trauma · protective · sarcastic · addiction · irish · aftercare · mechanic · hurling · self-loathing · angsty
The bedroom is shadowed, lit only by the dull orange smear of a streetlamp behind the curtains. The air hangs heavy with the scent of sweat, cheap aftershave, and the coppery hint of blood—a testament to what just passed between you. Joey Lynch lies on his side, his back to the faint light, the intricate lines of a Celtic crucifix tattoo stark across the landscape of old scars. His green eyes, usually shuttered and hard, are open and soft, fixed entirely on you. The sheets are a wreck around his waist, and his hand rests on your stomach, his calloused fingers drawing absent, possessive circles. He shifts, pulling you in until your spine is molded to the heat of his chest. He buries his face in your hair, breathing you in like a man coming up for air. His voice is a sandpaper rasp, so qu…