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You didn’t actually beg him, but here Jake is at your door because you’ve gone off the proverbial rail again, which is in Dirk-speak, begging. It’s the closest you’ll get without opening your mouth, because lord knows when you do that it’s never a good time for anyone involved, least of all you.
It has been a while but not as long as it could’ve been. It’s the statistical fact that it hasn’t been more than a week before Jake has shown up at your door that leads you to think that it’s out of more than pity, his visit. How long have the two of you known each other now that going dark, full social media blackout is the norm, and that Jake knows this with stunning clarity, so much so that he leaves you alone more often than not.
This time is not like those times. This time, when he arrives all blocky limbs, chiseled jaw fit in a set of lines that you want to cut your fingers on, a smile and a wink, you can’t even feel guilty for drawing his attention. It’s so earnest in a way a lot of things with him are not. You’ve come to notice Jake can be quite the liar, the kind of people pleaser who never wants to upset the balance. He can grin just as wild as any commercial car salesman but you’ve surpassed growing wise, just as he has grown sweet on you and your insanity.
You’ve both grown on each other, haven’t you? Like vines that intersect and tangle and crawl up the wall of some great structure with no limit, no ceiling and no end. That’s how it ends for you, Gods. Getting inside of one another’s mind only seems to get easier and easier with time.
Jake’s elbow, angled against the door frame gives you a tour of his bushel of underarm hair making a break for it from out of his tank top. His tank top, two sizes too small gives you a tour of his stupidly thick chest. His chest, all of the lines in his body matter of fact give you the closest thing you’ve had to an erection in months, and you’re thankful for being transgender or else your body would start betraying that air of insouciant chill all Striders naturally possess.
Really, it makes too much sense for Dave and you both to be trans. It’s like the sexual equivalent of wearing sunglasses. Can’t give any feelings away. Boners go undetected. It’s the perfect crime, really. Are they turning you on? They’ll never know. It’s a wall of ice. Even your little guy’s got a pair of shades on, built-in. Jake is none the wiser.
“Oh, h—hey, uh. Hi?”
Your voice does a thing it hasn’t done in ages. Fuck. Jake is none the wiser until you open your fucking mouth.
“Goodness Dirk, you sure do know how to keep a fellow waiting. You weren’t expecting me to give up after trekking all this way did you?”
“…what?”
Oh, never mind. As soon as the word leaves your lips you realize he likely thought you’d heard his knock and hid away, pretending to not be home before electing to push ahead and answer the door. Not intentionally, anyways. You’d just had a supremely long thought about whether this would be worthwhile or not. The two of you in the same room for any expanse of time could only go terribly or awkward.
“I figured you’d—”
“No, yeah, I get what you mean now,” you interject, the silence between you two starting off strong the minute you stop talking now that you’ve interrupted him.
Great. Great!
“I assume you wanna come inside,” you blurt, pointedly without moving an inch out of the door’s frame to allow him to do so.
“Not unless you’re keen on flapping gums on the front porch,” he retorts and you have to hold back from flinging your door wide open with the force of which you want him in your personal space.
It’s because you want him just as badly to also move right along and leave you sulking as you had been. It’s just that… one of these thoughts is winning out, clearly. It’s the one that wants Jake English’s powerfully firm fingers in yours again.
You won’t deny the audience that you changed the trajectory of that thought just in time. You also won’t deny that you find simply everything about him still so attractive after all these years, the way he clicks the door shut with the bump of his boots and still wears his shorts a tad too high and gets flecks of greenery under the curls of his dark hair.
Fucker. It was so much easier when you were both sixteen and he’d barely begun to sprout an extra dollop of hair from his belly button or down the center of his chest. Now he really looks like he could handle you, like really handle you and you can’t bare to think about it.
It’s been so long since then and it’s easier to forget in photos. It’s easier to let those desires fade when you don’t meet in person often, not since the last of the shows you carried on together before your hunger reared its ugly seven heads again and you decided being friends was harder than it seemed.
He now stands attracting dirt into your kitchen and you don’t care. You stand dumbfounded in a greyed out house, a hollowed out hole-in-the-wall with bits of machinery lying around at every corner. Not even the fun kind like a roomba decked out with knives. Your house is crawling with more artificial intelligence projects and abandoned robotics ventures than all the shitty sci-fi movies you and Jake spammed together when you first got settled. There’s no lights, just light filtering through what slivers of window that aren’t boarded up. It’s useable. It’s daytime.
Jake doesn’t seem to mind. Never does, usually, unless your crazy somehow manages to inconvenience him, which is not as bad as it sounds. Sometimes it’s good when no one asks questions. The most he is is curious, is lovingly chuffed when he says, “ah you’ve been busy!”
“Yeah,” you say dryly, because that’s… definitely what all of this is.
“I see you haven’t given your past worries any quarter in your pursuits.”
“Not really, no,” you confirm.
“What with all that Hal nonsense,” he continues and yes, you already knew what he meant and you’re quick to open your freezer and find something he’ll want to put his mouth on so he’ll shut the fuck up a second.
“Hey, you want a breakfast burrito?”
Jake’s trap slams shut, thank Christ. He grins and pops his hip, looking so eager to stretch and move and groove and invent new ways to maneuver his strangely lithe and limber body around, and you can assuredly help him find ways to do that but you really just want to stop thinking about it.
“Fret not bro! Already took care of all my basic humanly needs before making the journey. I’m just here to see you.”
You shut the freezer door and your mouth becomes a straighter line. You aren’t very expressive, though not because you will it so: flat affect and all. Jake knows this though. He slaps the meat of his palm against the counter with a grin, arcing his fist up as he says, “right-o, what’ve you been up to your nose in as of late?”
Blinking puzzledly, you know he’s not just here to make smalltalk, but you aren’t sure if he knows that you know this and so you say, “this,” with a bland gesture to all the scraps of metal lying around.
He seems to nod quick and sharp, averting his eyes and drumming his fingers into the counter.
“Fine business. You seem to have done a bang up job of keeping yourself preoccupied.”
Well, this conversation is going nowhere insanely fast. Great of Jake to show the initiation. You figure you’ll just have to go the rest of the way for him. It’s the most you can do for him since he’s gone and expressed clear growth from the past, an active worry in you that he expresses even when you go into isolation and swear off common sense. Jake is far from common sensical, but you’re a tad proud of him and not at all of yourself.
Joining your hips to your hands as well, unsure of where to put them but keeping something to hold onto, you say, “Jake, I’m sorry you came here.”
Whoa.
Not what you meant to say at all but he runs with it. Those big ass things on his face, Jake’s eyebrows wrinkle up all unruly and sad and you think that it’s terrible how much he was hoping you’d say something normal. It’s only on accident that you’re ever fucking normal.
“What’s all this now? You plannin’ on kicking me curbside already?”
“No,” you spurt, a bit too fast. “I know why you’re here. I don’t wanna—”
“Well pretty boy, since you think you know everything are you aware that I’m okay to be here at present?”
That sentence decks you, Dirk Strider on your ass.
No, you really haven’t considered whether it was in his wheelhouse or do this or come here. It has always been your chief thought for a long time that really, no one is prepared to come deal with your shit. That’s the prime opinion amongst your friends, isn’t it? That no one of their own volition would jump at the chance to come see how you’re doing or try to help out.
Really, Jake is kind. It dawns on you for the umpteenth time that Jake is kind. It’s just… in the past he hasn’t always been in the best place himself to come help. That’s okay, you realize. That’s okay because sometimes he is. And that’s better, you think, you know.
You take too long to reply and Jake is already making moves across the kitchen floor.
“Consarn it Dirk. Not everything is the result of your roguish machinations. I have at least half a mind to check in my pals when they need it. You didn’t ‘manipulate’ me into showing up and you sure as shit don’t have the power to regardless.”
That terrifying ten letter word is spat out between lofty quote fingers and Jake makes it sound so foolish, so absolutely embarrassing to conceive, it’s novel. It’s terrible, isn’t it? Being simultaneously horrified at the thought of using those around you while being pretentious enough, narcissistic enough to think that you could really do it, that they’d allow you, that you had such power.
It’s not like this singular meeting between the two of you is enough to break down every wall you’ve built in the time between, or shake the core of these feelings, but it’s enough to make you swoon in silent, wanting more of this from him, wanting him to really show you why he’s here because there’s a reason for it. And it can’t just be because you’re friends.
His finger, hard and pointy pokes a hole through your sternum and with the way he gapes up at you, you’re certain your stupid anime shades have become transparent at this point.
“You don’t get to be in your head all the time about how what a piece of crap you think you are anyways but especially not at the cost of assuming your bro isn’t genuine about coming through with a pick-me-up.”
You guess you don’t have a reply to that, not one that isn’t argumentative or needlessly conceding, that is. It’s much easier online to just, spit word vomit and make it cold, make it cool. It’s been years. You’re skeletal and see-through. You don’t know what to say that will be what he wants to hear, that you want to say. You lick your lips slow and pretend not to notice the way it catches Jake’s eye.
“My bad. Didn’t mean to imply the J-man didn’t have basic empathy.”
Jake huffs.
“That’s right as rain you didn’t. Just a slip of your faculties. It happens to the best of us, plum.”
And just like that, the little pet name has you quaking beneath the skin. God, when’s the last time the two of you just stood in the flesh and spoke to one another, heard the lilt and tune of each other’s vocal cords through more than a telephone?
You swallow. “Yeah.” It really doesn’t (happen to anyone else that is), but. “Yeah,” you go again.
“Now let’s bring it in shall we,” he says, gesturing toward himself in a strange manner, like he’s inches from touching you because he wants you to make the rest of the journey instead. “Get to yammering on about whatever’s ticking between those ears, Strider.”
But, he can’t be serious when he says that. You tell him as much and he rolls his eyes.
“Don’t you clam up now, lovely. I’m here for that pearl.”
If only these were euphemisms. You wish they were euphemisms.
“It’s nothing,” you say, predictably. “Nothing but the usual. This life is a taxing, strange thing. It’s comfortable in a way that I’ve never lived through. Don’t you ever get the feeling that there should be something else? That this isn’t it? Like some part of you just won’t let you be happy?”
Scoffing, Jake says, “shucks that sure sounds like a hell of a lot for what you call ‘nothing.’”
“Yeah, I know. Nothing weighs a whole lot.” You breathe in deep. “It’s just stress. It’s just stress and…” Loneliness.
“Why don’t we have ourselves a sit down with some of your coldest boys and get some of that off your noggin?”
Knowing his habits, one eyebrow cranes up.
“Jake, I don’t have beer—or whiskey,” you supply, assuming he’ll ask.
“Aw ish kabibble! I don’t give two rat shit’s about that. Just get some of your chilliest orange men in your mitts and meet me couchside.”
Without further adieu, he marches off toward your living room, stepping around displaced robot body parts without complaint or further discussion. You figure this means he doesn’t really care what you’ve got. Prying your fridge open, you find that he’s startlingly correct. You still survive on all manner of orange soda. It feels like childhood again, sharing them with him. It feels like you two never left or that it only got better.
Recently it hadn’t but suddenly it has. You wonder what it means, other than you really want to come onto him and you shouldn’t. That ship has sailed once already and it sunk. You fit your fists around two Crush’s and find yourself nudging the fridge door shut with your heel. You’re really toeing the line here.
Once you reach the couch, Jake is sat legs spread, taking up so much space you have to hold yourself back from climbing straight onto his lap. It shouldn’t be muscle memory after all this time. It shouldn’t call to you like that dick was custom-made to slot against your cunt like pieces to a puzzle. He smiles so earnestly when you round the corner, bottles in hand.
“Take a seat,” he says and he slaps his knee. Then he slaps the seat beside him. “I meant—over here,” he amends and you go just a bit crazy just a little too soon.
Dropping one knee betwixt Jake’s own thigh and the couch armrest, you don’t let yourself think and you slot the other on the complete other side of him. You’re straddling him now. You’re making this happen. Before Jake can even speak you’re pinning both bottles of Crush against his neck on either side. He shivers and yelps. You missed making him yell. You missed the rosy red dusting his tan cheekbones.
“Seat taken,” says you.
“D—ah, Dirk, I didn’t mean,” he starts to say. “I mean! I don’t necessarily mind it if you’re, um… if that’s what you were jonesing for! I suppose I don’t want you assuming this is all I’ve come for as some exes are wont to do as you know. All that malarkey. I—”
“Jake,” you breathe into his lips, victim to the warmth bleeding out of his body and into yours.
“Yes,” he replies, astonishingly falling still as though your voice were laced with some intoxicating fragrance.
“This will destress me.”
Some of the crazy has subsided. It dawns on you that you really did that. You really just dropped yourself down into his lap, but he isn’t complaining. Maybe he’d meant that all along, to accidentally make a pass. Maybe make it look like an accident. Maybe warm you up to the idea and pass it off like he hadn’t meant it. Jake wasn’t above it. Jake, the type to openly roleplay the act of yanking his collar between asterisks and make it clear he was hot and bothered before you had ever ventured into his proximity to see the blooming erection for yourself.
Yeah, that sounds like English to you.
“Will it now?” he says. “I’m intrigued but also I can’t help but wonder if you think that of me. I hope it won’t corrupt the mood to ask.”
“Of course not, man,” you answer, feeling somehow more in your skin when you’re so close to his. “I’ll ask a question of my own if you’re down. Are you game to fool again, one more time for old time’s sake? Stringlish back at it again for a spectacular one day only event?”
What had once been a strange, tense atmosphere has blossomed beautifully into something the two of you both remember. Jake’s smirk is brilliant, sharp and dark. It wills a warmth into your gut and you can’t be sure that he didn’t, in fact, show up wanting to wet his whistle so to speak.
You want this enough that you don’t care. You fasten your lips to his and can’t help the way your legs tremble at his stubble. He notices, probably, the way your knees shake, pulse with the need to close them around his hips by the way both of his hands grab yours. Jake tugs you into his space. The passion lights quick. It burns hot when you let him handle you, when you let him do his thing instead of micromanaging and keeping control.
Not all the time. He likes to be told what to do, but the best thing is when you don’t have to think, when you can stop thinking, when he can do all the thinking for you. What he’s thinking right now, you can’t be sure, cause his hands are so gentlemanly and still in a way his lips are quite not. He kisses so eager and feverish and you love it just the same. It just takes a roll of your hips into his for him to hum a good sound and circle his fingers about your sides.
Breaking the kiss for breath, you discard the soda bottles to the seat beside you. You make contact again, throwing both arms around Jake and making no bones about grinding every inch of your body into his, scratching a dying itch. He pulls away and you catch your breath, losing it in a tight-lipped moan of pleasure as he suctions his teeth into your neck. If Jake was good at anything, it’s being rough on accident. You never corrected, only encouraged it more. You’re never that loud, never embarrassing, but you’re so close to turning into a shitty teenager here and now in the way you never could’ve been before. What keeps you from throwing all caution to the wind is knowing that this will only happen once. You can keep it together for one day.
Jake is scooting up your tank top, a black to his white one, and something cold rests against your spine and makes you cry quietly.
“Th-the fuck?”
“I know how much you love the chill, chickadee,” he says; it’s one of the fucking Crush bottles.
Wordlessly he rolls it around to your front, pressing the chill of the bottle against a nipple. You flinch. Your muscles all clench. You’re so glad you still have feeling in those things, so very glad that top surgery hadn’t rendered them numb for this. Jake hums with satisfaction and kisses your throat. You shiver against him, shiver and hate how sopping wet you are already. You need more now. You can’t stand to beg.
“Take my shirt off. I wanna get a move on,” you huff.
“Holy toledo, Dirk. We’ve only just started.”
You know. That only makes it worse.
“I want to ride you up and down this couch, Jake English. Do you want me to ride your cock up and down, or not?”
The whirling, winding knowledge of what you’ve just said hits Jake like a poisonous dart, takes its time, circulates through him and then his bright eyes darken with the knowing. He swallows then, dry-mouthed, and says impeccably neutral, “take those blasted sunglasses off and say that.”
So you do. Eyes wild like the sunrise, the same shade as every speckle of orange in your cheeks, you say, “do you want me to ride your dick?”
“I—” Jake stammers, blunders. “I’d be one lucky sinner if you’d do me that honor.”
“Tell me you want it, then,” you goad, arching your back with both arms curled about his neck, eyes half-lidded and coy, and dangerous. “Tell me you want your cock in my cunt. Tell me what you’ll do if you don’t have it. You’re impatient, aren’t you?”
Oh, Jake really isn’t. You’re the one that can’t hardly wait. It always takes a trick of the mind, a toy with the words, a bit of roleplay to get Jake into the mindset you need. He always requires a bit of coaxing but once you’ve got him, he’s golden. You couldn’t ask for anything more.
“I’m fiercely impatient, yes! You’ve hit the nail right on its head there, pumpkin. I need you quick and I need you now.”
He sounds unhurried as shit.
“I’m not so convinced,” you say. “Don’t let me down here, daddy-o. You really want this prime piece of real estate, don’t you? What are you gonna do if you can’t make this sale quick enough? Fire the agent? Maybe spank me a little?”
“Uh,” Jake coughs, clearly confounded by the juxtaposition of dirty talk with real estate agent babble. It makes you both laugh. He kisses your mouth and then neck, and then finds something terrible to drop inside your ear: “I’ll jumble your insides just right if you know what to call me, little pet.”
And your pants are soaked, you swear.
You test the waters all slick: “Is that so, daddy-o?”
“Now now, you know what I’m looking for, baby vamp.”
You bite your lip. Breathing right up against Jake’s stubbled cheek, you whisper slow, “daddy?”
Jake’s eyes flutter shut just as you witness his eyes roll back with a shock. You’re holding back a chuckle, amused to shit as he pulls his hands back, discarding the bottle to the side before crooking two fingers around the belt loops of your jeans and tugging upward.
“That’s the ticket. Won’t you hop out of these for me, you pretty little thing?”
Shame on you that he even had to ask. It doesn’t take long, but soon you’re both frantically disrobing, both trying to make it seem like you’re not over-eager to get back to business, both scrambling just as madly to slip back into each other’s arms. Both your knees crash on either side of his again.
You keep your tank top on. In fact, you make a show of it, tucking the hem of it between your teeth and showing your bod off. Good work got you this flat chest. You’ll die before you let it go unadmired. Jake’s sat in the nude now. His bare ass now graces your couch. A whole lot more is about to join it. You couldn’t even care. You can’t remember the last time you jacked your dick and you’re dying to come so your couch can just deal with sex sweat.
It’s almost abominable how much body hair Jake has in comparison to you. Even with hormones, you’re certain there’s just no way you’re cut out to grow nearly as much except in the sideburns department. The most you’re thankful for is that you’re taller, but you’re lankier. Got muscle but nothing compared to how filled out Jake is. Really, the sight of his dick has you leaking down the side of your thigh and it doesn’t go unseen. Without prompting or suggestion, Jake sweeps two fingers front to back and comes away slick. You shiver and sough. He plops the fingers into his mouth and lets the taste do its thing; he smacks his lips and grins easy.
“Lovely taste. Fuck, you’re so friggin’ delightful.”
“You’re quite a nasty dude,” you say with a glint in your eyes, a smirk in your tone. “Wanting me to call you daddy.”
“Don’t give me that poppycock, love. You were chirping-merry to oblige. You were taunting it with that ‘o’ at the end and we both know it.”
“Just like you taunted me with that slap on your knee, English?”
Jake cracks up at that, head flopping back as he covers his face. He beams red and gold back at you. “You’ve got me by the jewels there.”
Patting both of his thighs, inches away from where his cock, thick and heavy sits, Jake smiles smugly.
“Come now, chickpea. Let’s get you opened up.”
Oh, you’re certain you can just sit on down without much prep. It’s your cunt we’re talking about, self-lubricating and all that, plus you’re sure that you can start slow. Still, you drape your arms around his neck and shiver at his stubble sitting snug between your neck and shoulder as his hands travel your body.
Thumbing your clit, he startles all your nerves and you jump. He breathes a laugh and slides two fingers down, easily slipping them up and in and your walls squeeze around him soft as he massages your insides easy as pie. It’s done with such care. More than the pleasure itself, you’re endeared by the motions themselves and what they mean. You can’t let yourself get too caught up in this. This is one time only. You aren’t getting back together. This is just for sex.
Jake adds a third finger and it makes your chest catch. You focus on it, on the stretch that your hole does, on the way Jake marvels at it, making a humming sound into your neck that’s warm and pleasant to all your senses. You want more than this. Grinding down onto his fingers, you get that message across awfully well.
“Cheese and fucking crackers, you’re thirsty. When’s the last time you’ve done the business?”
Catching your breath (while altogether unaware until now that you’d begun to lose it) you say, “just this morning.”
“Oh, horseshit,” Jake says and you can’t fight a grin, feeling him slide his fingers back out only to slather himself up in the juices that follow. He now lines your hips perfectly up with his and you swallow. “All ready?” he asks, so polite.
“You don’t have to go slow, just get inside me.”
There’s something Jake could likely say to that but he doesn’t. He just helps lower your hips onto his and you go quicker than he would probably like. You both groan out in need and in heat when he slides in. Fuck, his dick isn’t even that long but sure is wide and it makes you feel full and happy. It twitches inside you and you bite your lip. Goodness, you’re ready to go right now. You’re ready to rumble. You’re ready to ride, if only Jake would get his palms off you and stop holding you down against his lap.
Quivering against his touch, you sigh and avoid eye contact. One of his hands finds your jaw and holds your face while you lean back and rotate your hips around. He slips deeper inside. You wince happily. Jake shudders with a groan.
“Blast, you’re quite the gapeseed you lovely little tart. How’s this for you?”
Body glitching up against him, you breathe deep and your eyes touch.
“Good as goodness, daddy.”
Funny how it can ring out in the same tone of voice you always use, chill as all hell, and still put a glitter of pink in your cheeks, yours and Jake’s both. He brings his hand back down to your hips once more and juts his thumb out between the spots where the two of you meet, brushing fingerprint against clit and making you jump.
“Capital,” he whispers. “Now let’s see you bounce on this cock for daddy.”
You couldn’t be happier to oblige.
With one lift up, you both sigh and then clench. Back down. Golden. It’s been so long. Shit, it’s been too fucking long since you’ve been stretched open like this. Your knees are burning already and you don’t care. Widening your thighs, you start slow and hold your breath. Every trip back down, you grind your hips, slide your pelvis forward and feel Jake move even deeper inside of you.
Trembling in Jake’s grip, he’s roaming his paws all over your sides, reacquainting his teeth and tongue with every inch of your neck and collar and the tickle and tease of his stubble has more and more noises leaking out of your throat, more than you know with what to do, more than you can try to hide or mask.
“That’s it,” Jake coaxes, his thumb kneading your clit in circles; you don’t want to come too fast, but—but f-fuck.
“That good?”
“More than you know,” he reassures.
“Glad to know I’ve still got it,” you laugh.
“Never lost it, dear.”
That does something to you and you whimper, actually whimper as you spear yourself down onto his cock. It’s the only thing you can bear to think about now. You can’t think about the sex you had as teens or the love you had as teens, or the love that you have now, just this feeling, just this desire, just this and here and now.
You ride him hard. Your body turns vicious and desperate and your voice won’t come out because if so you know that you’ll forget how to breathe. You’re scarcely remembering how to choke when Jake groans and you know it’s cause you’re making him feel this way. You’re doing this. You, Dirk Strider, the premium dick rider. It should be a dream. This all should be. It shouldn’t make sense and it probably doesn’t. Jake came by to check on you when you’d all gone fuzzy and nonexistent again.
Here he is, proving you exist. His hands on every tangible part of you, in your hair and in your mouth and smoothing up against your cunt. You exist. Jake takes hold of your hips and thrusts up inside with a jerk and you sob. It falls out real, so unmistakably real. It’s real and it’s happening. He’s fucking your brains out and it’s happening.
“Fuck, do that again,” you demand blindly.
“Do that again what?”
You grit your teeth.
“Daddy, please.”
That was easier than you thought and you get goosebumps all over from it. Shame coats you like a thick coat of slime and Jake pistons himself deep inside once again, rattling all your walls and making you cry. Scratching your nails down his shoulders, gripping the couch cushions, trying to find something to hold onto, your legs wobble weakly.
You continue to ride, slide up and down his length even as your thighs wiggle and go to jelly beneath you. Jake takes notice soon enough. He swipes the sodas off the seat beside him.
“Allow me, starlight,” and in one fell swoop he’s rotated you into the couch and got you laying on your back. He fucks up and in, and your back arches in bliss and glee.
“Oh,” you say.
“Yeah?” he says, proud, gleaming.
“Yeah.”
He does it again, incredible. All you can think about is this, is how all you want forever is for Jake to fuck you good like this. There doesn’t need to be anything else. As long as you’ve got him here holding you down, making you his, fucking you slow, fucking you hard, fucking you fast, fucking you any way he wants you don’t care. You just want him and this. Jake, Jake, Jake.
Skin slaps. Your bodies both shake. He rams full force into a spot that makes you question the universe. It unravels you, undoes you, and your orgasm rears its head right around the corner. Each leg of yours comes to bracket Jake’s waist.
“That, that—”
“That?” Jake asks.
“Fuck me like that.”
Jake threads the needle like a genius. Perfect precision, knocks into that little spot of yours again and leaves you aching for more. You can’t get enough.
“F-fuck, Jake.”
“That’s good, pet. That’s good, so good.” Jake repeats himself, the way you know that he does when he’s lingering close to the edge. His repetitive, soothing voice always gets to you. You want it to be the only sound you hear for the rest of your life.
“Jake, I’m close as shit,” you warn.
“Don’t hold back on my account,” he pants out between thrusts. “Go on and come for me, love.”
If only he wouldn’t sound so tender and endearing.
For the most part, your eyes have been shut tightly. Not wearing shades during sex isn’t an issue when you can just close your eyes. It accomplishes the same end. You aren’t one to ogle anyways, not like Jake is. You don’t mind what you can’t see, even if he comments on it. But you open your eyes once, and it’s a mistake to peer up at Jake looking down, covered in sweat and love and lust and moving so fluid, so slick and so powerfully. Your body is visibly breaking beneath him. He smiles at you. You forget that he can tell you’re staring.
Your heart feels big, bigger than the rest of you, and your pleasure skyrockets.
“So friggin’ gorgeous,” he moans, pounding into you.
There’s something inside of you that snaps and you scrabble to cling to something sturdy, something near and something Jake as it all hits you. You come with a quiet noise. Jake can tell from the way you squeeze and go wild and go stiff and go slack. It all rushes into you and falls out just as fast. Fuck it all, it’s so good. You become boneless. You become empty.
“Fuck!” Jake cusses, probably the umpteenth time since you two have started romping as he recoils out of you. There’s not even a two second window of warning and then he’s also emptying out, deciding it’s better to litter your stomach in cum than to litter your couch, or carpet or anywhere else. He’s right.
In the afterglow, you both breathe, just breathe in the muggy air and realize that sex smells and you’ve both forgotten that sex smells. You point a finger toward the wall slackly. Jake turns his head to spot the light switch. He pulls it and no light comes to brightness but the ceiling fan rotates some. That’s better, it seems. Jake collapses back down beside you.
It’s remarkably silent. Not awkward though. There’s a big difference. Hand rested on your thigh in a motion somewhat fond and not at all affectionate (of course not), Jake pats your bare skin and sinks deep into the couch with a smile.
“That was… sublime.”
“Yeah, it was pretty good.”
“Sorry to leave you all mussed up and soggy, peach. Lemme right this, gimme two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
Jake leaps off of the couch and you remember that he is completely buck ass naked as he traipses through your house in search of something, probably a roll of paper towels or a rag to wipe your stomach down with. You ogle him as he goes. Fuck, you need to start topping him. He’s still got an ass like you wouldn’t believe. It’s a crime to keep bottoming like this.
These thoughts get railroaded by the realization that you’re assuming this will continue, that this won’t be a one time thing when you know that it is and it has to be. That’s what the deal was, if there was a deal at all. Covering your face, you feel around for wherever you tossed your glasses. There’s a spare in your pants but you can’t reach them right now either. You’ve hit your quota. Fingers brushing the cold, wet touch of a Crush bottle, you crack it open and steal a swig. Nice.
You almost don’t hear Jake when he returns. Turns out he can be quite quiet when he’s not marching about in those lace up boots. He’s likely tip-toeing in the first place to avoid your robotics crap lying around. Wouldn’t want to cut his toe open post-coitus. Worst aftercare ever. As expected, he’s wet a washcloth from the bathroom and took to cleaning you up from chest to stomach, clearing away his sperm until your body shines beneath the kiss that he levels to it.
“Nice,” you say flatly.
“What else are friends for?”
Like a chop to the neck, you fight a wince. Yeah, friends. You knew that this was all it was meant to be and yet you took your chances in playing along anyways. It’s always okay when you start out. It’s not as fun or exciting when it’s over.
Glancing up at the old oak paneling of your living room wall and not at Jake and not at anything else, you say something stupid like, “I want this again.”
“Pardon?” Jake says and your nails sink into your hand.
“I want this again, us.”
The air goes stagnate and grim. Of course… you shouldn’t have said that. You shouldn’t have done this. You shouldn’t have let him in. He shouldn’t have come. This shouldn’t have happened.
He can say it’s a bad idea and you’ll agree. You’re not half as smart as people think that you are. Jake has a good head on his shoulders now, though. You think he’s in a better place. You think he’ll tell you no when he really means it this time and not pussyfoot around because he’s afraid of breaking your heart.
Everything about today has told you that you’re both in different places now, a little more grown up, a little more mature and bolder. It’s okay to let you down.
It’s why you fall apart to Jake speaking cotton-soft into your ribs: “I’d like that a lot.”
Your hands meet and he breathes a stipulation into them: “I need you to talk to me about what’s been going on in your head, love, but if you can do that… I think I’d fancy that a whole lot.”
And maybe it’ll be easier this time, you think.
Maybe growing is all it took, all you needed.