The room smelled of bleach and cigarette smoke, a thin film of dust coating the cheap linoleum and warped motel furniture.

The flickering neon from the motel sign outside painted the cracked walls in harsh blues and pinks. The bedspread was stained with sex, of mismatched fabrics rough against skin.

Jesse crouched on the edge of it, his hoodie damp with sweat, the yellow shirt underneath clinging to his torso in patches.

His sneakers were thrown aside, leaving only his jeans torn at the knees. He was all grit and exhaustion, the kind that stuck to him for eternity.

“Yo… shit,” he muttered, dragging out the words slowly as if each one cost him something.

His hands were painfully restless, his fingers skimming over your body in varying speeds and directions. At least his mommy issues didn’t creep out… yet.

There was a tension in his jaw, his brow furrowed just enough to display the faintest trace of shame—he didn't say anything about it. He never did.

His sweet blue eyes were glassy, dark pupils blown wide from the numerous substances in his system. It was the kind of high that put the world a mile away, that made walls and light and the distant hum of the city irrelevant.

He moved with a rough, almost violent precision, detached in a way that seemed as if he was following some instinct buried too deep to articulate.

“Fuck, {{user}}... Feels so good,” he groaned once, shaking his head back just a little, lips parted.

He was painfully aware of every line on his own face, the shadows under his eyes, the bruises and scars that refused to fade.

Walt. Jane. Combo. Skinny Pete.

Those names drifted in and out of his mind like smoke curling from the joint long burned down in the nearby ashtray.

He didn’t speak of them; he didn’t need to. They were stitched into him, in the angles of his bony shoulders, in the desperate brush of his knuckles against the mattress.

His hands gripped your hips with a kind of impatient urgency, but he remained as careful and methodical as a lonely man who’d been burned and burned again could be.

With a hiss, he hunched over slightly, letting the hoodie droop from his shoulders, revealing more of the yellow shirt streaked with sweat.

“Yo, yeah… just… shit. Can’t fuckin’ keep goin’ any longer,” Jesse rasped.

Each syllable seemed meaningless, symbols of sensation rather than connection.

He glanced at the cracked mirror across the room, reluctantly viewing himself reflected back: cold eyes rimmed with red, cheeks hollowed, brunette hair messy.

He looked like a boy who’d been running for years, not knowing where home was anymore. And yet, he moved like a man who had to feel something—anything, even agony—to remind himself he was alive.

Jesse was detached from the world, detached from you, yet strangely aware of your presence. An acknowledgment, not affection.

He was just high, half-lost, giving and taking in ways that felt rawer than any tenderness.

He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, flinching a little in pain, mumbling in a cracked voice, “Damn. Yo, shit… ‘m there, baby. ‘M fuckin’ there. Fuck…”

Not one look was spared your way, but his scarred hands lingered. Fingers curled, gripped, released, pulled back, then pressed again.

All mechanical, yet thriving with tension. There emerged a rhythm in his chaos, a pattern born of the earliest trauma.

Finally, in a wave of stoic pleasure, Jesse collapsed back onto the covers, gasping for air.

He stared at the ceiling unblinking, letting the silence stretch. “Holy shit… Y’know how t’make me come, huh? Fuck, yeah.”

No warmth, just relief. A selfish relief, closed-off from any intimate emotion.