“I spent a long time,” he says slowly, “trying to take up as little weird space as possible. With my legs. With the chair. All of it. Like, ‘don’t look too closely, it’s fine, I’m fine.’”
“I know,” she says softly.
“And now you’re over here,” he goes on, trying to laugh and not quite getting there, “hoisting my limbs onto you and going, ‘actually, I’d like seconds.’”
She smiles, small. “Yeah. Pretty much.”
He rests his hand on the side of her ribs, thumb pressing lightly into skin.
“You’re very look-at-able,” he says, voice gone soft.
It lands like: I see you seeing me, and I like being seen.
She feels it straight in her chest. “Jack,” she says, useless.
He just looks at her for another long beat, leg heavy over her, projector painting them in shifting color. Neither of them looks away.
“Come here,” he says quietly.
She goes.
The kissing starts soft–like they’re testing this new version of gravity–but it doesn’t stay that way for long.
She shifts, sliding up and over him, leg still dragging his with her until she’s straddling his hips.
His hands slide down to her hips automatically, fingers curling in, steady but loose, like he’s holding on and giving her room at the same time.
She starts out as pure chaos.
It’s all nails and greedy hands, pulling his shirt off, chasing the places she knows are live wires: the curve of his shoulder, the band of sensation across his stomach, the side of his throat. Every time she hits something good, he gives himself away–little gasps, bitten-off swears, the breathy “okay” that slips out when he shifts to brace himself.
The sounds hit her like static.
“That one,” she says against his neck, triumphant. “I like that one.”
“Oh my god,” he groans. “You cannot catalogue my effort noises.”
“Too late,” she says, and bites very lightly at his jaw.
He actually laughs, even as his breath stutters, the angle of his ribs changing under her hands as he tries to keep them both balanced. He’s already half gone.
Her hips, which were riding him in this greedy, determined rhythm a minute ago, start to stutter. She keeps moving, like she’s refusing to let herself stop, but it’s all jagged now–little broken circles instead of clean lines. Her knees slide higher along his sides, squeezing in tight like she’s trying to hold on with bone.
Her breathing’s gone messy. Little bursts against his chest. Every exhale hits a different part of him.
Jack feels all of it.
He feels the way her weight settles heavier on him, like she’s forgetting to manage it, just dropping more of herself onto his chest without thinking. Feels her palms drag up his torso and stay there, planted flat over his sternum, fingers curled in like she’s trying to grip bone through skin.
His lungs are on fire and his arms are burning from holding her there, but his hands stay firm on her hips–steadying, grounding–and he’s still the one with more air.
“Pen,” he murmurs, voice sanded down. “Hey. Look at me.”
She doesn’t. Her head tips forward, hair falling around them in a curtain. He loses sight of the ceiling, of the projector light–everything is just her. Her hair, her heat, her breath, right there against his chest.
He slides one hand up from her hip, pushes that curtain back from her face, fingers grazing her temple.
Her eyes when they meet his are completely gone– glassy and wild.
“Talk to me,” he says, even as his own pulse slams against her palm. “What’s happening?”
She shakes her head hard, hair brushing his cheek. “Can’t.”
You’re wrecked, he thinks, and something hot and possessive flares in his chest. I did that.
“Tell me,” Jack whispers.
She bites down on her lip so hard it goes white, shoulders shaking.
“You,” she finally gets out, voice cracked. “Just–all of you. It’s too much.”
His chest does something painful and good. “What about me?”
“This,” she pants. “Your hands. Your chest. Your voice. The way you–fuck–the way you look at me.”
Her fingers spread wider over his sternum like she’s trying to get more of him. Her nails scrape over skin; his back tightens.
“The way you’re just… under me,” she pushes on, words tumbling now. “Letting me do this to you. And down here you’re just–”
Her hips jerk–unintended–and he has to dig his elbows into the mattress to keep them both from tipping.
“–you’re not even in the chat and you’re still ruining me,” she finishes, desperate. “This shouldn’t be undoing me like this.”
His breath punches out.
His brain sends the signal–push up, move, help–but nothing happens below the line. Just the phantom effort of wanting to, and the sharp frustration when his body won’t follow through.
He tightens his grip on her waist, keeping her where he wants her even as his own arms start to shake.
“You’re allowed to fall apart,” he says, voice rougher than he meant. “You know that, right?”
She shakes her head like that’s insane. Her movements are already coming apart–no rhythm, just sharp little presses and drags like her body’s trying to climb out of itself and all it has to climb is him.
“I need you to–” she starts, then loses the sentence in a bitten-off sound that lands low in his stomach.
“What?” he breathes. “What do you need?”
Her hands go everywhere at once–up his chest, over his shoulders, back down to brace at his sides. She leans over him until their foreheads almost touch, eyes shut like looking at him might finish her.
“Tell me what you feel,” she chokes out.
He goes still.
Stares at her.
“That’s it?” he asks, a little disbelieving. “That’s what’s doing it for you?”
She nods once, frantic, cheeks flushed, breathing ragged.
“You want to hear what you’re doing to me,” he says, like he’s confirming a bug report.
She lets out a tiny, wrecked sound that nearly kills him.
“Oh, fuck,” he mutters.
He tightens his hands on her hips, anchoring her there.
“Okay,” Jack says, dragging in a breath that feels too tight. “Okay. I’ll tell you.”
He forces himself to look at her–really look.
Her hair’s a mess around her face, sticking to her forehead. Her mouth is swollen, half open, dragging in air. Her shoulders are shaking. There’s a faint sheen of sweat at her collarbone. Her thighs are locked tight around him, squeezing like she’s trying to keep every part of him exactly where it is.
He feels his control start to slip.
“I feel your thighs,” he says, voice low and already unsteady. “All the way up here.”
His fingers flex against the outer edges involuntarily. She shivers under his hands.
“You’re holding on like you’re trying to weld us together,” he manages, “and my body is completely on board.”
She makes a strangled sound that goes straight through him.
His breath stutters.
Keep talking. Keep her there.
“I feel your weight,” he pushes on, even though talking is getting harder. “Right here.”
He pulls her down the slightest bit–needs to feel more of her against him–and the added pressure makes his arms shake.
“You’re heavy and it’s perfect. My whole upper body’s working just to keep you exactly where you are.”
Her head tips down, forehead brushing his. He can feel her breath going ragged against his mouth now.
He’s not doing much better.
“I can’t feel every inch of your grip,” he says, forcing the words out even as his voice starts to fray, “but I know where you are. I always know where you are.”
His hands tighten on her hips without him meaning to.
“Your hands on my ribs. Your nails digging in. Your knees squeezing–” His breath catches. “–my brain tracks all of it like you’re the only thing happening.”
She shudders, moving again–slow, grinding, desperate–and his concentration nearly shatters.
Fuck. Okay. Stay with it.
“I feel the way you move,” he gets out, barely holding on now. “Not…directly. But the drag–the pull inside–I feel it.”
Every instinct fires–thrust, move, meet her–but his hips stay exactly where they are. The maddening gap between the command and the silence makes him gasp.
“I can’t push up into you but my whole body’s trying–my hips are over here sending signals with zero output. My core’s trying to compensate. It still feels like my whole lower half is trying to get closer to you even though it can’t.”
She whimpers.
He’s losing it. He can feel his grip on control dissolving with every word, every breath, every movement she makes.
His arms are shaking so hard now she has to feel it.
“I feel the way you drag your nails just above where I can’t feel,” he says, voice breaking now.
She does it again–either testing or chasing the reaction–and his whole torso jerks under her.
“There,” he gasps. “Right there. That’s the line.”
She does it again, deliberate this time, and he feels his abs contract so hard she can probably feel it under her hands.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “My body tries to chase it down even though there’s nowhere for the signal to go. My legs get the memo late–try to move, can’t, just–”
She makes a small, sharp sound–like that reaction hit her somewhere–and her fingers dig into his chest.
“Again?” she whispers, wrecked.
“Pen–”
She drags her nails across the same spot, watching his face this time.
His torso jerks. The instinct fires and goes nowhere and it’s so frustrating and so good all at once.
“I feel your breath on my neck,” he says, barely getting the words out now. “Every time you say my name it goes–”
She moves just right and his entire upper body seizes.
“Fuck–it goes straight through me.”
She’s fully collapsed over him now, forehead against his shoulder, fingers clutching at anything she can reach.
“Keep going,” she begs. “Don’t stop–”
He’s not sure he could stop if he tried.
“I won’t,” he promises, voice shredded. “I feel–god–I feel how close you are. You're shaking.”
His hands are locked on her hips now, not just steadying–holding on, because if he lets go he’s going to fall apart right along with her.
“My arms are burning, Pen. I’m barely holding us up but I don’t care because you feel so–”
His voice cracks.
She whimpers.
“And I’m right there with you,” he admits, the words spilling out ragged and desperate now. “I’m so close I can’t think. Every time you move I’m–”
He can’t finish. His whole body is strung so tight he can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything except feel her everywhere and try to hold on just a little longer–
“I feel you,” he gasps, voice completely gone now. “Everywhere. God, Penelope–you are fucking me up.”
That’s it.
She goes.
Her body gives up on pretending it has any control left. Her hips stutter once, badly, like a skipped frame, and then she folds down over him completely, forehead tucking into the side of his neck, hands clutching at his shoulders, the sheets, whatever she can catch.
Everything in her tightens hard and then fractures–the tension she’s been riding blowing apart in a series of shuddering waves he can feel wherever they touch.
He holds on.
One hand in her hair, the other broad and sure at her lower back, thumb pressing little useless, soothing circles while she shakes through it. He can’t feel all of it, but he feels enough. Feels the tremor in her ribs against his chest, feels the way her breath saws in and out, feels the sound of his own name breaking against his skin.
After, they just… breathe.
She’s still sprawled on him, heavy in the best way, cheek pressed against his chest, palms flat like she’s pinning him there.
The projector is still throwing slow, drifting colors across the ceiling. The playlist has slid into some quiet, aching song he’s absolutely going to pretend he didn’t put there on purpose.
Inside Jack’s head, a bunch of stray observations click into place–the way her eyes track him when he transfers, the way she looks at his legs when they’re folded under him, the way her breathing changes every time he uses his arms to shift his weight.
Oh.
For a second he just hangs there, feeling the realization go through him like a fuse.
He could stop and ask. Prod at it. Dissect the exact shape of whatever her brain is doing.
Later.
Right now, she’s flushed and unraveled on top of him, chest heaving, and for once in his life he decides to just… take the win.
“Okay,” he breathes, like he’s agreeing to some enormous, invisible pact. The corner of his mouth tips up, a little wrecked, a little dangerous.
The realization sits under his ribs, hot and bright.
He doesn’t say it out loud.
He just pulls her closer–one hand in her hair, the other steady on her back–and lets the truth of it settle into his bones.
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