Chapter Text
Being around others still feels strange. It’s an old habit Dwight forgot how to do. He can’t make small talk anymore. He doesn’t know how to make comfortable jokes or fall into easy conversation. He had been alone here, in this horrid place, huddled close to the campfire for so long now. He’s lost track of time. It feels like ages of it being just him, the horrible creatures that hunted him for sport, and the thick fog in the forest that hid them all away.
The Realms, as Dwight had taken to calling them to himself, are an isolating and dreadfully lonely place. Time stands still. The sun doesn’t move, the night never comes. It’s perpetually evening, just at the beginning of dusk. The slightest hint of a moon winks in the sky above, and if he squints he thinks he can see a star or two. However, looking at the sky is like looking at the idea of a sky more than the actual thing. Everything here is like that: the trees, the grass, the cawing of crows in the distance. Even his watch doesn’t keep track of time properly here. The batteries are alive, it ticks and it tocks, however the hands move however they want: sometimes forward, sometimes backwards, sometimes opposing each other. The closest thing to time-keeping Dwight is able to do was tally marks in the dirt at camp. Even that is useless.
Strange sounds in the surrounding forest had often kept him awake, and dark bags formed under his eyes. They’re still there. Sleep had been a rare luxury. When he wasn’t cowering in front of the small bonfire that kept itself alive, he was ignoring the grumbling of his own perpetual hunger or catching a few minutes of sleep because his body couldn’t physically stay awake any longer. That in and of itself had been a miserable existence, but it was worse when the fog oozed out of the woods and to the little camp he’d come to call home. The fog is like a living entity. It will sometimes creep into camp like an old flame, unwanted and uninvited, but all the same Dwight falls into its embrace. Every time, the fog brings him to a new place. Every time, some worse-than-human monster lurks in the dilapidated buildings, in the corn fields, behind the ruins and corpses of cars. The blood sport begins the moment he arrives, a perfect cycle of life and death, survival of the fittest, in the most horrible ways a person can imagine.
So when Meg and Claudette appeared at the campfire one day, Dwight was both overjoyed and mortified. He never wished for another person to become trapped the way he was. However, it was nice to see another face. A friendly face. A human face. Meg’s face is young and full of life. Her wild orange hair is kept out of her face in a series of three braids, something Dwight had never seen before then. Her jaw is round, body slim and tone like a runner, and freckles dot her skin like constellations. She has a cocky confidence only found in the young or stupid. There is something so deeply human about her it feels unreal: technicolor light walking through a black and white world. Most of the time, she is overwhelming to Dwight. He couldn’t keep up with her energy then and still can’t now. Her need to talk, learn, and do is too much.
Claudette is more like Dwight: reserved and quiet. She’s a watcher more than a doer. A scientist. Every action and word is carefully calculated. Her dark dreadlocks fall in coils around her slightly more narrow face. Dwight always finds it easy to sit in silence with her. There is little pressure to engage, and he prefers to move at his own pace in his new friendships. Whenever he presses his nail beds between his teeth and gnaws until he bleeds, she says nothing. When he picks and scratches at his skin from anxiety or a bad memory, she doesn’t bear down on him with a smothering look. He’s simply allowed to exist, and that is a blessing.
Quickly after the girls arrived, the trio fell into a normal routine: they’d take turns sleeping, figure out how to trap any animals that might be around the edge of the forest so they could eat from time to time—mostly crows—and when the fog took them, it always took them together. Dwight had shown them the ropes of what to do when in the territories of the monsters: repairs generators, power the exit gates, and get out. Or die a miserable, horrible death. They were a sacrifice to the god that ruled over this place, which they all took to calling The Entity. Claudette had started calling them “trials,” which Dwight found fitting and adopted it for himself. She was good at naming things. The creatures stalking them in the fog were simply “killers” to not give them more power than they already had. She had also taken to calling their threesome “survivors.” That is what they did here: survived. They had to be strong, clever, and resilient. It’s their way of taking their power back and is especially important to Dwight. He likes thinking of himself as a survivor. He does survive here. He did that alone for so long. He still does that with the girls.
He’d forgotten the power that words held. He’d gone so long without speaking that he thought he might have forgotten how. His voice and his words had come back to him naturally when he finally opened himself up enough to talk to them for more than what was necessary. It felt good. Liberating. Friends. He wasn’t alone anymore.
It was when a fourth person suddenly appeared that the balance suddenly felt off. Three is a good number. Everything that comes in threes is perfect, and sets of three are complete. Dwight, Claudette, and Meg are a set of three. Harmony, wisdom, and understanding. Past, present, and future. Heaven, earth, and water. Another person disrupts that balance.
Dwight first saw Jake standing alone and confused just on the edge of the maize of an old, abandoned cornfield of the farm, which Dwight took to calling “the corn” long before Claudette and Meg showed up. The air was hot, a dry heat where the oppressive sun bared down on Dwight, blinding his already poor vision and making his shirt cling to his body in all the wrong ways. Even from a distance, Jake didn’t look uncomfortable in the slightest, despite wearing a hefty looking green jacket, scarf, and leather work gloves.
Dwight remembered when he’d first arrived in the realms. He had been completely alone and confused, and he was slaughtered by the enormous man who carried bear traps in less than a minute. It had been the most horrifying moment of his life. Suddenly, there was a behemoth in a white mask carved in the shape of a fanged apparition hacking at Dwight with a rusted cleaver. His breath pushed from behind his mask in snarls and growls. The light reflected out of his wild eyes just enough that Dwight could see his dilated pupils, feverish from the act of mutilation, the scent of blood in the air, and Dwight’s agonized howls.
He couldn’t let that happen to this stranger.
Even though the risk was great, Dwight darted into the open, directly at Jake. He prioritized speed over stealth. Jake heard him coming before he saw him. When he turned around, he looked on edge, forcing Dwight to stop about six feet away. Jake’s face was pinched into a suspicious glare. His mouth made a thin line, his slanted eyes bore holes into Dwight’s. His fists were clenched and drawn up to his chest, and his knees were slightly bent. It made Dwight’s stomach drop into his pelvis and bumps raise on his arms and neck. Something in his chest squirmed. The man’s eyes were icy, but it wasn’t genuine malice. It looked more like a façade, almost like a deer in headlights if the deer was a bear. Dwight didn’t know what to do with it.
“We can’t stay here,” Dwight finally said, voice barely above a whisper. It wasn’t tactful, but Dwight didn’t have the time or mental space to find a more gentle way to talk to this man. Dwight stood half-crouched, lower to the ground than Jake. It hurt his knees, but it was necessary. He fidgeted, and his eyes darted around the landscape looking for a threat. Jake didn’t move. He straightened his spine with his nose slightly pointed up so he could look down at Dwight. It was a dominance act Dwight was all too familiar with thanks to his time working as a pizza boy, a (terrible) magician for children’s parties, an elf for mall Santa during the holiday season, and even at Peak 22 from his coworkers. It didn’t phase him, but he also didn’t look forward to working with this man either.
“Please,” Dwight whispered again. “We don’t have time.”
The corners of Jake’s mouth pointed down before he broke his death stare. His eyes turned to the landscape, starting at the closest building: a collapsed silo. The wood was rotted through, creating several entrances. The glass was no longer in the windows near what used to be the top of the silo. Jake didn’t linger on the building for too long. He looked over the cornfields, as far as the eye could see, until his gaze settled on a huge tree.
Oh, the cow tree. Dwight frowned when he followed Jake’s gaze. It was a horrific thing. As if the visage of the twisting, gnarled branches of the dead tree reaching to the sky wasn’t bad enough, hanging from the branches were the carcasses of several cows. Fresh blood still dripped from them. From a distance, they could hear one of the cow’s pained low. Jake’s eyes stayed there too long, locked on the carcasses, aghast. Dwight sympathized with the shock and horror. Everyone’s first day in the fog was horrible. They couldn’t linger here though. It felt like they’d already been spotted, as if a pair of eyes were following them. He grabbed Jake’s wrist and gave him a gentle tug.
“At least come with me to cover,” Dwight begged. He didn’t want to leave this man to find out for himself what was to come, but he would if it meant securing safe passage for him, Meg, and Claudette. They were out there somewhere doing generators. They deserved Dwight to be a teammate, to help get them out. His loyalties lied with them, not this stranger.
Fortunately, Jake relented without any fight. He soundlessly allowed Dwight to lead him by the wrist, into the shelter of the fallen silo where they would be out of the open. The space was empty and quiet. Their footsteps echoed off the hollow walls. There wasn’t much inside except for a few crates along the walls and a generator in the middle of the room.
Several long, agonizing seconds passed in silence. Dwight didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. What would he have wanted someone to say to him if they had been there when he first arrived? “Hi, and welcome to hell. I’ll be your guide”? That felt sick. It brought bile to his throat like standing on a boat in the violent waves of a storm.
Jake looked like he had questions, too. Dwight could almost see the questions pressing behind his teeth, but unfortunately he didn’t know where to start. He never got the chance to figure it out, at least not in the corn. Not fast enough to stop the inevitable. The sound of something solid striking a bell sounded out from right behind them, and that was that. The apparition monster materialized in front of them. Dwight didn’t have the opportunity to reach before the blunt end of the weapon crashed down on his head.
Two months, by Dwight’s already shoddy count, had passed since then. At first, Jake being there was a burden. He took space from Dwight. He injected opinions, assumed attention, and even dictated strategy sometimes, all without sharing much of himself with them. Dwight didn’t want to trust someone he didn’t know. The choice was robbed from him when Claudette and Meg actually began to listen. He was out-voted.
Jake wasn’t a freeloader though. He at least carried his weight. He was handy, knew his way around a generator surprisingly well. Those skills were also put to use with the meathooks scattered around the different environments the fog pulled them into. Jake likes to tinker. He likes to find what makes things break. Then break them. It was a new, frustrating tactic against the killers that sent them howling furiously through the trials. He is also an adept hunter and catches more food in one week than Dwight, Claudette, and Meg had managed in a month.
If Dwight had been honest with himself at the time, it was nice to have another man around the camp. The girls were great. They’re funny, charming, and fantastic friends. He can’t, to this day, imagine anyone better to spend an eternity in hell with than his girls. But they weren’t companions, at least not in the way Dwight craved. He found himself often sitting alone, fingernail beds rolling between his teeth and heart aching in the worst way possible. There was nothing to be done about it before Jake arrived. Handsome, heartthrob Jake.
—
Dwight follows Jake into the woods, occasionally trotting to keep up with the other man. Jake is a fast, silent walker. He pads through the fog like a wolf on the hunt. His shoulders are tense, knees always bent, hunched over ever so slightly so he can turn on a dime or fight for his life if needed. He is always on guard, but from what Dwight couldn’t guess. He was a cautious man since the day they met. What matters more to Dwight is simply being in his company, and he’s thrilled that he got invited to tag along this time despite his deep fear of these woods. The fog terrifies him. It’s as if it were alive, a conscious, living being. However, the smell of earth that comes with Jake is more appealing. He’ll take any chance to be close enough to inhale it, so poignant he can practically taste the leaf rot and damp soil.
He remembers the first time he and Jake touched, and the hair on the back of his neck stands up. He hopes that can happen again. He’d been pursuing Jake for the better part of three weeks without rejection. Jake teased back, he played the game. The light in his eyes would change whenever Dwight made a small advance, like tapping their feet together with the outsides of their shoes or an unnecessary caress of fingertips against skin when trying to wrap up a deep wound. This goes unspoken between them, though. Jake doesn’t frequently use his words, therefore Dwight follows suit. Whatever to keep him comfortable.
Jake is a handsome man. His sun-kissed skin is home to a few errant freckles in the most flattering place: across his nose and cheeks. His hair is thick and eyebrows bushy. The slight upward tilt of his top lip gives him a perpetual pout that twists Dwight’s stomach and makes him choke on his own heart. Even the way his fingers carefully navigate his tools when he’s trying to break a bear trap or he’s plucking the feathers from a crow for their next meal leaves Dwight feeling dizzy. How could he have ever been upset that Jake joined them?
Jake suddenly stops. Lost in his own thoughts, Dwight almost walks into him. Almost. Instead he stops half an inch from the other man’s back. He takes a slow, deep breath, letting his mind catch up with his body, before taking a full step backwards to regain some space and composure. He wonders is Jake saw something to make him stop abruptly, and his eyes scan the area. Dwight’s not a hunter or trapper. He doesn’t have a good eye for danger or detail unless it’s on a spreadsheet. There’s nothing out there that he can see.
Jake drops the rope he has coiled around his shoulder. It makes a loud thunk when it hits the ground, mostly obscured by the strange, black fog that blankets ever landscape Dwight has seen since the day he arrived here. Dwight stares down at the now lost item, knowing it’s there but allowing the fact that the thick fog obscures it inform his brain that it’s lost forever.
“Is this the spot?” Dwight asks softly, not wanting to spook any prey Jake might already be hunting. Jake doesn’t immediately answer, but Dwight can hear him sucking on his teeth. He wishes he could read Jake’s mind. The newest survivor is unreadable and never shares what’s on his mind unless it’s immediately relevant. An enigma, Claudette once called him. Dwight is inclined to agree. He doesn’t know anything about the man. Not his favorite color, his birthday, or even what part of East Asia he’s from. All Dwight knows is that Jake is private, has a mild to moderate accent depending on how agitated he is, and that he is never seen without his sickening thick coat and those hideous leather gloves.
“Jake?” Dwight continues, voice still quiet. Once again, Jake withholds an answer other than saliva sucking through his teeth, and Dwight awkwardly shifts his weight wondering if he said the wrong thing. Maybe Jake is regretting bringing Dwight along on this hunting trip. He wouldn’t blame the guy if that were the case. Clumsy, loud Dwight. The longer the silence stretches between them, the worse Dwight feels. His guts churn, his jaw clenches, and his heart races. He can feel perspiration building up under his arms and on his back.
Finally, Jake turns around to face Dwight, a perplexed look scrunched on his face. His expression is like he’s trying to solve a complex mathematical problem that will answer the question about life, the universe, and everything. Such focus. Such discomfort.
“Are you okay?” Dwight asks, considering Jake might be in pain. If that’s the case, they are a ten minute walk from camp and the closest thing they have to a doctor: Claudette. Dwight was far from an expert in that field. He has almost no skills to help Jake outside of staunching immediate, physical trauma.
“Fine,” Jake says, voice deep and dull. The word is forced out of him, strained. It spikes Dwight’s anxiety again. His legs burn with the urge to run. He’s suck here, potentially forever, with Jake. If he did something wrong to upset the man, he didn’t want to make it worse. He can’t bear the idea of ruining something between them and then being forced to live side by side for eternity. He has to tackle this head on, fix it, whatever it is. With Dwight, it could be a lot of things. As if Jake can see the nerves smoothing the wrinkles out of Dwight’s face and greying his hair in real time, he adds, “I promise.”
“You don’t look well,” Dwight finally answers. Sure, the promise is soothing, and he wants to run away just a little less. However, it’s not enough to completely ease Dwight. When something triggers his anxiety, it’s easy to get lost in it. It doesn’t just turn off with a few comforting words or a firm reassurance. There’s doubt, fear, and insecurity built into it. He needs empirical proof. Instinctively, his left hand raises to his mouth so he can worry the already abused skin of his fingertips between his teeth.
“I am,” Jake says. “But.”
“But what?” Dwight says around his ring finger.
“I thought…” Jake starts, but he stops abruptly to purse his lips together, point his eyes away from Dwight, and inhale sharply through his nose. Dwight knows that sound. It is very familiar to him. It’s the sound of tripping on your shoelaces in a public place, the awkward moment when someone cuts you in line at the grocery store, a difficult conversation. It’s frustration, pure and simple.
“Whatever it is,” Dwight desperately says. He has to fix this. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean it.” He wonders what he did to warrant this frustration. His thoughts raced with possibilities. Perhaps he messed up at the generators too many times, or when he helped Jake down from the last meathook the monsters put him on it hurt too much, or maybe Jake thinks that Dwight isn’t pulling his weight in and out of trials. Dwight bites down too hard on the already ruined skin of his nail bed and quickly pulls his finger from his mouth with a yelp. There’s no blood, fortunately, but it stings. The nail is chewed down to the quick, exposing usually fragile flesh.
Jake takes Dwight’s hand into his, palm to palm. The feeling of the quilt-stitched leather isn’t very familiar to Dwight. He never worked outside or in any blue collar job that might need them. The texture and sensation is far from unpleasant. It’s been so long since someone’s touched him other than to stitch closed an injury or rescue him from another gruesome, brutal death. The leather is soft, broken in and well loved. These aren’t just gloves, they’re an extension of Jake’s skin, just as much part of him as his fingers or toes.
Jake inspects Dwight’s fingertip, eyes on the nail bed but mind obviously somewhere else. Thoughts and words are stuck in is throat, unable to properly form themselves. Dwight watches Jake’s face pinch as he tries to bring to life whatever’s on his mind, until finally he asks, “You didn’t mean to?”
The question catches Dwight off guard. It’s impossible to pinpoint whether he actually meant to or not since he doesn’t know what he specifically did. It’s always been easier to generally apologize than to pinpoint exactly what he did wrong this time. All his life, Dwight had been a mess, an absolute fuck up of a man. Everyone except his parents told him as much some point in their lives, and Dwight heard it more times than he cares to recall.
“I swear,” Dwight says with a frown, sticking to his guns. Easier, he reminded himself. Anything to keep Jake from being upset with him. He couldn’t take the idea of being the reason there’s a divide in their small, fragile group.
“I don’t believe you.” Jake’s voice remains low and quiet, eyes focused intently on Dwight’s hand. He refuses to make eye contact as blood rushes to his cheeks. Dwight’s stomach squeezes.
“What?” Dwight squeaks, once again surprised.
“You didn’t mean to brush your fingers along my thigh at dinner?” Jake continues accusingly. There’s a hard edge to his voice, one that simultaneously makes Dwight want to run as far and fast as possible and to bottle up the memory of that tone with that specific question to tap into during a quiet, private moment later. “Or bump shoulders whenever we pass? Or touch your foot against mine?”
Dwight bites his lower lip, unsure how to respond. None of those things were an accident. Jake doesn’t sound angry, but his tone is still firm. Blood rushes in his ears and his pants begin to feel too tight around the waste and crotch. Every fantasy he’d ever had about Jake since the man arrived in the fog comes rushing back all at once. He wants to get on his knees and worship Jake, but is too afraid to make a move. If it is the wrong move, if Jake is actually upset with him instead of potentially coming on to him, then it could be catastrophic. Dwight refuses to be the cause of such a thing.
As Dwight wrestles with his thoughts and desires, Jake draws his hand closer to his face so he can press a kiss to the offending fingertip. Dwight’s heart surges. All his generalized anxiety is suddenly focused onto one thing: Jake’s lips against his skin. It is a simple gesture, not unlike when his mother would kiss his scrapes and bruises as a young child. The thing is: this isn’t his mother. It’s the man Dwight had finds himself staring at from the other side of a generator, the man who he does stupid things in trials for to protect him from injury or worse, who he sees behind his eyelids every time he goes to sleep.
Dwight flexes his fingers instinctually, eyes unblinking and locked on Jake. Jake finally turns his gaze up to meet Dwight’s, carefully studying his face. Dwight wonders what he looks like in this moment. Scared? Young? Handsome? Naïve? Appalling? He wants to curse under his breath. He wants to beg Jake to place those lips somewhere else. Multiple somewhere elses. Just the light tickle of a kiss against his finger makes the pit of his stomach boil. It had been so long since he felt this way. So long.
“I,” Dwight says, doing his best to not stutter. “I just. I.”
With his lips still against Dwight’s skin, Jake frowns while Dwight chokes on his words. Suddenly, the air is as heavy as a planet, crushing down on Dwight’s entire being, body and soul. He wants to kiss Jake, open mouth and starving. He wants to find out for himself what this man made of earth and water tastes like, how his weight feels pressed against him, what those hands are like under his gloves. Dwight imagines they’re delicate, despite probable callouses from hard work. He wants to know what it feels like to have Jake’s thumb hooked inside his cheek.
“I’m sorry,” Jake says, mistaking Dwight’s expression for disdain. Jake lets go of his hand and begins to turn away, obviously retreating into himself.
“No,” Dwight says. The word is natural. It comes easy, unlike all his other feelings that have yet to find tangible meaning or words. He reaches out and grabs Jake’s wrist, just like he did on the day they met. Instead now Dwight isn’t trying to hide them from a bloodthirsty monster, he’s trying to keep Jake’s attention. Jake freezes, raising one of his thick eyebrows high on his forehead as his eyes drop to where Dwight had grabbed him.
“Please,” Dwight adds, giving Jake’s wrist a gentle squeeze. Cautious, like a starving wild animal, Jake turns his full body to face Dwight straight on. His movements are agonizingly slow, but he takes a step forward to close the already small space between them. The rough hide sensation of Jake’s leather glove glides across Dwight’s cheek and neck, and he tilts his face into Jake’s palm.
“Yes?” Jake whispers, still cautious, still hesitant. Dwight closes his eyes, absorbing the warmth of the other man’s skin through the gloves. His pulse rushes under Jake’s hand. He wonders if he can feel it through the leather.
“Yes.”
Jake tilts in, pressing his lips against Dwight’s in the most chaste kiss he’d ever had. Still, it feels electric. Everything in Dwight boils now. The wires in his brain spark, short circuiting any fears or reservations he has. He opens his mouth to the kiss, instantly inviting Jake in. Jake responds in kind, sending Dwight’s brain spiraling again. He grabs onto Jake’s coat, hoping to stop the world from falling out from under him his senses are overwhelmed by Jake’s taste: salt, grass on a dewy morning, and the evening air just before a storm.
Slowly, the two men stumble backwards until Dwight’s back is pressed up against the trunk of a tree a little wider than him. The bark is rough and scratchy through Dwight’s shirt, but somehow isn’t more potent than the sensation of Jake flush against him, the pressure of a knee against his groin, or the way he nipped his bottom lip whenever the kiss threatened to break. Dwight releases Jake’s jacket with one hand to bring it to his head. He runs his fingers through his hair, surprised to find it on the greasy side and even more surprised to discover he likes it. A small, almost inaudible groan rumbles out of Jake’s chest when Dwight scratches the nubs of his fingers against his scalp.
“Fuck,” Dwight says into Jake’s mouth. Jake bites his bottom lip again for breaking the kiss. “Fuck.” He knows he has been lonely and that his own company wasn’t enough to satisfy or comfort him. What he didn’t realize until now is how pent up he truly is. His body is on fire. His clothes no longer fit him right. He curses again as he brings his attention to the zipper of Jake’s jacket. If they both aren’t undressed and on the ground in three seconds or less, he thinks he’s going to explode.
Jake snatches Dwight’s wrist, holding tighter than he needs to. Suddenly, the fire in Dwight is smothered and panic rises up in him. He didn’t want to think he could ruin this moment, but here he is. He looks at Jake’s face for any sign of anger or frustration, but, as always, the man is unreadable.
“I’m sorry,” Dwight mutters.
“I can’t,” Jake says in return, voice void of any malice. “You can, but not me.”
Dwight raises both eyebrows as he tries to make sense of that. “I don’t understand.”
“Get undressed,” Jake grunts in response. Dwight wants to feel Jake, truly feel him. Skin to skin contact. Lips dragging along the contour of his ribs, down the line of his stomach, over the texture of the inside of his thigh. He can’t hide his own disappointment.
“I won’t be upset,” Dwight says. “I promise. Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. I just want you, I just—”
“It’s not that,” Jake interrupts. He takes a moment to find his words, and as he does he slides one of his hands under Dwight’s shirt. Despite a layer of leather separating Dwight’s skin from Jake’s bare hand, it feels as good as the first time he was touched by another man. Dwight closes his eyes and sighs pleasantly. “I just can’t. It’s not you.”
Despite aching for so much more, Dwight mouths the word “okay.” Jake’s comfort takes priority. Whatever the reason he didn’t want to shed his clothing didn’t matter. A simple “no” is more than enough reason to let the issue go. There will be other times, he figures, he hopes, he prays. And if not, at least he gets to have all Jake is able to give today. Live in the moment, he mentally reminds himself.
The okay is consent enough, and Jake kisses him again. He continues to explore Dwight’s torso with his hands, every touch better than the last. Dwight’s fingers diligently work on undoing the buttons of his work shirt, a no-longer needed ghost of his former life. He also struggles with his belt. Unlatching it becomes a disentanglement puzzle. He can’t seem to unlock it from the buckle, and as Jake fills his mouth and his mind, he lets out a whine of frustration.
Without stopping, Jake immediately helps, undoing the belt without breaking the kiss as if he’s done this a thousand times before. He also undoes his button and fly. As he tugs Dwight’s pants down, he lowers himself into a squat and peppers little kisses down the line of his middle. Then he hooks his fingers under the elastic of Dwight’s briefs. His face his so close to his arousal that Dwight can feel the moisture of his breath through the fabric. Dwight drops his hands to his sides and digs his fingers against the bark of the tree.
“Please,” Dwight whispers, sounding more desperate than he wants to. He aches though. The idea alone of Jake’s mouth on his cock threatens to send him spiraling out. He never knew he could be so aroused it would hurt. Fortunately, Jake obliges and pulls his briefs down to join his slacks around his ankles. It feels good to not be so constrained, but even better when the warmth of Jake’s mouth envelopes the tip of his cock. Dwight shudders and lets out a loud moan, caught off guard. One of his hands shoot up to cover his mouth, a force of habit from touching himself near camp after others had gone to sleep.
Amused by Dwight’s shyness and eager to drag another sound from him, Jake slides all of Dwight into his mouth. It works. Dwight lets out a muffled, strangled cry of pleasure around his hand. All it takes a a little touch and Dwight fears he’ll spill over the edge. Every bob of Jake’s head, swipe of his tongue, press of his thumbs into the soft meat of his thighs is overwhelming. He feels his cock twitch in Jake’s mouth already. He’s ready to erupt, and with his weight all on his left leg, he bends his right one to lift and rest his shin on Jake’s shoulder.
“Fuck!” Dwight cries from behind his hand as Jake releases his cock with a soft pop. He was close, so close. He bites on the elastic skin of the back of his hand and his cock throbs. The orgasm that could have been retreats back into the pool of lava in his groin. Somehow, this hurts more than wanting the touch and not getting it. When he looks down at Jake, he sees the man smiling up at him, eyes heavy and half lidded, corners of his mouth shiny from saliva and, probably, pre-cum.
“Aww, what happened?” Jake purrs. This is a far cry from the quiet, reserved man Dwight had known for the past two months. He has a smug confidence around him that Dwight’s only seen when he is a complete menace for the killers in a trial.
“You know what happened,” Dwight manages to say, an edge to his voice. He wants, so badly, to grab Jake’s hair and use his mouth to finish himself off. The fantasy plays out in fast-forward in his head. However, he doesn’t act on it. He doesn’t want to upset Jake, hurt him, or cross any lines. They didn’t talk about rough play before Dwight was suddenly in Jake’s mouth. Dwight knows his own limits, but not Jake’s, and he won’t risk it.
“Poor thing,” Jake teases as he gazes up at Dwight with dreamy, bedroom eyes. Dwight feels like he’s choking and has to swallow a lump forming in his throat. Jake stands back up and undoes the zipper of his own pants. He maintains eye contact with Dwight as he works himself out of the opening. That look is intoxicating. Dwight has little experience with intimacy and seduction, but Jake has it down to a science. “How do you like it?”
The question is confusing. No one had ever asked Dwight that before, and he’s not even sure what it means. There could be so many answers to it. The look of confusion must be apparent, because a playful half-smile cracks Jake’s usually serious face.
“Do you like to give or receive?” Jake clarifies. Heat rushes to Dwight’s cheeks. He considers the question for a moment. Both were good. Dwight was capable of both and enjoyed both. His body is screaming to be ravaged though. Every touch is electrifying. He wants to held down, stuffed full, made to beg. No, he doesn’t want it. He needs it.
“Receive,” Dwight murmurs, too embarrassed to speak any louder. The half-smile turns into a full one before Jake leans in to steal another aggressive kiss.
“Good,” Jake says against Dwight’s lips, teeth touching the swollen, tender skin. “Get your pants off.”
Dwight wastes no time. He kicks his shoes off, then shucks his pants and underwear off his ankles. Jake waits until Dwight is standing up straight again before spinning him around so his front is pressed against the tree. Dwight almost yelps, caught off guard by the sudden movement. He feels Jake’s left hand grab the meat of his rear, giving it a hard squeeze as the pointer finger on his other hand presses against his entrance. Dwight leans back against the feeling, desperate for the penetration. He needs Jake inside of him, and anything will do. Even a finger.
The sensation of the digit entering him is strange. The texture of the glove is unlike anything Dwight’s felt, dry and rough, and his body resists it. A normal, naked finger would have been so better. So would proper lubricant. Jake presses his finger in to the knuckle, dragging a hiss from Dwight as the sensation goes from uncomfortable to unbearable. He braces himself against the tree and presses his forehead into the bark.
“Too much?” Jake pauses and asks. Dwight takes a minute to steady himself before talking.
“The leather is too dry.”
Jake withdraws his hand and falls silent. Dwight takes a deep breath as he leans against the tree. He wants Jake. He wants him so bad. He wanted to be okay with it, but the relief from having the leather-clad finger removed is too great. He can’t do this if Jake has to wear his gloves.
“Jake?” Dwight asks, looking over his shoulder. Jake is still very close to him, frowning at the palm of his right hand, now naked. Dwight’s gaze lingers on the bare skin. It’s callused, as expected, but also scarred. The thumbnail looks damaged and warped, an old injury. Jake’s glove is clenched in his other hand, and he seems lost to the world. “Jake, are you okay?”
“Hmm?” Jake looks up to Dwight, eyes a little glazed over with thought. He blinks as he focuses back on the present and shakes his head. “Oh, fine. I’m fine.”
“You don’t have to if…” Dwight pauses. The man flexes his fingers and then rests his hand on Dwight’s bare hip. The sensation is electric, and Dwight reorients his head to face the tree, ready to try again.
“No, it’s okay,” Jake purrs. “I want to.” He places his still gloved hand on Dwight’s ass and massages it, dragging a moan out of him. While Jake does this, he sticks his bare fingers in his own mouth to slick them with saliva. Without missing a beat, he returns his fingers to Dwight’s entrance and pushes his pointer in. Instead of a hiss, Dwight gasps. This is better. This feels good. He presses backwards into Jake’s hand.
Slowly, Jake works him open. One finger quickly graduates to two. Jake knows how to move in all the right ways, reducing Dwight’s legs to jello so he has to hold onto the tree to stay upright. It feels like no time at all before Jake takes his fingers out and roughly turns Dwight around.
Before he realizes what’s happening, Jake has lifted him in the air, back first against the tree, legs hooked over his elbows. Dwight grabs Jake’s shoulders.
“Hold on,” Jake mumbles. He uses the tree and Dwight’s grip on him to position his cock against Dwight’s hole with one hand. The arm supporting the most weight shakes, but he successfully lowers Dwight enough to push the tip inside.
Dwight rolls his head back, feeling the bark scratch his scalp. Jake takes his time, mindful of the stretch he knows Dwight’s experiencing, and Dwight couldn’t be more grateful. Two fingers were easy, but Jake is a big man. The stretch initially burns but quickly fades to a pleasant sense of fullness. Once completely sheathed, Jake redistributes Dwight’s weight onto both his arms evenly. After a minute, he begins thrusting.
The world shrinks to a pinpoint, completely focused on Jake. Nothing else exists. Dwight moans and reaches up with one hand, groping for anything to stabilize himself. His fingers find a branch just thick enough to hold on to. He grabs onto it for dear life. Jake leans in close and smashes their mouths together as he rolls his hips to get as deep into Dwight as possible. Dwight moans into the kiss, unable to return it with as much enthusiasm as Jake gives. He can only focus on so much at once.
Jake doesn’t mind. He kisses Dwight as eagerly as he did before. His lips trail across his cheek, and his teeth scrape down his jawline until they find his throat. A cry of pleasure pushes out of Dwight when Jake’s teeth pinch the soft, erogenous skin. Another one is dragged out when that pinch turns into suction. Dwight’s eyes roll back, overwhelmed by the stimulation.
Just when Dwight thinks he can’t handle anymore, Jake’s cock strikes something inside of him, and stars burst behind his eyes. His neglected cock twitches. He can feel the pre dripping onto his bare stomach.
“You feel good?” Jake asks, and the sound vibrates against Dwight’s throat. He wraps his teeth around a new spot and bites hard. Dwight moans again and nods his head. After a moment of silence—except for the sounds of Dwight’s back rubbing against the coarse tree bark and the synchronized huffing of their labored breaths—Jake adds, “Use your words.”
“Yes,” Dwight immediately whispers, the words hissing from between his teeth. He drops his free hand from Jake’s shoulder to his weeping cock and gives it a firm squeeze. He’s so sensitive that he can’t control the volume of his next moan, a begging “please” attached to the tail end of it.
“Fairfield,” Jake growls out. “Ahh, fuck, you’re so tight.” Blood rushes to Dwight’s face, turning him red. Desire boils in his groin. He’s the waves of a stormy ocean, the wind in a sandstorm, the lava boiling out of an erupting volcano. He never thought he would be one for dirty talk, but Jake’s words make his thoughts hazy. He squeezes his cock again.
“More,” he begs.
“Oh?” Jake asks. He presses a small kiss to the spot he’d just bitten. “I’ve been thinking about doing this to you since the day we met.” Dwight moans softly, slowly running his hand up and down his own length, focusing on Jake’s words and praying he’ll hit that star-struck spot deep in him again. “I dream of your mouth around my cock every night.” Dwight runs his thumb over the tip, letting out another moan so Jake knows he likes it.
“You’re tighter than I imagined. Hotter. If I could, I’d fuck you until you scream. Every day.”
Jake’s thrusting becomes more erratic the more he talks. There’s something about the odd stretch whenever Jake’s angle changes too much and the scratchy chafe rubbing his back raw that brings Dwight even closer to the edge. Things that should be uncomfortable only add to his mounting pleasure. He clenches around Jake, surprised that he pulls a moan out of the other man. That’s it. That’s the thing that pushes him over the edge: the sound of Jake’s pleasure.
“Fuck, I’m gonna—” Dwight gasps.
“Do it,” Jake snarls. He breathes heavily against Dwight’s neck. “Cum for me. Let me make you scream.”
“I’m—shit!”
“Beg for it. Say my name.”
“Please, Jake!” Dwight shouts a little too loud as he squeezes his orgasm out of himself. A long rope of semen shoots onto his stomach with some droplets reaching all the way up to his face. There is no time to collect himself. Even when the sensations of his ejaculate orgasm fades, the pleasure of Jake moving inside him doesn’t. It’s overstimulating. Dwight’s face stays scrunched, nose wrinkled, mouth in the shape of an “o.” Every movement coaxes out a whimper, moan, or the word “please.” His body is in overdrive.
Jake praises Dwight vocally. The word “good boy” curls in his chest, setting his heart on fire. He briefly wonders if he could orgasm again, but dismisses the idea when he feels Jake’s own orgasm mounting. His cock twitches inside him. Unable to hold onto the tree branch any longer Dwight’s arm drops down to rest on Jake’s shoulder, and the hand in his hand grabs a little harder.
“I’m so close,” Jake strains, nose pressed tightly against a sensitive bruises he’s left on Dwight’s throat. “Fuck, Dwight. Fuck. Pull my hair.”
Barely coherent, Dwight takes a moment to process the request. He tightens his hand into a fist, feeling Jake’s hair resist in return. Then he gives him a gentle, experimental tug. When that isn’t enough, he pulls harder. Jake snarls as his head is forced back. That does the trick. Jake is thrown over the edge, a cacophony of heavy exhales and gasping inhales decorated with a drawn out groan of deep satisfaction. The feeling of being filled up even more makes Dwight shudder and his teeth chatter. Already, he can feel Jake’s pleasure oozing out. It’s strange but not bad. He lets go of Jake’s hair.
They stay like this for a minute, both panting. Dwight’s tongue hangs slightly out of his mouth. Jake glances at it, mischief in his eyes, but he’s too tired to act. Instead, he carefully lowers Dwight back to his feet, arms and legs shaking from the exertion. Dwight doesn’t have the strength to stay standing, so he slides to the ground and lets his legs stretch out in front of him. Jake lowers himself into a squat.
Dwight stares at Jake. His afterglow is beautiful: dark cheeks, flushed skin, a sheen of sweat on his forehead, swollen lips, glassy eyes. Dwight passes his tongue over his dry lips. “Can I kiss you?”
“What?” Jake asks, confused by the question. “What do you mean? We just fucked. You don’t have to ask if you can kiss me.”
Dwight shrugs and leans in, giving Jake a chaste kiss. “Felt right.”
“You’re stupid,” Jake mumbles as his eyes close and their lips press together again.
“Welcome to the club,” Dwight says. Jake touches his thumb to Dwight’s face, smearing one of the semen splatters across his cheek bone. A smirk tugs his lips.
With the last bit of strength he has, Dwight pushes Jake down to lay on his back to get him away from his face. After a moment, he crawls over top the other man and lays down. He’s pleased when Jake embraces him and accepts the new activity with a hum. With his head pillowed on Jake’s chest, he listens to the beat of the other man’s heart. It’s gentle and easy, comforting. The rhythm to lull him to sleep. There is nothing else in the world but Jake right now. Even if the fog sweeps them into the arms of one of the monstrous killers, Dwight doesn’t care. He’s finally found his own little slice of heaven in this living hell.