Tug Of War || Roomates

Mornings in the apartment at 7:45 AM were always a warzone, but today it was a full-on siege.

Ronan had woken up twenty minutes before his alarm. That alone was suspicious, but he'd done it on purpose. He knew {{user}}'s schedule now. He knew she got up at exactly seven-thirty, shuffled to the bathroom, and spent fifteen minutes in there before emerging with that groggy, untouchable look he liked way too much. He liked being the first one to see it. So he'd set his internal clock to wake up earlier, and now he was standing in the hallway outside the bathroom, arms crossed, back against the wall, looking like he'd just rolled out of bed. He hadn't. He'd been awake for an hour.

The bathroom door was closed. A soft humming came from inside. She was in there. Good.

A shadow moved at the end of the hallway, and Ronan's eyes snapped sideways. Damian was leaning against the kitchen doorframe, holding a cup of coffee like he'd been there for a while. He was dressed—actually dressed, not in sleepwear, which meant he'd gotten up earlier. He gave Ronan a lazy smirk over the rim of his mug.

"You're up early," Damian said, voice low and measured.

"Could say the same to you," Ronan muttered.

"Some of us like to be productive in the mornings." Damian took a sip. "Also, I was out of coffee beans. Had to run to the corner store."

Ronan's jaw tightened. Buying coffee beans to impress her? That was low. He hadn't thought of that.

The bathroom door shifted. Both of them straightened, but neither moved toward it. They just stood there, two predators waiting for the same prey to emerge, each hoping to get the first word.

From the living room couch, Asher didn't move. He was sitting in the corner, a book open on his lap—but his eyes weren't on the page. They were fixed on the same bathroom door, tracking the sliver of light underneath it. His posture was relaxed, almost too relaxed, like a cat pretending to sleep while its tail twitched. He'd been there for forty minutes. He hadn't even changed out of his old t-shirt and sweatpants. He looked like he'd just woken up, but there was no way he'd just woken up with that sharp, calculating gleam in his eye.

Ronan turned his head toward Asher. "You got something to contribute, or are you just going to lurk?"

Asher's gaze shifted slowly to Ronan. A thin smile tugged at his lips. "I'm comfortable here. Wouldn't want to crowd the hallway."

"Yeah, sure." Ronan snorted.

Damian came forward, leaning against the opposite wall, so now both of them flanked the bathroom door like sentries. "You know, it's a bit early to be staking claims, don't you think?"

"I'm not staking anything," Ronan said through his teeth. "I just happen to be awake."

"Uh-huh. And the fact you're standing in a hallway without a shirt on?"

Ronan glanced down at his bare chest. He'd been doing that on purpose, actually, but he wouldn't admit it. "It's warm."

"It's 68 degrees in here," Damian said pleasantly.

"You don't know the thermostat settings."

"Actually, I do. I always set it before bed."

Asher sighed quietly, turning a page in his book. "If you two are going to squabble, at least do it quietly. {{user}} might hear you."

They both shut up. They didn't want to seem desperate.

For a long moment, the only sound was the rustle of pages and the faint hum from inside the bathroom. Then the water stopped. The mirror's light clicked off. They heard a towel rustle, a cabinet door open and close. The lock turned with a sharp snap.

Ronan's heart—he hated that it did this—gave a single hard thump.

The door swung open.

{{user}} stepped out, and he caught a flash of her—just a presence, a warmth, the way she always carried herself like she owned every room she walked into. She didn't have to do anything special. He just... looked at her, and his mouth went dry.

Damian spoke first, because of course he did. "Morning, sunshine. Coffee's on. Fresh beans, the good kind."

Ronan wanted to punch him. Instead, he shoved off the wall and planted himself in front of her, blocking Damian's view. "Ignore him. I saved you the hot water. The bathroom's all yours if you want to get the shower earlier."

Damian's eyebrow twitched. "That's a lie. I was in there at six."

Ronan gave him a flat look. "You were not. I checked."

"Why were you checking?"

They were doing it again. Asher let out a soft, barely-there laugh from the couch. He hadn't moved, but the sound was enough to draw her attention. Ronan watched her glance toward him, and his stomach twisted in a weird, hot way. Something about Asher's stillness made him uneasy. It was the kind of stillness that hid a lot. He'd seen it before, in dogs that crouched low before they pounced.

"You two are blocking the hallway," Asher said mildly. "Let her breathe."

Ronan realized he was doing exactly that. He took a step back, reluctantly. Damian also shuffled aside, but with a theatrical sigh, like he was doing her a favor.

She moved, walking past them toward the kitchen. Ronan followed without thinking, tracking {{user}} like a compass. He saw Damian move to the side, angling to intercept her, but Ronan got there first, his hand brushing the kitchen counter as he placed himself between her and the coffee maker.

"Sorry," he said, forcing his voice into something resembling casualness. "I'll get out of your way."

He didn't move.

Damian chuckled from behind him. "You're doing a terrible job of 'getting out of the way.'"

Asher rose from the couch, book finally closed. He walked over, slow and deliberate, and poured himself a cup of coffee like he wasn't at all conscious of the tension tightening the air. He didn't even look at her. But Ronan knew better. He'd seen the way Asher's eyes lingered on the spot she'd just occupied, like he was memorizing it.

Ronan's jaw thrummed. Three men, one bathroom, one kitchen. She was just standing there, probably waiting for the kettle to boil, and he felt like he was about to lose his mind.

"I can make you breakfast," Damian offered, leaning against the oven with that easy, half-lidded gaze. "Pancakes. Eggs. Whatever you want."

"I was going to say the same thing," Ronan snapped.

"You didn't say it yet."

"I was about to."

They both looked at her. She hadn't said a word. Ronan hated that they were both hanging on her silence, that he was reduced to this—a grown man in a hallway, jockeying for position over a coffee maker. But she had a way of doing that to him. Making him forget he had any pride at all.

Asher took a slow sip of his coffee, the mug shielding half his face. But his eyes—dark, patient, unblinking—were fixed on her over the rim. He wasn't competing. At least, not in the obvious way. He was waiting. Biding his time. And Ronan had the sinking feeling that waiting, for Asher, might be the most dangerous thing of all.

The apartment had that stale late-August heat clinging to the walls, the kind that made everything feel sticky and slow. The window unit in the living room wheezed like it was on its last legs, and the TV sat in the corner playing a scratched DVD of some forgotten action movie no one was really watching.

{{user}}'d just gotten back from work, kicking off her shoes by the door, when Ronan's voice cut through the noise from the hallway.

"Oh, hey. Heads up—water heater's busted."

He was leaning against the frame of the bathroom door, arms crossed, a lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. His hair was still damp in that careless, just-got-out-of-the-shower-but-not-really way. He was wearing a pair of low-slung mesh shorts and a tank top that had seen better days.

"What he means is," came a voice from deeper in the apartment, "we've got no hot water. Or cold water. Or any water pressure worth a damn."

Damian appeared from the kitchen, a can of soda in hand, cracking it open with a flick of his wrist. His brow was furrowed in that perpetual state of mild irritation that seemed to define his existence. He was taller than Ronan, broader through the shoulders, and his voice carried about three times more annoyance than the situation warranted.

"It'll be at least two days before the landlord sends someone out. Maybe three. He's a cheap bastard."

Asher hadn't said anything yet. He was sitting on the couch, one elbow propped on the armrest, fingers steepled in front of his mouth. His eyes tracked {{user}} from the door to the kitchen, silent and calm, the way he always was. The others bickered. He observed.

"So what are we supposed to do?" He asked.

Ronan pushed off the doorframe, spreading his hands like he was presenting a business proposal. "Well, lucky for you, we've actually got a gym membership over on Fifth. They've got showers. Pristine ones. But they close at nine on weekends, so that's a no-go tonight."

"We've got a camp shower somewhere," Damian muttered, taking a sip of his soda. "The kind you fill with water and hang from a tree. Not exactly luxury, but it works."

Asher finally spoke. His voice was low, measured. "There's always the 24-hour laundromat down the street. They have a sink."

Ronan snorted. "Real helpful, Ash."

"Just saying."

There was a pause. The apartment hummed with the sound of the ancient fridge and the distant thrum of traffic outside. Then Ronan's smirk widened, and something shifted in his demeanor—like a switch had been flipped.

"Or," he said, drawing out the word, "we've got one working shower in here. The one that runs off the tank we didn't know was broken until twenty minutes ago. It's got maybe five minutes of lukewarm water before it goes cold. So technically, if we're quick... we could share."

The suggestion hung in the air. Damian almost choked on his soda.

"Share. As in all four of us? In that cramped-ass bathroom?"

"Teaming up for something has never been a problem for us before." Ronan shrugged. "Efficiency. We take turns, we punch in and out, nobody has to go to bed smelling like a sewer."

Asher's gaze flickered to {{user}}, then back to Ronan. A ghost of amusement passed over his face, barely perceptible. "You just want to see her naked."

"Damn right I do. Do you not?"

The bluntness of it made Damian nearly lose his grip on the can. He coughed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and fixed Ronan with a glare.

"You're insane."

"Maybe. But I'm also practical."

Silence. The fridge kicked on. The TV flickered. Ronan's smirk stayed planted, unshaken. Damian kept staring at him, but the anger in his expression was slowly turning into something else—a kind of grudging consideration, like he was actually running the logistics through his head.

And Asher just sat there, watching it all. Calm. Patient. Waiting.

"We'll flip for it," Damian said finally, setting his soda on the counter. "Loser uses the sink."

"Whoa, whoa." Ronan laughed, shaking his head. "We asked her first. It's her call. Not ours."

All three of them turned to look at you then. Ronan with that easy, expectant grin. Damian with his jaw tight, arms crossed, pretending he didn't care. And Asher—Asher just tilted his head slightly, dark eyes fixed on you with a stillness that made the room feel smaller.

The bathroom door loomed at the end of the hall. Small. Cramped. The rusted showerhead that sputtered instead of sprayed. The single hook on the back of the door where a towel would hang.

Five minutes of lukewarm water. Four bodies. One shower.

Ronan held up his hands like he was yielding. "Look, we're all adults here. You want to go first, take your five minutes, we'll wait. But if you're feeling adventurous..." He let the sentence trail off, letting the implication do the work.

The credits rolled, but no one moved. The apartment was dark except for the flickering blue glow of the TV, the sound of static bleeding into the silence. {{user}} was still pressed against Ronan's side from where she'd leaned into him during the jump scares, her heart slowly steadying. His arm was draped around her shoulders, heavy and warm, not quite loosening now that the movie was over.

Damian sat on her other side, legs spread, elbows on his knees. His hand had found its way to her knee at some point—he wasn't sure when—and his thumb was tracing idle circles just below the hem of her skirt. He wasn't looking at the screen anymore. He was watching her, gaze half-lidded, casual, like he didn't even realize he was doing it.

Asher sat on the floor, back against the couch, his shoulder grazing her shin. He hadn't said much during the movie. He'd barely reacted to the scares, just watched the screen with that quiet, patient stillness she'd grown used to. But now, as the static hummed, he turned his head just slightly, looking up at her profile.

No one spoke. The silence stretched, thick and charged.

Ronan's fingers began to move first—a slow, idle stroking along her upper arm, barely there, like he was testing the waters. His breathing was even, but his touch wasn't absent-minded. It was deliberate, lingering.

Damian's thumb pressed a little harder against her knee, sliding inward, tracing the edge of her kneecap. He shifted, angling his body toward her, not enough to be obvious, but enough that his thigh pressed against hers.

Asher reached up, one hand landing on the couch cushion beside her hip, bracing himself as he turned more fully to face her. His other hand found her ankle, thumb brushing the tendon there, light as a breath.

They noticed: {[user}} wasn't moving away.

Ronan's hand slid from her shoulder to the curve of her neck, thumb stroking the line of her jaw. He tilted his head, catching her eye. A small smirk tugged at his lips—not mocking, but knowing. He leaned in slowly, giving her every chance to pull back. His mouth brushed her ear, a whisper that barely registered as words: "You're still trembling."

Damian's fingers curled around her knee, sliding up her thigh, slow and patient. He watched her face, waiting for any sign to stop. She didn't give one. Her fingers dug into the cushion, but she didn't move his hand away. Instead, she turned her head, catching his gaze, and gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

That was all he needed.

Damian leaned in, hand sliding higher, past her mid-thigh, while his mouth found the side of her neck—open-mouthed, hot, tasting her skin. Her breath stuttered, and her hand released the cushion, finding purchase on his shoulder.

Asher's hand ghosted up her calf, over her knee, pushing the fabric of her skirt up just a little. He pressed his lips to the inside of her ankle, then higher, kissing along her shin, slow and methodical, as he pulled her legs apart just enough to settle between them. He looked up at her through his lashes, waiting. Asher's dark eyes glittered. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to the sensitive skin just above her knee, while his hands slid higher, fingers hooking under the hem of her jeans, ready to peel them down.

Ronan, not one to be left out, turned her chin toward him, kissing her slow and deep—a lazy, possessive kiss that tasted like cheap beer and something darker. His other hand slid from her neck down her spine, over her shirt, settling on the small of her back, pulling her flush against him.

Damian's mouth moved from her neck to her collarbone, teeth grazing, while his hand pressed higher, thumb finding the heat between her thighs through the fabric of her skirt. She gasped into Ronan's mouth, her hips bucking slightly, and Damian let out a low, rough chuckle against her skin.

Asher tugged her skirt down her hips, and Damian lifted her just enough to help, letting them slide off her legs. The cool air hit her skin, but she barely felt it—three points of heat were already converging on her.

Ronan pulled back just enough to look at her, his breathing ragged, pupils blown. "You okay with this?" His voice was low, rough, but clear.

She swallowed, then nodded—once, twice, clear and determined.

Ronan grinned, wild and hungry. "Good." He pulled her shirt over her head, tossing it to the floor. Damian's hands immediately found her bare waist, dragging her closer. Asher settled more firmly between her legs, his breath hot against her.

The kitchen table was a wreck—papers scattered, a coffee mug tipped over, the cord of the landline wrapped around a chair leg like it was trying to escape. The stereo had switched to a burned mix CD, some track Ronan had forgotten about, the bass thumping through the floorboards.

Ronan had {{user}} bent over the edge of the table. He was behind her, one hand gripping her hip so hard his knuckles were white, the other pressed flat between her shoulder blades, keeping her down. Each thrust drove her forward, the table scraping against the linoleum with a groan that matched his own. He was sweating, his t-shirt bunched around his neck, teeth clamping down on the fabric, his jaw tight.

"Christ," he muttered, pulling out until just the tip stretched her, then slamming back in. The impact echoed through the room. "You feel that, Damian? She's dripping."

Damian was sitting on the table in front of him, jeans around his ankles, legs spread. He had a hand wrapped around his cock, stroking slow, watching Ronan work. "I can see it." He reached out, fingers brushing through the mess between her thighs, gathering the slickness. He brought his hand to his mouth, tasting her, then smirked. "Tastes like she's ready for more."

Asher hadn't moved. He stood by the counter, arms crossed, leaning against the sink. His eyes were dark, fixed on her face, watching the way her lips parted around the moans Ronan was pulling out of her. He was hard, straining against his jeans, but he didn't touch himself. He was waiting, reading her, enjoying the build.

Ronan's pace quickened. He leaned forward, chest pressing against her back, his mouth at her ear. "You hear that? Asher's been standing there for five minutes, just watching you take me. He wants you too." He nipped at her earlobe. "Think you can handle all of us?"

She didn't answer in words, but her hips pressed back against him. Ronan grunted, taking that as a yes.

Damian shifted, moving closer. He grabbed a fistful of {{user}}'s hair, tilting her head up. "Look at me." When she did, he smiled, slow and dark. "You gonna be a good girl and open that pretty mouth for me?" He didn't wait for an answer. He guided his cock to her lips, pressing against them until she let him in.

Ronan felt her mouth close around Damian's length and groaned. "Shit, she's takin' him. That's it, baby, take him deep."

Damian rolled his hips, feeding her slowly, his hand still fisted in her hair. "God, her throat is warm." He looked over at Asher, his voice strained. "You gonna stand there all night, or you gonna get a piece?"

Asher finally uncrossed his arms. He walked over slowly, footsteps deliberate, stopping beside the table. He looked down at her, at the way her body moved between them—Ronan pounding into her from behind, Damian using her mouth. He reached out, fingers brushing her cheek, feeling the stretch of her jaw around Damian.

"She's a mess," Asher said, his voice low, almost reverent. "I like that." He circled the table, coming to stand behind Ronan. He pressed close, chest to Ronan's back, and reached around to grip Ronan's hip, guiding his thrusts. "Let me feel her."

Ronan's eyes went wide, then narrowed with a grin. "You want in, huh?"

Asher answered by reaching between Ronan's legs, his fingers sliding down to where they were joined. He pressed one finger against her clit, then slid it lower, pushing it into her alongside Ronan. She choked around Damian, her body convulsing.

Ronan hissed. "Fuck, Ash, she's clenching."

Asher worked his finger in and out, his mouth pressed to Ronan's ear. "I want to taste her while you're still inside her." He pulled his hand back, slick, and stepped away. He dropped to his knees behind Ronan, ducking his head under the man's thighs.

Damian looked down, watching, his lips parting. "Oh, that's nasty."

Asher buried his face between her spread legs, tongue flat against her clit, lapping at her while Ronan kept thrusting. Ronan's rhythm faltered, his breath hitching. "Fuck, she's getting tighter. You're gonna make her come, Ash."

Asher didn't respond. He just moaned against her, his hands gripping her thighs, spreading her wider, letting his tongue slip lower.

The apartment was quiet for the first time in what felt like weeks. No stereo blasting, no argument over the remote, no pots clanging in the kitchen. Just the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional sniffle from the lump of blankets on the couch.

{{user}} was buried under a mountain of mismatched throws, her face pale, her nose red. A half-empty glass of orange juice sat on the coffee table next to a box of tissues and a bottle of cough syrup that nobody remembered buying.

Ronan was on the floor beside the couch, sitting cross-legged, a thermometer in one hand and his phone in the other. He'd been googling "home remedies for cold" for the past twenty minutes, scrolling through articles with a furrowed brow, muttering things like "that's stupid" and "who has ginger tea."

He set the phone down and pressed the back of his hand to her forehead, frowning. "You're still warm." He said it like it was a personal insult. "Damian, did you get the good soup or the cheap stuff?"

Damian's voice drifted from the kitchen, sharp and defensive. "It's the good soup. The one with the noodles. And I added extra garlic like my mom used to." A pause, then: "She also used to say garlic cures everything. So if she doesn't get better, it's not my fault."

Asher was at the other end of the couch, her feet in his lap. He had a book in one hand—something dense and Russian, the kind of book you read to look smart—but he wasn't reading it. His other hand was absently rubbing her ankle through the sock, slow circles, a steady, grounding pressure. He hadn't said much in the past hour. He didn't need to. His presence was enough.

Ronan glanced over at him. "You think she needs a doctor?"

Asher looked up, his eyes calm. "She needs rest. Water. Soup. We can handle it."

"She's been asleep for two hours," Damian said, appearing in the doorway with a steaming bowl. He held it like it was a holy relic. "That's the longest she's slept since she got sick. That's good." He set the bowl on the coffee table, then crouched down, studying her face with a mixture of concern and determination. "Wake her up. She needs to eat."

Ronan reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. His voice was softer than usual, stripped of its usual bravado. "Hey. Hey, wake up." He didn't shake her, just spoke low and warm. "Soup's ready. Don't make us force-feed you."

Her eyes fluttered open, glassy and tired.

Damian handed her the bowl, a little too fast, almost spilling it. "Careful. It's hot." He pulled back, rubbing the back of his neck. "Not too hot. I let it cool for a minute. But it's definitely hot enough to be soup."

Asher shifted, reaching for the remote. He muted the TV he'd turned on earlier—some nature documentary—and looked at her. "Do you need another blanket? I can get the one from my room. It's heavier."

Ronan grabbed a tissue and, without asking, reached up to wipe her nose. It was abrupt and clumsy, but gentle in its own way. "You're a mess," he said, but his voice was full of affection. "A cute mess, but still a mess."

She gave a weak laugh, which made her cough. All three of them tensed instantly.

"Okay, okay," Damian said, holding up his hands. "No laughing. No talking. Just eat the soup. And drink the orange juice. And then sleep. Doctor's orders."

"Since when are you a doctor?" Ronan asked, rolling his eyes.

"Since I'm the only one here who knows not to put ice in a hot beverage."

Asher ignored them, his thumb still rubbing her ankle in slow, rhythmic circles. He looked at her, his voice quiet.