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–and English has his hands on you, and honestly this is almost (almost) too much, but you tell yourself you're fucking fine, because there's nothing else you can be. This is what you've wanted for years now, something you've thought about, dreamt about for so long that it doesn't quite feel real. Not even after almost a month of being wined and dined (you're not sure which one of you was doing that to the other, he's more apt to blush, but you're the one who's been pining, it's all kind of confusing).
If you're thinking analytically then you suppose it's logical for your stomach to feel the way it does when his fingertips touch your skin just so. If you're thinking psychologically, it's perfectly understandable that you're somewhat nervous, even if you're loathe to admit it. You know exactly how you want this to go, so it only makes sense that you feel like someone on the top of the world, one step from falling off.
You're not sure that's the right simile to use in this situation, or if it's even a simile to begin with. What's the other one? You can barely think right now. Eng–Jake's tongue is on your neck, his teeth making marks on your skin, and you inhale sharply, swallowing some downright dirty words in the process.
You refuse to show how much you want this–how much you have wanted this. Any indication of what you told him ("liked you for years, and I was just so scared") feels like a weakness, one that you won't allow yourself, not again. You've got him where you want him, and he wants to be here, so there's no reason whatsoever that you shouldn't be yourself, and that means this isn't a big deal.
It's just–
Your nails are digging into his hips and your room is so dark, you can only just say the lascivious grin on his face as he leans over you, and, God, you just never thought this day would come.
It's goddamn obscene. You've got a lap full of Jake English, and he's got his horrible (wonderful) shorts unbuttoned and his face is red, his pupils dilated, and he kisses you. You're still trying to get used to that.
He kisses like he does everything else, eagerly and with his all, and you're competitive by nature. He bites your bottom lip and you lick into his mouth and he's already moving against you, whining like he'll die if he doesn't get off right now. So, fuck it, as soon as the two of you separate, lips spit-slicked and panting hard, you go for your own jeans, nearly knocking him off your lap in the process.
"I guess you couldn't, as they say," he's breathing heavily as he climbs off you, grabbing the bottom of his shirt, "handle the heat." He laughs at his own lame joke, and you laugh as his glasses get caught in his shirt as he pulls it over his head. What a fucking dork.
You say as much, but it's practically incoherent, and he quirks an eyebrow at you, but you are just so sick of talking.
He makes this weird surprised sound in his throat when you grab him and practically throw him on your bed, the mattress bouncing underneath his weight, and it bubbles out of his mouth in the form of laughter, and you feel your hands shake, because this is–no, no, no, you're not going to start getting sappy.
His legs are too fucking hairy, and, you think as you go to kiss him, you'll probably tell him that tomorrow. You're so glad this didn't happen as a one time thing. Something where you both would have ignored it the next day. Maybe this won't last forever, but there's some sense of permanence here, and you never thought, never let yourself think that would be possible.
There's the feeling of tears behind your eyes, the burning, choking sensation of too many fucking emotions, but you tell yourself to stop that, stop that right the fuck now, because this is too good for that. There's no reason for crying, there never is.
Jake's skin is hot to the touch, but his hands are cold, and you hiss when he presses his palm to your erection, red and leaking against your stomach, and his eyebrows furrow, like he doesn't quite know what he's doing.
"Ever masturbated, English?" you ask, and there's meant to be sarcasm in your tone, but it comes off weak, and your arms are shaking, but it's probably just from holding yourself over him you tell yourself. And, fuck, he looks so nice on your bed, all defined muscles and tanned skin.
"Mm," Jake says, the tip of his tongue protruding from his mouth, "once or twice." His hand grips your cock at the base and he slowly starts to stroke you, taking his time. The little fucker, he looks you in the eyes, and he says, "How about you? Ever rubbed one out while thinking about me?"
"A-ah," you can feel your voice rising in pitch, your cheeks growing red, and his hand starts moving faster, but he's playing with the wrong guy if he thinks he's going to get the last word in on the matter. "Have to say, h-having a crush on you since...since puberty kicked in? I jerked off to you more times than you want to know."
He moves his wrist in the most sinful ways, and your arms are trembling at this point.
"Well, golly, Strider," he says, and there's that disgustingly lewd grin again, "maybe if I'd known it was snowing in Houston on account of me, this would have happened sooner."
You choke on a bit of disbelieving laughter, what a nerd.
"Stop," you somehow manage to say, because you don't really want to say it. As nice as he would look with your cum on his stomach (on his face, in his hair), you'd much rather do this properly and fuck him right up the ass. You're a goddamn gentleman, after all.
He does, though he gives you a weird look, even though you're sure he gets what's going on. Your hands are shaking as you move off the bed and kick things around, wire and scrap metal, smuppets and blank CDs, until you find the box of condoms you bought two weeks ago. You weren't sure this was going to happen, but, well, like you said, you're still a fucking gentleman, and that means you think of shit like this.
Your hands are shaking something fierce, and you can't even pretend it's from exertion now, though you try to rationalize that it's from arousal, rather than anticipation. That, if Jake turned into some nameless, faceless guy you picked up from God knows where, you'd feel the same way.
(You know this isn't true, but it helps to think it).
Finally you throw one of the little foil squares at Jake and let him deal with it, in the meantime slathering your fingers with lube and–fuck, you're not sure how much is too much. Is there such a thing as too much? Sometimes you wish you were an honest to fuck Casanova, because then you wouldn't be leaning over Jake, ineptly fingering him as he rolls a condom down your erection, and wondering if you're even doing this right.
From the sounds he's making, you think probably not (he sounds uncomfortable, even if he does give you a reassuring smile), but isn't that par for the course? Porn stars never sound uncomfortable, but Jake English isn't a porn star, even if you'd have paid good money to watch that video in eighth grade.
You almost want to make a joke about it, but you think better of it, three fingers in and he's so tight You weren't expecting anything else, but it still hits you hard, how Jake's never been–and you'll be the first, and you lean down to kiss him on the mouth, hot and needy and his arms wrap around your neck as you enter him. He doesn't make a sound, just breathes so heavily that it's almost worse than if he'd screamed.
You don't dare look at his eyes, just swallow down the mixture of his and your own spit that's in your mouth and bury your face into the crook of his neck.
He feels–
You move slowly, because you can tell it hurts him, and because you don't want this to be over.
He feels so good. Legs wrapped around your thighs and his hip under hand, fingers curled around him, and you've just wanted this, so much and for so long. You forget to breathe for a minute, because this cannot possibly be happening.
You lift your head and Jake is looking at you, worried. He reaches up to touch your forehead, and pushes sweaty bangs up off your skin, just as you push into him again, and he lets out a sharp breath that you can tell is more from pleasure than pain, and you hold him tighter.
The two of you fall into a steady cadence, you resisting the urge to move at a faster pace, and his hips slowly but steadily moving up to meet yours, and you're silent, but he's moaning, quiet at first, but louder as time goes on, and then.
And then, he says, "Dirk," and everything falls out from around you.
The warm and heavy feeling in your stomach is so apparent, now, your breathing so loud, and both of you just stare at each other as you start to cry.
For a moment you think it's just those big gushy crocodile tears, the kind you see in any rom com worth its salt when the girl finally gets her man, and she's just so happy. You think you could almost smile through it, if you were the smiling type.
But then a shudder runs down your spine, and a broken sort of noise escapes your parted lips, and it's all you can do to bow your head to his chest as you start to flat out sob, your entire body shaking with it–with the realization that this is, that he is, that you are here and no one can take it away from you, not now.
"Strider," he's saying, "Strider." Repeating your last name, whisper soft, so tentative, like he's scared he'll make this worse, his hand finding its way to your shoulder. At first you think he's holding you, and he is, soft of, but then you realize he's using you as leverage, pulling himself off of your cock and you only just barely manage to let out a gasp from the loss of warmth around you, in-between whimpers.
You've stopped caring, by that point, and you let yourself fall on top of him, not even bothering to think about if Jake really wants your full weight on top of him, trapping him here. He doesn't protest, though. One hand comes to rest on the back of your head, the other on your back, fingers tracing your spine.
He says, "I'm sorry, I don't–I'm sorry," like this is his fault, and it's not.
It's yours.
.
He wants to talk about it, you don't.
The thing is, you still don't really understand what happened.
All you know is you don't want it to happen again.
.
It's over a week before later and the two of you are on the couch in your living room, because you thought, maybe, it would help if you weren't in your room. If you were somewhere less personal, with the television muted, but still on (that little high frequency whine in the back of your head, the constant buzzing of technology), maybe you would be less likely to have a complete mental breakdown while engaging in fornication.
You thought something like that, anyway. Not that it really matters, in the end.
Jake's been so incredibly careful to make sure every choice is yours. Neither of you are the type to treat anyone like they're fragile, you're both the type to throw someone in a lake to teach them how to swim, but, here he is, coaxing you to go into deeper water, gently, so gently.
And you fucking hate it.
You aren't mad at him, because, honestly, it's–well, if not sweet, then endearing. But you don't want his.
You want rough, and you want hot and heavy. You don't exactly want quick, but you can't stand all this trepidation. You can't stand him touching you feather-light, when you want him to grip you in ways that will give you bruises. You want to feel everything, not just a fraction of what he has to offer. You don't want him to hold back, and that's what he's doing, and you don't blame him (how can you, this is your fault), but you don't want this.
He doesn't argue when you tell him you want him to fuck you this time, probably because he's thinking what you're thinking. Maybe–you can barely handle all these maybes–it will be different if he's the one doing it.
And it seems, as he pushes one, two, three fingers into you, it seems like maybe you were right. It hurts, a burning feeling that makes you suck in air through clenched teeth, but you're able to say, "It's okay," and mean it. Because it's okay, it's good, it's more than good, it's right on the edge of being perfect.
He's got one hand splayed on your knee, and you try to concentrate on that, more than him removing his fingers, more than him pushing into you and letting out a strangled sort of noise, his forehead shiny in the dim lighting, a cocky smile appearing on his face.
He looks down at you, and the smile disappears, his hand's grip on your knee tightening, nails digging into your skin, like he's afraid you're slipping away.
It takes you a minute to understand why, to feel the silent streaks of tears that are falling down your face, to realize that those shaky breaths, echoing in your ears, are your own, and, finally, that the feeling in your stomach, pooling there, is half arousal, yes, but half disgust at yourself, for letting this happen yet again.
Jake seems at a loss, and he opens his mouth, probably about to ask what he can do to fix this, to make it better. He's so sure he's done something wrong, you can see it on his face.
"N-no, no, no," you say, and there's a hiccuping sort of sob in there that you do your best to ignore. "No, don't. Don't stop, I'll f-fucking," your voice cracks, "kill you if you stop now, English."
It's embarrassing, the concern on his face, and the fact that you have to actively try to reassure him that it's okay. That he can fuck you senseless without you weeping in his arms the whole time.
He doesn't say a word, just does what you ask him to, never moving too fast, his hand on your knee, a constant, his other hand on your chest for balance. It doesn't even take much for you to come, he jerks you off a few times, still much too good at it. You take his index and middle fingers into your mouth, the taste of your own cum mixing with the taste of your tears.
It's so bitter.
.
The two of you watch movies, big blockbusters and small-budget indie flicks. He plays first-person shooter games and you eat Chinese food while you watch, making fun of him for being patently awful at them, despite his skills in real life. You go out to dinner and kick each other under the table like you're still in elementary school. You try to show him the relative merits of children's cartoons about ponies, he tries to get you to admit that females of the blue persuasion are attractive. You both agree to disagree.
If there was any reason to break your nearly perfect record of sporting a poker face, it would be to wear a fucking smile bright as the goddamn sun. What the hell is wrong with you?
.
You're not, like, out of your mind, reeling drunk, but you're halfway there, and that's probably how you end up against the kitchen counter with your dick in Jake's mouth.
He's drunk, too, and this is his first time attempting this, so you don't expect perfection, but he's good. Good in the way where you can tell he's probably read up on how to do this, maybe even watched some porn, because, ah, fuck, he's a little clumsy but he's going for it, no hesitation.
You tilt your head back and above you the ceiling tiles have water damage. You wonder if they've always been like that, and then grip the edge of the counter tighter as you go, "Shit," because Jake, the fucking perfectionist that he is when it comes to impressing people, has managed to get the tip of your cock so far back in his mouth already it feels like velvet, and isn't that a cliché?
Your legs are weak and you don't even have time to think before you come, and then you fall to your knees, lean forward to hold him in your arms, kiss him as hard as you can, hoping (please, please, please) that he doesn't see the tears that are already beginning to run down your face.
.
You tell Lalonde (almost) everything, of course.
TG: you fuckign idiot
TG: and dont evern bother to correst my sepling
TG: maybe ur all mr eloqoute over there but at lreast i unsdersand FEELINFS
TG: thid is a classic fucking trope i carnt belive u dont recongize it??????
TG: you have to talk to him
TG: have tyou learned nothign form the hours of romantic comeldies we've streamed 2gether??
TG: NOTHIG???????????
You do your best to ignore her, but that's always been one thing you've never been able to do.
.
Words fail you. Or, more correctly, they gather in the back of your throat, vile as vomit, and with just as bad of a taste, and they stay there, refusing to leave.
Jake's sitting in the booth across from you, talking like there's no tomorrow. It wouldn't be fair to say you're not listening. You're tuned it. You're nodding at the right points and snorting indignantly at others, all while keeping your eyes on the gradually shrinking pile of fries between the two of you. You've only eaten a handle of them, yourself.
What he's saying is–it's interesting on a banal level. Something about hunting, something about malarkey, something about how he forgot an extra clip of bullets. Normally you wouldn't have to feign interest. You'd be rapt, just because it's him, but.
Your mind is so loud with what you should be saying, with how to even begin to say those things. How do you start conversing about the subject you need to introduce? And do you really want to talk about it in a shitty little family diner on the edge of Houston, with a waitress who could be your grandma smiling at you from the front counter?
Regardless, you open your mouth to say something, anything, and he pauses in his story, head cocked and mouth slightly open, and suddenly all you can think of is how his lips look, red and shiny as he tilts his head backwards and says–"Are you okay?"
He's reaching across the table, touching your wrist with his fingertips, and you swallow hard.
You know what you have to say, but how are you supposed to explain it to him?
You don't say anything. Of course you don't.
.
One morning you think about telling him. He brings you breakfast, some sort of meat on a biscuit that you're honestly not sure isn't from a squirrel he shot in the park and skinned himself, or something.
But he's too insufferably happy, or, at least, he's doing a good job of pretending he is. The two of you sit up on the rooftop of your building, watching the sun rise over the city, shoulders pressed together.
He leans onto you, smelling like sweat and smog and gunpowder, and he says, "I think I could do this, with you, for just about forever."
You kiss him, because you can't find the words to tell him that you're not so sure he'll be saying that in a week or two.
.
Sometimes you wake up and he's still there, softly snoring and on top of you, heavy and hot to the touch. You'll skim your hands over the surface of his skin, never quite touching, but wanting to, so badly.
It feels like all the times he slept over, before you told him how you felt. Your stomach is an empty pit of pure longing, your hands tremble with want, and you are so tempted to give in. To wake him up with sleepy, indulgent kisses, to fuck him while he's half-awake and unable to do anything but moan.
You're sure he wouldn't mind, but you just–you can't, not until you stop being a complete pussy and explain things to him. You can't stand the way he looks at you, like he's sick with worry, like he's done something wrong. It makes you feel worse than you ever thought possible.
.
It takes a week, but finally, you think, Fuck it.
You wanted this, you wanted him. You went out and got him. And, now what? You're going to let him get away because you'd rather mope around, a cesspool of angst and yearning?
Pathetic, Strider, pathetic.
The ball's in your court, it has been for a while now, and you think it's about time you go for the win.
.
He's saying something about an extra key when you let him into your apartment, but you ignore him completely, interrupting him with, "Move in with me."
"Wh-"
"No, shut up," you slam the door closed behind him and start pushing him towards your room, ignoring his protests. "You should just move in, it's stupid. You're over here all the time, anyway."
"I suppose that's true, but where is this coming from?" He looks confused, but there's still a smile on his face, even if it is a slightly hesitant one. He falls back on your bed and raises an eyebrow, obviously intrigued.
"It's because," you sigh, and pull off your shirt, "it has occurred to me that when I told you I liked you, maybe I wasn't entirely honest."
"I'm not sure I follow," he says, looking apologetic, and you can't help it. You're on top of him and you're kissing him, because he's just so–well, there has to be another word equivalent to cute or adorable, because he's not exactly either of those things, but there's no other word for him. So you just kiss him, before pulling away and lamenting the fact that your lips are dry, because you're so nervous, you feel sick to your stomach.
For a long time you just lay there, not looking at him, and he doesn't begrudge you that, but does start poking your stomach, and you can tell he's getting impatient.
"I think," he says, finally, "that, for you, this is probably the same as an animal presenting their most vulnerable spot to somehow who could, at any moment, cut them and run. It is, if you will, a weakness of yours that you don't like to show to people."
You make a noise that might be construed as agreement. He pokes your stomach harder, and you roll over so you're on him fully, chest-to-chest and legs entangled.
"Fine, you have the metaphorical hammer and you are hitting the goddamn nail right on the head, is that what you want to hear?" The douche bag beams at you, and try your best to frown. It's not easy. "It's just. When I told you I liked you, and all, which I'm sure you remember."
"Ah, yes," he sits up a bit, the side of his mouth twitching, "how did that rap go? Something about–"
"Oh no, no need to recount awkward love confessions, that's a thing that probably never has to be done." He grins, but settles back, listening. "When I did that, though, I was doing it on the notion that I'd be rejected, and I was okay with that. Which, I guess, would make one assume I'd go all out–but I was really, honestly, worried that I'd scare you off. So all I told you was that I liked you."
He clears his throat, rather expectantly.
"With a few added euphemisms, okay. But those could have easily been brushed off as a joke. My point is, I've never explained to you that I've...since I was thirteen, I've pretty much been in love with you."
He doesn't say anything. The air in your room is hot and humid, and all you can hear is the distant sound of traffic on the streets far below your bedroom window.
"I guess it doesn't sound like a big deal. But I never thought you'd reciprocate my feelings in the first place. And, furthermore, I never imagined–scratch that, I assure you I imagined, but I never truly thought we'd get to this point. And when we do, I still have a hard time processing the fact that this is actually happening, and it's not just–"
He kisses you, this time, it's long and languid, and he tastes like toothpaste, you think, as the two of you shift and move so that he's on sitting on top of you. His fingers thread through your hair until he has a good grip on the back of your head, and then there's a the crack of your forehead meeting his as he breaks off the kiss and holds you in place, forcing your to look in his eyes.
"You're so fucking stupid," he says, and all you can do in response is blink. And then he laughs. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I was worried, Strider," he says, and his voice is so soft it makes you squirm like you're still fucking prepubescent. "Look, I don't think I'd every properly be able to understand exactly what you're saying. I haven't been in good old-fashioned love with you since I was thirteen. You know that." His eyes search yours. "But I'm here now, okay? I'm here."
You can't help touching him then, clutching at the front of his shirt, squeezing your eyes shut, and you can feel him shift over you, leaning down and pressing open-mouthed kisses to your neck and shoulder.
He gets up and takes his shirt off and then gets to work on his pants, and you just lay there, because he was right, and you're still amazed that he hasn't taken a knife to your exposed stomach and slit it open, all your insecurities out in the open for everyone to see.
After a moment you sit up and start taking off your jeans as you watch him scour the room for the pack of condoms that has to be around somewhere. He finds them under some puppets, with a dorky, "Yipee ki-yay!" and you can't help but laugh at that.
He smiles at you, and you watch him tear one of the foil squares open. Illuminated in the light from your bedroom window, wearing only a pair of dark green underwear and holding a fucking condom, he is the most beautiful person you've ever seen in your entire life.
"Hey, Dirk?" he says, causing you to look up as you're hopping out of your boxers. "Fuck me, would you?" You fall face first into a pile of hats, and he laughs so loudly it echoes throughout the whole room.
A few minutes later and you're laying your bed, he's above you, and you can barely breathe as he lowers himself down onto your cock. He hisses at the sensation, but doesn't seem as bothered by it as he was the first time, his eyes closed and mouth just slightly open, hands gripping your shoulders.
Your first instinct, when you feel tears forming in the corners of your eyes is to blink them away. You feel like that should be done with, you should be over that. You've explained the situation to him, it should be done with. Sure, you aren't sobbing like you were the first time, but even just this is unacceptable, as far as you're concerned.
But you can't hide it, especially as he moves up and down once more, and you want to push him away (no, no, no you don't), so he can't see you.
He does, though, when he finally opens his eyes, and when he leans down you think he's going to kiss you. You close your eyes, anticipating it, welcoming it, anything to distract you from the tears that are starting to fall.
Instead your feel his hands on your face, thumbs brushing away tears, and he's whispering, "It's okay," over and over again like some sort of mantra.
Your body aches with undeniable affection for him in this moment, and it occurs to you that there is no one else he would do this for. You're the only one. You put your hands on his hips to create some sort of leverage and begin to thrust into him, holding him hard enough to bruise, and fucking him until he's moaning.
You think it's probably when it's over, when he's asleep and sprawled across you, drooling on your shoulder, that you think any fucker who wouldn't cry at the idea of being with Jake English is a goddamned fool.
.
You wake up and he's not there, for a minute you panic, internally, and then you hear the faint sound of the television from outside your bedroom door. Your boxers are on the ground and you grab them without thinking, pulling them on and walking out of your room, yawning.
He's got coffee going and is draped across the couch, watching some wildlife show attentively. You hate this kind of crap.
Neither of you say a word as you sit on the couch with him and he rearranges himself so he's not in your way, though only because you kick him. You watch him watch a lion kill a zebra, and for the first time, in a long time, you genuinely smile–