Help!! I have justa cute idea 😭Tyler Durden x reader x Jeffrey Goines and the reader is a super sleepy girl. These two men who need constant supervision and attention love the sleepiest girl in town.
────۶ৎ sleepiest girl in town.
or... how you deal with getting your beloved sleep hours and constantly supervising your chaotic boyfriends !!
warnings : fluff<333
ᐟᐟ ⟢ a/n: ... YES YES KEEP THEM BRADPITTVERSE REQUESTS COMING PLEASE I NEVER THOUGHT YALL WOULD LIKE MY IDEA SO MUCH
( 🏷 @callme-holly , @johnnycadesslut , @cozm1xxx )
The world comes back to you not with a jolt, but as a slow, syrupy tide. You are warm. This is the first and most important fact of your current existence. You are submerged in a profound, limb-melting warmth that has little to do with the thin blanket tangled around your legs and everything to do with the two living furnaces bracketing you on the battered, spring-sprung mattress.
You are in the nest. This is what Jeffrey has named the fortress of pillows, stolen blankets, and shredded upholstery you’ve all built in the corner of the Paper Street House’s largest room. Sunlight, thick with floating dust motes, cuts a lazy diagonal across the floor, illuminating the swirling galaxies of sawdust and neglect. It’s quiet, save for the three-part harmony of your shared existence.
Behind you, pressed flush against your back, is Tyler. He’s shirtless, as is his default state, the muscles of his back and shoulders moving with a slow, deliberate grace as his left hand holds a few pages of blueprint paper. A half-smoked cigarette smolders in a chipped ashtray on the floor by his side of the mattress. His chest is a solid, radiating plane of heat against your spine, his breathing a slow, metronomic tide that your own body has subconsciously synced to. His free arm is slung heavily over your waist, his hand splayed possessively on your stomach.
You crack open a sleep-gummy eye, tilting your head just enough to see him. He’s re-reading anottantions he'd scribbled on it the day before, his brow furrowed in concentration. This is Tyler in a state of deep, focused calm. His chaos, channeled into the precise mathematics of anarchism. He feels your slight movement, and his thumb strokes a slow, absent-minded circle on your stomach. It’s not a demand for attention; it’s a grounding touch, a pilot light of connection. He is building his revolution with one hand and anchoring himself to you with the other.
This, however, is the calm front. The storm is on your other side.
Jeffrey is facing you, and he has been, you suspect, for some time. He is not still. Stillness is a language his nervous system has forgotten. He is a symphony of tiny, desperate motions. His head is pillowed on your arm, his face buried in the space between your shoulder and neck. He’s inhaling deeply, as if trying to memorize your scent, to draw your very essence into his lungs.
“You smell like sleep,” he mumbles, his voice a husky, sleep-roughened vibration against your skin. “And… and warm skin. And a little bit like the ozone before a storm. That’s the Tyler on you. He rubs off. He’s a contagion. A good one! A brilliant, beautiful germ.”
You hum in response, a non-committal, sleepy sound, and try to burrow deeper into the mattress. This is a mistake. The sound, the movement, it’s like throwing a switch in him.
His hands, which had been resting lightly on your ribs, begin to move. They are everywhere at once, but gently, like butterfly wings. One hand slides up to cradle your jaw, his thumb stroking the soft skin under your eye. “Your eyelids are so thin here,” he whispers, awed. “I can see the little rivers of blood. Capillaries! A whole map of you. A secret map.”
His other hand tangles itself in the fabric of your shirt, fisting it lightly, a physical anchor. He shuffles closer, if that’s even possible, trying to eliminate the mere millimeters of air separating you. He lets out a low, plaintive whine, the most puppy-like sound imaginable. “You’re so far away.”
You are, objectively, not. You are fused together.
“M’right here, baby,” you slur, your voice thick with sleep.
“No, no, there’s space. There’s cosmic space! A whole universe of empty,” he insists, his body wriggling until he has managed to hook one of his legs over both of yours, effectively pinning you in a full-body embrace. He nuzzles his face hard into your neck, his messy hair tickling your chin. “Gotta close the gap. Can’t have a vacuum. Nature abhors a vacuum...”
From behind you, Tyler lets out a soft, airy sound that is almost a laugh. He shifts. “He’s building a theory of cuddling based on pre-Socratic philosophy,” Tyler murmurs, his lips close to your ear. His voice is a low rumble that travels through your body. “Just go with it. It’s easier.”
“I’m not a theory, I’m a practice!” Jeffrey retracts his head from your neck to pout in Tyler’s general direction. “You’re all… lines and angles and… and plans. I’m a tactile experience. I’m immersive!” He turns his big, bright, imploring eyes back to you. “Are you immersed? You feel immersed, right? I’m trying to be immersive.”
You manage to pry your other eye open and look at the younger man properly. His expression is one of pure, unadulterated need. It isn’t sexual, not in this moment at least. It’s simpler than that. He wants to touch, to feel, to be physically reassured that he is not alone in the echoing labyrinth of his mind.
“I’m very immersed, baby,” you whisper, and you lift your heavy, leaden arm from the mattress—the one he’s not lying on—and drape it over his side, your hand splaying on the knobs of his spine.
A shudder of pure, uncomplicated bliss goes through him. He melts. All the frantic energy seems to drain out of him at your touch, leaving behind a boneless, grateful warmth. He lets out a deep, soulful sigh, his entire body going limp against you. “Oh. Good. That’s… that’s the final piece. The circuit is closed. The energy is flowing. We’re a complete system now.”
“The puppy’s found his heat source,” Tyler observes, his voice a low, grounding rumble after Jeffrey’s bird-like chirping.
“Not a puppy,” Jeffrey mutters, almost child-like in his seriousness. “A… a symbiotic organism. A cuddle-symbiont.”
“You’re drooling on my girl, Goines,” Tyler says, and there’s no malice in it, only a deep, settled amusement. It’s a statement of fact, and a statement of possession that includes, rather than excludes, Jeffrey.
“She’s our girl,” Jeffrey corrects, his grip on you tightening infinitesimally. “And I'm not drooling.”
“Whatever you say, puppy boy.”
He nuzzles back into your neck, his breathing beginning to even out. For a few blessed, golden minutes, there is perfect peace. The scratch of Tyler’s fingers moving the page, the dust dancing in the sun, the slow, synced rise and fall of three chests. You feel sleep pulling you under again, a soft, dark undertow. You are the sleepy girl, loved by forces of nature, and they are, for this moment, your perfect, quiet shelter.
The peace holds for a full ten minutes.
During those ten minutes, Jeffrey started with his head on your stomach, but decided he couldn’t hear your heartbeat properly. Then he curled tigther you, a comma to your period, but complained he couldn’t see your face. Now, he has settled on his final form.
His head is pillowed on your chest, his ear pressed firmly over your heart, his body a tight, warm coil along your side. One of his arms is thrown possessively across your waist, his fingers occasionally twitching, gripping the fabric of your worn t-shirt as if to make sure you don’t float away.
“It’s beating the code,” he mumbles, his voice a vibration against your sternum. His hair is a wild, ticklish mess under your chin. “Thump-thump-thump-a-thump. It’s saying… it’s saying ‘Jeffrey-is-here, Jeffrey-is-here, stay-awake-please-please.’ You hear it? It’s a very complex morse. Primordial. Pre-linguistic. The first language was the heartbeat, you know. Before words. Before germs. Just thump-thump. Yes. Yes.”
You groan, trying to sink into the mattress, into Tyler, into oblivion.
You bring a hand up from where it was trapped under the blankets and begin to card your fingers through his hair. It’s the magic button.
He lets out a sound that is half-whimper, half-sigh, and nuzzles deeper, if that were even possible. He is literally trying to burrow into you, to merge at the molecular level.
“More of that,” he breathes, his voice slurred with contentment. “The… the scalp transmission. It’s bypassing the optical nerve, going straight to the lizard brain. The happy lizard. He’s doing a little dance. You’re making my happy lizard dance.”
Tyler, without looking up from his blueprint nor missing a beat, answers. “That could be interpreted in more ways than one, kid.”
Jeffrey ignores him, lost in the sensation. “Tell me a story,” he whispers against your skin. “A sleepy story. I like your sleepy stories..”
“Later, darling.”
“But later is a construct!” he insists, though his protest is weak, muffled by your shirt and the sleep he is fighting against. “Later is a cage they built to keep us from the now! The now is cuddles. The now is your fingers. The now is my happy lizard doing the cha-cha. The now is needy.”
Tyler’s chest rumbles with a silent laugh against your back. “Go to sleep, Jeffrey,” he murmurs, and the command is so tender it’s barely a command at all.
You can’t help it; a small, sleepy smile touches your lips. Jeffrey sees it. It’s all the encouragement he needs.
“See? She agrees”
Eventually, Jeffrey relents and shifts again to tuck his head under your chin this time, his face still pressed to your chest, right over your heartbeat. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. He goes utterly still, listening. “There,” he sighs, content. “The master clock. Now we’re all set to the right time.”
The dust continues to dance in the sunbeam, now creeping across the floor to touch the edge of your nest. The house is silent, save for the slow, deep, synchronized breathing of the three of you. There is no Project Mayhem, no Army of the Twelve Monkeys. There is only this: the profound, fluffy, impossibly soft reality of a calm day, where the only revolution is the gentle, relentless turning of the world outside, leaving you, for now, perfectly, peacefully, asleep.