Work Text:
It was getting late.
You both had agreed on a movie marathon, yet, for whatever reason, neither of you had bothered to check how long all the movies would run for. So it was late, now, and you were starting to fall asleep.
He knew you’d be sleeping out here, anyway, so he had already laid out the pull-out sofa for you, which you were now curled up on, a blanket draped over your body. He sat in a chair nearby, and you didn't even know that his eyes were on you, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest as you drifted off, the droning sound of the TV soothing you to sleep.
It was comforting, how close you were with Bo. In some of your other friendships, something like this would have been too close, too intimate. You both would have said goodnight long before it got so late, and you most certainly wouldn't be falling asleep in front of them. But with Bo, it was like every second needed to be cherished. Nothing was weird, nothing was off limits. It never felt like you were being “too close” with him.
In fact, you wished you could be even closer.
You’d liked him for a while. You couldn't pinpoint the exact day, or even month when you fell in love with him. It had been a slow process, and the feelings grew proportionally with time. It was a deep-seated, otherworldly type of love, the kind that makes your chest ache sometimes, the kind that makes you feel like you’ve truly found the one person you’re meant to be around forever.
You hadn't told him – after all, how could you? You wouldn't risk ruining this beautiful thing you had together, this friendship you’ve had for so many years. And your love for him ran deep enough that, even if you stayed like this forever, simply being near him was enough.
You shifted under the covers, adjusting the oversized shirt you now wore. You’d had an unfortunate accident with a bowl of soup an hour or two ago, and the clothes you’d worn to his house were now tumbling in his washer. You didn't want to run home at this hour, so he’d given you a t-shirt to wear. You’d positively glowed when you first put it on, basking in the scent of him ingrained in the fabric.
He gave you a few pairs of pants to try to wear, but they ended up all being far too big for you, big enough that no amount of drawstring-pulling would keep them up. So he had dug through some old clothes, and pulled out a pair of boxers, the tag still attached. He’d explained they were too small, but he never threw them away, for some reason. You put them on and they fit perfectly, like a pair of shorts. You could have sworn he blushed a bit, seeing you dressed in his clothes.
After that point, his demeanor had seemed to change. You wondered if it was all in your imagination. But he seemed to be more on-edge, staring at you, ripping his eyes away when you met his gaze. He’d zoned out at one point, and you touched his arm to get his attention, and you’d have thought you shocked him, the way he jumped back. You figured it was just the late hour, and maybe too many energy drinks getting to him.
You pondered it as you fell asleep. It was likely nothing. But what if–
No. Nothing.
And the quiet drone from the TV slowly faded into nothing as you drifted down into sleep.
***
He was watching you.
He’d been staring since you put on his clothes.
He'd been staring periodically for the last hour as you fell deeper into sleep.
He didn't know that you loved him. But his feelings matched yours, identically. And he thought about you more than he’d like to admit, in ways he would never admit.
Though, there had been a shift. He supposed he had always been holding back his feelings for you, thinking back on it now. He made excuses, told himself it wasn't out of the ordinary to jerk off thinking about his best friend. Told himself it was no big deal that he fantasized about you almost constantly. That was normal, right?
There had been one instance in particular that had nearly broken him. You both had been sitting on the floor, and he had taken your phone out of your hands as a joke, holding it in the air behind him. You’d reached for it, grabbing at his shirt and climbing into his lap as he leaned back further away from you. Your legs had straddled either side of his hips, your ass unintentionally grinding against his dick inside of his pants. He’d let it go on a bit longer than he admits he should have, before giving you back your phone and excusing himself to the bathroom for a suspiciously long time.
But that sensation, knowing how it would feel, having you against him like that – it consumed him. He needed it. He needed more. He needed you. And he wasn't sure he could wait much longer. He felt like he was going fucking crazy.
And then, today. Seeing you in his clothes. It had nearly been enough to make him snap right then and there and just take you. But he managed to hold it together. Until now.
He stared at your sleeping form. Just looking. Taking you in. Observing you in a way he never could normally. There was affection in his eyes, and unmasked hunger.
Something burned inside of him, a desire that made his stomach turn. He wanted you. He’d always wanted you. An opportunity was presenting itself to him; he would be insane to pass it up. But he was nonetheless insane for viewing it as an opportunity at all.
He stood, and sat on the edge of the mattress, careful to move slowly so as not to wake you. His hand, shaking with restraint, reached out towards you. Gently, testing the waters, he rested a palm on your shoulder. The fabric of the blanket was warm from your body heat as he gripped his fingers around it, moving as slow as his body would allow.
He shifted the blanket off of your shoulder. Waited. Listened to your breathing. Listened for a change. He heard nothing, so he kept moving. Pushed the blanket down a little further, down over your arms, then over your hips, and over your thighs.
His heart was pounding in his throat as he tried to keep silent, images flashing in his head, pictures of you, fantasies he’d had for years.
And then the blanket was off of you, tossed to the side in a pile. You lay there on your side, his t-shirt puddled around your frame, his boxers low around your hips, a bit of your own underwear peeking out from the waistband.
He finally let himself properly look at you like this. He’d been averting his eyes, trying not to look for fear that it would be too much for him to handle. He cherished his foresight, as he had to bite back a groan at the sight of you. You looked so peaceful.
So vulnerable.
Tentatively, he reached out a hand again towards your body, placing his fingers against your shoulder, one less layer of fabric between you now, easing into resting the weight of his hand against you. He waited again, his breath stunted, every part of him trying to keep as quiet as possible. But you didn't move.
He worked up a bit of courage, and slid his hand down your arm. Again, you didn't stir, and he wondered for a moment just how deeply a person could sleep. He wondered if this fantasy he was beginning to play out was even possible. But he had to try.
You had always been a notoriously heavy sleeper. The kind of heavy sleeper where even a firm shake wouldn't always wake you up. You seemed to be out extra cold tonight, luckily enough for him.
His hand slid down from your arm to your waist, carefully pushing up the fabric of the shirt so he could rest his hand directly on your skin. It felt like fire. As if being so close would burn him. He let his fingers trail over your skin, watching as goosebumps formed and faded in the wake of his touch. And he waited, again, trying to make this be enough for him. But the way he was getting hard from only a simple touch told him it wouldn't be anywhere near enough.
And then– you stirred. You took a deep breath, and shifted a bit.
He ripped his hand away, the air of the room feeling like ice on his fingers after the warmth of your skin. His heart pounded painfully hard in his chest and his mouth went dry.
And then you were still again, your breathing leveling back out. He waited for a moment longer, and gasped quietly, realizing he’d been holding his breath.
You appeared to be asleep.
The adrenaline in his veins only pushed him further. He moved faster this time, sliding a hand up your shirt, pushing the fabric up as he went. His fingers traced the curve of your chest and he sucked in a gasp through his teeth as he brushed a thumb over your nipple, feeling it perk up against his touch. He gave it a gentle pinch, and watched as your brow furrowed a bit at the sensation.
He repeated his motions, testing the waters of your consciousness and his own need, imagining the sounds you would make if you were awake. He stayed like that for a few seconds, a few minutes, a few hours, he didn't know.
He wanted so much more. He ached with need, seeing you like this, your body responding to his touch. Yet he knew he needed to make this be enough for himself. Because if you woke up and caught him, this would likely be the last he would ever see of your face. And what a gorgeous, perfect face, he thought.
Feeling braver now that you seemed to be entirely asleep, his hand slid down the length of your body, trailing over the curve of your waist, his fingers hooking into the waistband of the boxers you wore.
He took a few breaths, trying to calm himself, to still his shaking hands. This was it. He could get away with little touches, with looking. But if you woke up with your underwear around your ankles, there was no explaining his way out of it. He thought for a moment, contemplating if it was worth it.
But when he felt himself throb in response to the mere idea of seeing you naked, he knew he had no choice.
He adjusted his position on the bed, kneeling next to you, his movements slow and steady, silent. He wrapped his hands around your hips gingerly, rolling you onto your back. You stirred a bit at the change in position, shifting your legs and crossing an arm over your stomach.
It was an intentional move. You hadn’t been asleep from the moment he took the blanket off your body. At this point, you figured he knew you were only faking it. Yet you needed this fantasy to play out.
He gathered a bit of courage and let his fingers dip below the waistband of both the boxers and the underwear you wore underneath. And he pulled. Slowly at first, barely enough to shift the fabric. And then, inch by inch, slipping them down over your hips. The process was agonizing, and he grit his teeth in frustration.
His heart started to beat faster as he pulled them down further, exposing more of you, and a little more, and a little more, and–
His breath caught in his throat. He was fairly certain he was sweating. A little further. He had to restrain himself, pausing for a moment to take this in, the dim light from the TV just enough for him to make out the folds that turned into you, this part of you he had imagined many times but had never truly been able to picture.
He moved quicker now, desperate to get his hands on you, and after what felt to him like hours, he was slipping your feet through the holes in the boxers and throwing them to the side.
He eased your legs apart, his breathing ragged, cock throbbing inside his pants. He carefully positioned himself between your legs, placing a hand on either one of your thighs. His fingers dug into the skin there as he tried to calm himself, staring at the spot between your legs where you glistened with wetness in the dim light.
There was no turning back now. If you woke up now, well...he’d just have to hope you’d wanted this as badly as he did. And if you didn't want it, he’d have to hope he could find it within himself to hold you down.
With a shaking hand, he traced a finger through the wetness, watching your face as your eyes squeezed shut a bit tighter. He circled over your clit, the way he had envisioned himself doing it so many times.
You stirred, but didn't wake. So he took another risk. You were struggling to keep quiet at this point. Unsure if you should open your eyes, or continue to fight to keep your breathing steady and your body still.
He pressed a finger to your entrance. Testing. It slid inside and god you were so fucking tight–
And then, you cracked. The subtlest of sounds rose from your throat. Just barely a whimper, but enough to make him need to stifle a groan. He pushed in deeper, his mind overloaded as he tried to absorb all of this, stamp it in his memory. Your sound, your scent, the way you looked in the dim blue light.
He was careful moving his fingers, attentive to even the slightest shifts in your body. You couldn't exactly tell him if something felt good or not, so he had to read your cues. And he learned. Different movements drew different sounds from your throat, different angles made your chest rise and fall with quicker gasps.
He could hardly believe this was real. That he finally, finally had you like this. There was a knot of guilt in his stomach, but the feeling was almost totally overwritten by his unchecked lust for you. If he thought he was going crazy over you before, he realized now that he had no concept of what crazy even was.
He realized, suddenly, that he hadn't even been touching himself. This entire time, too focused on you, on this moment. It was enrapturing. He wasn't even sure he wanted to, for fear of shattering what was happening in front of him. But he needed something, he needed release, he needed to–
Feel you.
Fuck.
He knew he couldn't stop himself now that he’d thought of it. He cursed his own mind for putting the image in his head. Though, some part of him knew this was inevitable. He would never have been satisfied with just this.
He tried to calm himself and think logically, think of what the consequences would be, slipping a second finger inside of you, his body having already made the decision for him.
He could get away with it.
Just needed to be careful.
So he took his fingers out, met with a whimper from you, and began the slow, agonizing process of positioning both you and him. You helped him, just a bit, though not enough to break the fantasy. He felt his palms grow sweaty as he moved your legs apart further, bit by bit, until he could kneel between your thighs. His shoulders shook with a quieted sigh.
He nestled the head of his cock against your hole, just sitting there for a moment, trying to come to terms with what he was about to do. You were most certainly going to be sore in the morning; you would know immediately what happened. He’d be caught. Was it worth the risk?
He almost wanted to laugh. As if the risks would stop him now.
So he slid himself in. Just a bit, only a few inches at first. And he stopped. He saw stars, and realized he was holding his breath. He let it out, shaky, and shoved his knuckles against his teeth to try and catch the groan that slipped out with it.
You made a sound, too, one that drove him fucking wild, having to clench a fistful of the sheets to stop himself from grabbing you hard enough to wake you. Your knees were trembling with the effort of resisting the urge to not wrap your legs around him.
He lifted his hips and pushed a little bit further in. Easing you into it. He knew you'd likely be sore no matter what, but he didn't want to make you miserable. He watched your face carefully, the way your brow furrowed and your jaw clenched, little noises dropping from your lips every now and then.
And when he was all the way in, he simply sat. Chest heaving, baby hairs matted to his forehead with sweat. Nervous. What if you woke up right now? He pictured you screaming, squirming beneath him, trying to fight him off. And he saw himself grabbing your wrists, pinning them above your head, and fucking you until he was done.
God, I’m fucking sick.
He dared to move his hips a bit, just a shallow thrust, but enough to make you clench around him, breathing out a soft moan.
He had wanted this – needed this – for so long. He knew he wouldn't last long, so he tried to savor it, closing his eyes and just allowing himself to take in the sensation of being in you. So warm, wet, tight, fuck–
His hips jerked a bit harder than he intended, and you groaned, the way someone does when disturbed during a deep sleep. Yet your eyes stayed closed, your breathing stayed regular. You wondered if he still thought you were asleep.
So he started to move himself a bit more, finding a slow rhythm that was just barely enough for him. He gingerly placed his fingers on your hips, trying not to grab too hard, though he needed to touch you somehow.
He reveled in the way your body responded to him, even when you weren't conscious to process it. He wondered for a moment if you were dreaming. Dreaming of him, perhaps. As if. More sounds were wrenched out of you, as if he was dragging them up from your deepest depths. He supposed he was, in a way.
He thought again of how you would look if you were awake, like this. Would you be wrapping your arms around his neck, moaning his name, arching your back when he hit a spot you liked? Would you be grabbing him and flipping the two of you over so you could ride him? It was almost gut-wrenching, knowing how good this felt, but how much better it could feel. He thought this would be enough for him. But it would never be enough. He knew that now.
He could feel himself getting closer. It became harder to suppress his groans, and he found himself biting at his lip, fighting against himself with everything he had to keep quiet. Though, you weren't being very quiet yourself, every thrust drawing a gasp or a moan out of you.
He was so close now, he would need to pull out soon, but...he realized with a dawning panic that he would not be able to make himself do it. He couldn't. Not when you felt like this, your moans growing in intensity, your head pressing back harder into the pillow. He grabbed your waist a bit harder, fucked you a bit harder, and he knew he would probably wake you up but that didn't matter anymore as you pulled him over the edge, and then–
Your eyes snapped open as you were hit by a wave of pleasure so intense, and sensations rammed through you like brick walls, an overwhelming sensation of fullness, and, above you, in the dim light–
“Bo?” Your voice came out cracked, a half-moan, sounding miles away. Although it was all a fantasy, it felt so real.
The feeling ripped through you even stronger, and you realized – a thousand things at once, he was fucking you and he wanted you and, oh god, you really couldn't hold on for a second longer as you clenched down around him.
Your hands instinctively reached for him, needing to touch something as blinding white-hot pleasure seared your veins, you bucked your hips and you were convinced this couldn't be real but you didn't care because even if this was a dream it felt so fucking good, your hands grabbing onto his arms and digging into the skin to anchor yourself to something in this surreal moment.
His fingers held your waist in a vice grip, and he was quiet as he filled you, only a few hushed groans and his heavy breathing audible over your own moans.
And then there was silence.
What the fuck?
You didn't say it, but you were sure your expression said plenty. You could just barely see his face in the dark, but you could make out warring expressions on his face. Pleasure and satisfaction, yet also guilt, and terror.
Your mind raced a mile a minute trying to process this. He really had done all that. Did he know you were awake the whole time? It seemed too crazy of a thing for him to do, and you didn't even think that he liked you that way until not even an hour earlier. But the proof was right here, on top of you, pulling out of you, leaking out of you as you pulled your thighs together when he backed away.
He looked like he wanted to run away from you and never come back.
You tried to form a question, but found your voice would only ask one word: “What…?”
He held out his hands in a defensive gesture. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I...don't know what to say.”
You propped yourself up on an elbow. You knew you should feel disgusted, violated, creeped out at what just happened. But you felt none of those. In fact, you felt empty, deprived – missing his presence in you. You’d fantasized about him so many times, imagined him fucking you so many times in so many ways, but never would you have guessed you would have gotten it, and certainly not like this.
“Don't apologize,” you managed to say, forcing your throat to pull the words out. “Wanted this. Wanted you.” You had hoped that would come out more eloquently, and you wanted to say something more beautiful, more poetic, more romantic. But you were not entirely convinced yet that this wasn't a dream. There were a few more words you had to force out. “You woke me up when you took the blanket off.”
His expression was puzzled, in complete disbelief. “You– what?”
You let yourself fall back down against the pillow, your fingers pulling down the hem of your shirt, trying to cover yourself; although, you didn't mind being seen by him.
“Just ask next time.”