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You and Dave, like, just moved in, and already you’re sharing some pretty close quarters.
It’s not supposed to be this hot. Ever. You’re used to Washington weather, cool summers up in the mountains. Dave’s used to hotter, you suppose. But it’s way too hot for you right now. You’re having the heat-lazies, the ceiling fan on in your room, trying to pretend like you’re not sweating while you sit there in your boxers and tee shirt and message with your friends.
Of course, this is when Dave has to barge in without knocking. “Hey, Egbert, you wanna—oh. Hey.”
He’s in a hoodie and jeans. “How are you even dressed right now?” It’s eighty degrees. Isn’t he dying?
Dave just shrugs. “Houston gets in the one-tens, dude. I mean, do you want me to be hangin’ out in just my unmentionables right now?”
“It would help me feel better,” you grumble. Your computer’s too hot on your lap. You can just do something else. You snap it closed, set it aside—and when you look back to the doorway, Dave’s shrugging out of his hoodie, his shirt riding up to show his taut stomach, his jutting hipbones, before he leaves his sweatshirt on the floor. “What are you doing?”
“Soothing your sensitive feefees.” He undoes his belt, lets his jeans drop, steps out of them. He’s just as stripped as you now.
No. This is—no. This is something that’s supposed to happen when it’s dark out, when you’re sleepy and needy and not when you can see him and not when his skin looks like that in the afternoon sunlight coming through your half-closed blinds. “You were, um.” You swallow hard, try to look away. “What did you want?”
“I forget.” And he’s closing the door behind him, coming up to your bed, crawling up and making the mattress indent with his slight weight and leaning over you and breathing into your face. “How about you?”
“Dave oh my God—“ He silences you effortlessly, a soft press of his lips against yours, soft slide of his mouth against your chapped lips, and draws back, millimeters, miles, enough for you to second-guess yourself. “Dave,” comes out of your mouth a little softer.
His eyes are unreadable behind those shades. You don’t know how to reach him, except for reaching out with your hands, taking them off. Dave catches one of your wrists, though, and reaches for your glasses. No. Not your glasses, you need those—is this how he feels? When he gently tugs, they come off your face, and you do the same with his, and they end up together on your bedside table, arms tangled, just like you and Dave, all limbs and summer sweat and he’s in your face again and.
And his mouth comes down on yours again, lips on yours, opening, and he cradles your jaw in his hand while his tongue opens your mouth, pushes past your teeth, nudges up against your own. Warm, and wet, and you’re so thirsty, your mouth feels dry and your skin feels alight and you can’t get enough of him, his skin is soft and you can feel his heartbeat under your fingertips.
Dave’s hips are a solid weight above your own. It’s too hot in this room, but Dave seems to get it, sliding his hands up under your shirt, pressing against your stomach before yanking up the bottom hem. How is he so quiet in these moments when ordinarily he can’t shut up? But now he’s soft, his skin creamy against the brown of your fingers as you rub his arms, and he just kisses you. Harder. Harder.
Until every move of his jaw sends his teeth scraping across your bottom lip. Until he actually takes your lip, sucks it into his mouth, and you swear the lid’s going to blow off your skull. “Fuck, John, you taste so,” and you don’t let him finish that sentence, pushing your tongue into his mouth and outlining his teeth until he bites the tip of it, too.
His hands light your skin on fire at every place they touch, leaving searing sensations in their wake. So smooth, the way they go over your coarse skin, and they drop down your sides, where you’re sensitive, it would be ticklish if there wasn’t such an obvious intent behind it. Your heart is going to leap out of your chest at this rate. It’s not supposed to be like this. Dave’s mouth isn’t supposed to taste like sunshine and his touch isn’t supposed to be this sizzling. This is too slow. You need hard. Hard and fast and get it over with and—
And Dave’s getting the picture. He moves faster, grinds down on you—and he’s already half-hard—so are you, and you roll back up against him and he makes a soft noise in his throat and rakes his fingernails gently down your shoulders and you need his bare skin and you need it right now. It’s too easy to bite down on his neck, suck a little, and then a steady stream of “shitJohnshitJohnshit” is dropping from his lips, quiet and frantic. Your hands seek, and his join yours, and clothes come off.
He presses himself against you, crushing his body to you as if he could obliterate you—him, that slim little thing, trying to pin you down—but he’s stronger than he looks, and he’s domineering, and he knows what he wants. You’re sweltering, hot under the collar you’re no longer wearing, and just from this much, just from him running his hands down your chest and threatening with the edge of his teeth against the sensitive skin under your ear, you’re hard, god damn it. “Damn it, Dave,” comes out under your breath.
Dave knows exactly what you mean. Your hands slide down, down his back, and you enjoy the shiver that goes through his spine before you grip at his ass, pull him close, so there’s no mistaking what your dicks are doing. Dave, though, Dave wants to get his hands on you, on all of you, palming at the trail of hair on your stomach and pressing down, further down, slipping inside the waistband of your boxers and gripping and you bite down on Dave’s collarbone because it’s too good.
It shouldn’t be this good. His fingers shouldn’t be so slim and perfect, his pulls on your cock shouldn’t be so practiced and precise. You’re already throbbing in his grip. He gets the idea, smears the precum at the tip with the heel of his hand, and you cant up with your hips into him and grind against him instead, your dick out as your boxers slip down your hips.
At least Dave’s just as disheveled as you are. His hair’s a mess, rumpled and sticking to his forehead, the nape of his neck, in blond streaks, and his eyes—pupils lust-blown framed by a ring of sinful red, and when he looks at you like that it does things to your chest that you’d rather not think about. You can’t handle his stare right now. There’s an easy way to get him to close his eyes: reach up your hands, take his nipples between thumb and forefinger, pinch just enough but not too much, and he’s moaning, the adam’s apple in his throat bobbing even as you go to run your teeth over it, and you can see his eyelashes fluttering as he tries to keep the sensations straight. You shouldn’t know this much about his body.
And his boxers are slipping off, too, until they become puddles of useless fabric at the base of the bed, kicked away by impatient feet. Oh. So. You’re naked. When it’s light out. What do you do with this? Close your eyes. It’s dark if you close your eyes. And you hate how you can still map his body perfectly even like this, how his form is seared behind your eyelids as your fingertips trace muscle groups.
Even though you’re naked, there’s still something covering you. Dave is hot as hellfire at every place where your bodies meet, rocking his hips against yours, and you can feel his cock against your belly, searching for friction even as it drools onto you. His thigh comes up between your legs and you just tangle with him further, feeling guilty for subjecting him to rampant man-ape-ness as your hairy body meets up with his smooth skin.
But he keeps touching you, grabbing you, smoothing his hands along every part of your body he can find, almost like he likes it or something. Even though your back is pinned to the mattress, he gets his hands between you and the bed, scratching a little at your back as he moves down. It shouldn’t surprise you when he kisses you again, but you’re startled, a little swooping in your gut, as he starts licking at your tongue again. “Fuck,” you sigh out, hoping he didn’t hear, knowing he probably did. You can’t take it back now.
His hands move down. Down further, behind your hips, in the small of your back, and his hands curl in, just the slightest bit, and it feels like your whole body just turned into a fireworks display. You rut up against him, and he moves his hands even further, taking two handfuls of ass and pressing himself to you just as desperately. “God damn, John,” and every time he says your name you hear the invocation of a prayer, and he squeezes. Just squeezes.
You want to kiss him, but his mouth has slipped off and away, down your throat and along the top of your shoulder and back up again, never in the same place twice. Each press of his mouth against your skin feels like a lightning strike. “Oh my God,” and your eyes are rolling back in your head as he keeps rolling his hips against you, your cocks bumping together imperfectly, his hands slipping further in so he can grab and pull you to him and—
That’s. That’s close. That’s too close. His fingertip is a little too close to—to things you don’t want to think about, and then it slips, just touching, not even doing anything, and you flinch. The movement’s so severe that it jolts Dave’s frame, too. “Whoa, there,” he whispers down at you. And then he just—touches, again, just barely ghosts along it, and flares shoot up your spine, heat overwhelming your whole body. “Steady.”
And all the time, he’s never stopped his slow movements against you. No matter how much he’s trying to phase through your skin and melt into you, all it is right now is pressure, really, gradual tidal waves rocking through you gently as he continues to kiss along your neck. It’s hard to breathe. You feel like you’re choking, even though Dave’s weight on you doesn’t feel bad.
That fingertip just won’t stop. He’ll just lay it against your—your—entrance, not even moving, just resting it there, and everything’s so sensitive you feel like you’re going to melt through the mattress. Every single time, a slight shudder runs through you. “Dave?” You hate how weak you sound right now, your voice thin and shaking.
Maybe Dave’s starting to get the picture, because he takes it back again, stilling above you, his frame now as tense as yours. “Does it feel bad?”
You don’t know how to answer that question. Your first instinct is to plead the Fifth. “Um.” You swallow heavily, keeping your eyes firmly shut. Bad isn’t exactly the right word for it. Uncomfortable, unusual, unexpected, yes, but not bad. “No…”
“Look at me, John.” Not a command, just a request, and you hate it when he words things like that, in that tone, because your eyes come open and all you see is his face. Is this what he looks like all the time behind his shades, confused and vulnerable and open like this? His eyebrows are tight, mouth set in a determined line. “Does it feel good, then?”
You’re definitely not answering that. You bring your arms up, loop them around his shoulders, bring him down for a kiss, but it’s not demanding, just a gentle kind of give-and-take. This isn’t supposed to be gentle. This isn’t supposed to be nice. It isn’t supposed to feel like you’re spinning out of control and Dave’s the only one who can hold you together. You pull away, but only to hide your flushing face in the crook of Dave’s neck and shoulder, breathing in the smell of his skin—clean, sharp—and trying to still choke down enough air to keep your sanity.
Dave’s hands leave you. You don’t know what to do. You hear shuffling, but you’re not opening your eyes. Your hands slip down from Dave’s shoulders; with your eyes closed, you map out each of his ribs, the articulation in his spine. Then something gets shoved under your pillow, and Dave’s body heat is back firmly above you. “Do you trust me?” Dave says, his voice husky. All you do is nod, but Dave repeats it. “Do you?”
“I—“ Your mouth is dry. You swallow futilely. “I trust you.”
He rewards you with a searing kiss, crushing his body down to yours again. His hips are against the insides of your thighs, his hands running down your chest, stomach, hips, his touch hot and pressured and leaving licks of fire in his wake. One hand gets between your bodies, runs down your cock, and he rolls your balls in the palm of his hand, making your hips rise up to meet him. “Fuck,” he says into your mouth, panting even though he’s the one pulling you apart.
His fingertip presses insistently into your taint. You don’t know how to tell him how it feels. No one’s ever touched you like this, and you feel like something unhinged in you from just that touch. It’s too hot in here. You feel small under him. And then his hand pushes even further back, his forearm nudging along the underside of your cock as his fingertip moves and then rests and then rubs just that slightest bit and you’re going to die. You’re on the surface of the sun and you’ve just gone supernova. Every nerve ending in your entire body is singing, your toes curling in, hands gripping possessively around Dave’s waist.
“Trust me,” Dave whispers, and you do. Oh, you do, and he’s going to be the death of you, because it’s not just those light fluttering touches, not the soft drag of his fingertip against you, but putting pressure on it, not trying to get –in—inside—not yet, but threatening. His other hand reaches up under the pillow—it was lube, oh, oh my God, this is. This is really happening. You’re going to have an aneurysm and you wish you could turn off your brain and you can’t, you just can’t.
You hear rather than see him squirt it into his palm; you can feel it slicking the space behind your balls, and it runs down to his fingertips, and oh. It’s not quite so rough, now. It’s slick and warm, the chafing threat of friction gone, and it’s not supposed to feel wet back there and it’s strange and new and overwhelming and that’s only the beginning. A soft little noise you don’t recognize as your own comes out of your throat.
And then Dave starts to. Starts to—press. In. And you can feel it, every single articulation in his fingertip, as he nudges against you and persuades. His lips are little moth’s wings fluttering against the pulse in your throat, tracing it down to the hollow in your collarbones. The mattress feels unsteady but maybe it’s because you’re shaking, trembling, your whole body vibrating and thrumming. And his mouth moves down, and his finger moves in, and.
“John,” Dave says, wondrous, from roughly the area of your chest. You drop your hands to the sheets, ball them into fists and grip them so tightly you swear they’ll rip, but it’s to keep from hurting Dave, from tearing him apart and crawling up inside him and getting under his skin just like he’s doing to you. “John, it’s just me. It’s okay.”
It’s not. You’re having twelve heart attacks with a petit mal seizure as a garnish. Everything he’s doing to you is so intense, overstimulation almost to the edge of unbearable. You can feel his slicked finger as it slides, goes further, and there’s a kind of—a soreness in the muscle clenching around his knuckle, but not a bad kind of soreness, something that holds you open and peels away everything you try to shield yourself with.
Dave’s mouth is down at your hip, his hand working behind, and his other hand just rubs slow, soothing circles on your hip as he takes your dick in his mouth, rolls the foreskin down with his lips, runs his tongue over the slit and down to your frenum as his finger plunges deeper, and you seize up and choke and irony of ironies he has to tell you to “breathe, just breathe, John.”
How can you? He’s stealing it from you on purpose. You tip up into his mouth, but that only moves his finger deeper into you, pressing in a different, strange new way. He feels so deep in you, and you still feel that stretch around him, and all the while he won’t stop licking you from the inside of his mouth, dutifully swiping away every bead of precum from your slit. “OhmygodDave. Dave, holy shit—“
Your mind is full of nothing but blasphemes and curses when he starts to take his finger out, his mouth moving away from you. And then he plunges in, on, and the slick heat inside and out is going to kill you. It feels—good. Far too good, it shouldn’t feel good, and you hate yourself even as the sensation runs along your skin and ends with a moan stuck in your throat as you choke on nothing. You—you like him inside you. You like his finger doing—what it’s doing. You like the way you feel around him. And you’re terrified, shaking with guilt, and Dave just hums around your cock in his throat and you come even further undone.
You want more. You don’t even know what more is, you just know that this is wrecking you and you’ve never enjoyed the feeling of being helpless quite this much. Dave has to know: you’re throbbing against his tongue, twitching around his finger. “Ohhhhh god, oh god oh god oh god,” falls out of your mouth, you don’t even realize you’re saying anything, as his fingertip searches in you, touches every part inside you. You can’t breathe. You’re suffocating. Your aspect is gone, your class swept away.
And all the while, Dave’s just… taking his time. Drawing it out, making you spasm and pulse, and then. Then his fingertip finds this—thing. Something you didn’t think existed, go straight to nirvana, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars, because this is it. This is—unbelievable, and a wail rises in your throat and you can actually hear it when you rip the sheets you’re fisting them so hard and your entire body twists under Dave and he just—smiles. Just smiles. “Good, right?”
“Shut up.” Because if you don’t talk about it, it doesn’t exist, and you don’t have to think about it. You don’t have to think about how good this feels to your body, how bad this feels to your soul. And Dave just—he keeps rubbing his fingertip inside you, nudging up against it over and over, and you feel pinpricks across your skin as you try to deal with the surges running through your nerves right now. You are electrified, absolutely fried, and every time he strokes with his finger, he licks with his tongue along the underside of your cock, and you are going to die. Dave is trying to kill you.
It’s too much. Too good. And you almost feel sick with it, closing your eyes and your breath hitching and furrowing your brow and this can’t be happening. This isn’t—you’re not. Dave draws his mouth off of you, stills inside you, and that hitch of breath is sounding more like a dry hiccupping sob. You want to tell him to go away and to never stop all in the same phrase, and you can’t, words won’t work like that, and you’re not sure you can words right now even if you tried. Dave’s making the attempt for you, though. “You okay up there?”
No. No talking about it. You shove his head back down, and he starts blowing you again, thrusting with that one finger, and every time he nudges up against that little something and you can’t breathe for a millisecond, heart beating fast, before you swallow down frantic gulps of air. You’re drowning. Dave’s your anchor and your sea, never letting you drift too far but trying to subsume you all the same, draw you underwater and never let you go.
A second slicked fingertip starts playing—outside—and it’s still difficult for Dave to press in but you’re amazed with how you give, how it feels to be stretched around those two fingers, how you can feel each knob of his knuckles as it slips in and out. And you’re full, too, full of him, and he never stops playing with your foreskin with his tongue, sometimes hollowing his cheeks so hard you think you’re going to burst, sometimes taking you into his throat and swallowing and you wonder how he does that so effortlessly.
Sometimes he just lets his fingers rest. Then it’s not so overwhelming, just something solid, filling you, while he gives you the best blowjob of your life. But then he moves, and you make the most indecent noises, trying to crawl away from too much sensation but still trying to get closer, see how far you can push yourself. How far Dave’s willing to take you. “Fuck, oh fuck,” you breathe.
Dave’s other hand just sweeps up and down your thigh, like he’s trying to sap the tension from your bones, but you’re wound up so tight you feel like you’re going to snap, tuned to fever pitch and moaning right on key. He pops off of your cock, but only to press wet kisses to your stomach, burying his face in your navel and tonguing into it even through your trail, and he has to hold you down by pressing his entire body against you, weight pushing you into the mattress, as you jerk again, two fingertips now instead of just one putting pressure up against that—thing. “Need you to breathe, John. It’s just me. It’s okay. Breathe.”
Heir of Breath. Breathing is kind of your thing. But Dave’s making it so hard, thrusting with two fingers, stretching you around him and filling you and then leaving you empty just before he plunges again, and you feel like he’s obliterating you in the subtlest way possible. “Dave,” you sigh out, and all you breathe is him, only him, the smell of the sweat plastering his baby-fine blond hair to his forehead, the scent of soap clinging to his body.
He bites down on your lip when he starts to wriggle in a third finger, and you make a noise you’ve never heard from yourself before, something desperate and needy and panicked all at once, and he knows, he has to know, he’s been on the other side of this, has to know how it feels for someone to deconstruct you like this, take you apart and leave you in fragments that you don’t quite know how to hold together. Except Dave’s not letting you crack, he’s holding you together, free hand and mouth sapping all the tension you didn’t know you were holding in your muscles, your arms, chest, stomach, thighs, hips, and that third finger. Oh god.
Stretched. Almost to the point of a burn, but a slow simmer, something undeniably pleasurable, and hot. You’re burning alive. You’re roasting in Hell. Not just the muscle clamped around the base of his fingers, but inside, too, stretch and fill and plunge so deep you wonder how he’s ever going to get out of you. He’s never been, you realize. Never been away from you, out of you, he’s your right side, he’s your lungs, he’s the one person who’s always been there for you for more than a decade, died for you like you died for him and like you’re dying again right now, a filthy sound crawling out of your throat as you claw at his shoulders for something to cling to.
He works his way up to pumping those fingers in you. His dick is jutting against yours again; you can feel how hard he is, how wet from his own dickdrool, and your cock is still slick from his spit, and you move against one another, and oh. The way his hips move against you—it’s like he knows what you want, knows and doesn’t make you articulate, knows before you’re even aware of your own desires. “Fuck, Dave,” and you’re sure that’s been your litany for minutes—hours—years—“fuck, Dave, oh my god,” and you move your hips just like he’s moving his and it moves you against him and moves him in you and you’re going to die from this. Drowning to death in a sea of fire.
You can’t stand the noises coming from your own throat. They scare you. You swallow them down, capture Dave’s mouth again, but he’s panting, hard, breathing enough for both of you even as you can’t catch a breath. His huffs are hot against your lips, and he just presses his forehead to yours, and this. If he does this, it’s bearable. If he does this, you can keep all the sensations straight, take your air straight from his mouth, give him all your words straight from your lips without having to say them. Words like please and now and need. Words like his name, over and over in your head, a new sequence for your genetic code, he’s that deep in you, that intrinsic to who you are.
And he knows. He knows it, because he feels it, too, if his hardness against you is any indication, and you want to wrap your hand around it and give him a few strokes for relief but he lifts his hips and you make an obscene filthy noise because you needed that, needed the friction of your cock against the soft skin of his stomach, but he’s moving down, and then his fingers aren’t, and then his. He’s. You can feel—him—pressing against you—oh god—
Because you’ve been saying it since you were thirteen years old, and he knows the words that you want to tell him, and he just keeps pressing his forehead to you even as he’s trying to guide himself in, just keeps mumbling, “it’s okay, it’s me, breathe, it’s okay,” like he knows, like he understands, and he doesn’t, he doesn’t get it, he doesn’t know how utterly humiliating this is that he’s seeing you like this, that he knows what you need, that he’s giving you everything you never knew you wanted, everything you’ve been trying to deny and tamp down and you’re emotionally wrecked even as your pleasure’s spiking even higher.
Your breathing comes in wet hitches. You are not crying, you’re not, the water tracks running down your face are pain-wet from the uncomfortable stretch of yourself around his cock, the burn in your muscle trying to clamp down, and he doesn’t force, nudges with gentle movements of his hips, and then just holds himself inside, just barely halfway but holds himself still. He doesn’t seem to know where to touch first; now that he has both hands free, he just runs them down your sides, along your hips, encouraging you to wrap your thighs around his waist, and it changes the angle in you and you sob again.
His forehead has never left yours. He might be saying little soothing words, but they’re lost under your own pulse thudding in your ears. “It’s okay, John,” and you hate that he’s treating you like you’re breakable and fragile but you feel like you’re going to crumble in this moment.
When you were a kid, you went on a field trip to a glass-making studio. You watched, fascinated, as the artists blew through those thin tubes, made these bubbles of orange molten glass swell, waited to tie them off. They let the kids try it. Most of the bubbles were too small to be useful, just little lumps of liquid sand that got melted down and played with again. Your bubble, though—you blew too hard, and the glass got so thin that it broke when you tried to tie it off.
That’s how you feel now. Like liquid glass, hot and molten at the core, and swollen with something else, stretched to the point of breaking and about to shatter at the wrong touch, burst with too much. But Dave is an artist with you. He knows exactly how to roll, how to pinch and soothe and mold, and when he slips out and back in he hits home in a way you didn’t expect and it makes you cry out in a high, thin voice and he just soothes it out of you with his lips at your adam’s apple, teeth playing in your scruff.
You’re shaking, trembling with the effort of holding yourself together, but Dave helps, his hands working as if tying invisible ropes across your skin, keeping your chest from bursting, stopping you from cracking. He’s doing this thing where he’s biting his lip with concentration. If this is a victory for him, it’s not showing on his face. “Dave,” you say, and you realize there’s no other words you can put behind it. “Dave.”
“I know,” is all he says, low and husky. His hips are tense from holding himself back. “Let me move, I’m dyin’ here.”
“Yeah,” you whisper back. “You can—you can—“
He rolls out, snaps his hips forward, and the head of his dick hits right up against that spot that made you collapse. You scream. It’s too good, a lightning storm along your nerves. “God, John,” and you can’t look down, can’t force yourself to look at the way your bodies are joined, how hard you still are even though he hasn’t touched you for ages. All you see is his half-lidded eyes, his salacious smile. “You shoulda—let me do this before now, fuck, I knew you’d love it—“
“I—ah!” The next word was supposed to be don’t, but it gets swallowed by another howl when he thrusts into you again. He’s making you think about it and you don’t want to think, you just want to feel, turn your brain off and listen to your body and let it possess you for now and then put it aside so you never have to ruminate on it, never have to reconcile this moment with anything else you’ve said or done.
“God you feel so good,” Dave’s murmuring above you. He never shuts up. It never surprises you when he doesn’t shut up during sex, either. But this time—this time the roles are reversed, and he’s still saying those sinful things, and even though it’s the same words it’s such a different context. “So tight, jesus, you’re clenching on me like the devil’s cock ring, you’re so good it hurts, fuck…”
“So good it hurts,” you repeat, and you’re not talking about physical pain. You’re talking about the pressure in your chest when he moves in you, that absurdly affectionate look on his face, even the way he breathes right now. Maybe he’s stolen your aspect from you, because you feel like time’s just dilating out into forever, you don’t remember a moment when he wasn’t inside you, doing things to you, making you feel like you’re already dead and on another plane of existence.
“Breathe, just breathe, lemme fuck you,” and when he says it like that you shiver again like a hypothermia victim brought in from the cold. And Dave’s your heat and your warmth, the closer you get to him the more you shake, the more of him you take the more you feel like you’re falling apart. Your toes are curling in so hard it aches, and your hands are scrabbling in little claws down his arms, his sides, his chest, his back, you don’t know what you want to touch but you want to get under his skin just like he’s doing with you.
With every thrust, he hits up against that hot spot, that one thing that makes you scream and howl, and you can feel the surge to your cock when he does that, dick bobbing and leaking precum onto your stomach, and it’s so intense, too much, stretch and fill and plunge and take and pulse and heat and he goes from these slow tidal rolls against you and starts crashing into you like a tsunami into shore, what came before merely the calm before the storm.
And the storm’s breaking around you, he’s vicious with you, teeth at your throat and nails running down your sides, and yet it’s never too much, never going too far, sparking you along like spurs in your side, and you find yourself moving down to meet him, making his thrusts into you twice as powerful. God, and every movement of him is slick and you can feel it as he rubs against the ring of muscle and fills you only to pull out and leave you empty and plunge in again and oh God you’re going to die.
Because he just keeps going faster, and it feels like he’s going deeper every time, harder against that spot, blinding you with more than nearsightedness and need, and every time he pistons his hips his mouth jostles against yours and your cock bounces on your stomach and you can feel something tightening in your gut. It tightens even more when Dave licks your bottom lip, sucks it into his mouth, bites it and sucks on it and pulls it when he draws away, breathing down into your mouth.
Dave’s losing control, he’s discomposed, he’s just as sex-mussed as you right now, giving in to sensation and it just feels too good and he’s finally done it he’s turned your brain off and all you are is nerve endings blindly firing and muscles tensing and skin sizzling and hair standing on end as it all thrums through you shaking and trembling with every movement.
He hits that spot once, twice, again, hits home and something unravels and it’s too much pressure and you give up, you’re done, you can feel your cock pulsing and you throw your head back and it’s like Dave punched you in the stomach and grabbed something inside you and won’t let go and he’s pulling it out of you while you grit your teeth and try not to shriek and fail miserably and while your cock spurts you can feel yourself clenching around him and that makes it go on impossibly longer you’ve never cum so hard in your life and you’ve never felt worse afterwards.
Dave does a miraculous thing, goes still and shuts up, and his arms tense as he holds himself over you, and you can see him biting his lip, eyebrows drawn together tightly, and that’s—it’s not just that you’re clenching, it’s that he’s pulsing, pulsing in you, and everything becomes impossibly slick and hot and you realize he just came in you, Dave Strider just came inside you, and your cock tries to outdo itself and you pulse one last time and collapse, just collapse.
It’s like falling from ten thousand feet only to catch yourself just before you hit the ground. It’s like walking down fifty flights of stairs and then trying to walk on solid ground. It’s like a sugar crash, or maybe just a crash, violence and collision, and you can feel your body shaking like an addict even while Dave pulls out. It’s uncomfortable and tight and both of you are breathing hard and he’s trying to not make it hurt so much but it hurts and not physically.
God, what did you just let yourself do?
Dave’s your best friend. Your best friend, and he just. He. He reached up inside you and touched where you thought you were safe, tore you apart while being as gentle as he could, and you’re wrecked, absolutely wrecked, shaking enough to disintegrate this shitty bedframe even as he lets you curl around him. He just. He put his fingers inside you. He put his cock inside you.
Dave Strider just fucked you up the ass.
You can’t process this right now.
Because you’re not gay. You’re not. You’re into chicks and you like them but there’s nothing deep there, they’re just girls and you know their names and faces and favorite ice cream flavors but you would never think of messaging them in the middle of the night from the next room over just because you can’t sleep. And that’s okay. You like girls, and that’s enough. Maybe you loved a few.
This isn’t like that at all. Dave’s—Dave’s your Dave. Your best friend. And he belches when he eats garlic and he drinks too much apple juice and he yodels in the shower and half the time he pisses with the door cracked and he cries when he listens to Enya and you know him. You know him just about as well as people can ever know each other. And you trust him, trust him blindly. Trust him to do as you say, not to push you farther than you want to go. Trust him not to talk about this, to keep this tucked away and private and between the two of you and nothing more.
This isn’t love. This is terrifying and brutal and it’s ripped you apart in a way you don’t want to think about. This isn’t love, so you’re not gay. This is just Dave. Just—Dave. Your Dave. He runs his hands through your hair, and they’re already cooled off, soothing the heat out of your body. When he hands you back your glasses, you gladly jam them on your face, even though you can’t bring yourself to look at him right now. His face is unreadable now that he’s wearing his shades. “What kinda pizza do you want?”
“Uhh.” You roll over as he runs for the door. You don’t want him to see you like this, crushed and destroyed and slick with sweat and cum and self-loathing. “I don’t care. Whatever.”
“If you don’t say, I’m getting Rotolo’s.”
You hate Rotolo’s. “Shorty’s nacho cheese.”
Dave makes a little hissing sound. You know he’s pumping his fist. It’s his favorite, you know, all those jalapeno peppers and tomato bits and crushed-up Fritos in the cheesy toppings. It also makes him regret all of his life decisions starting about Hour Three after he eats it.
Nothing’s changed. He’s still an uncool little dweeb who gets excited about being an adult just because it means he can eat pizza every night. You’re still a douchebag prankmaster who takes every chance to show him up. Both of you are kind of assholes a little bit. But you’re best friends, and three hours from now, you’ll have showered and eaten and you’ll be beating him soundly at Mario Kart before Shorty’s Episode V: Revenge of the Pizza kicks in and you’ll feel better. You hope.