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It's past midnight, and Jade and Rose have finally given up on Smash Brothers night and caught the late bus home. You and John are flopped on the couch amid empty beer bottles and pizza boxes, plus a few stray pieces of yarn from Rose's latest experimental knitting project, and you start groping John's knee. You insist that this is both smooth and also seductive but you're still a little buzzed and your hand keeps slipping and hitting that ticklish spot right behind the joint and he ends up kicking you in the chest.
When you finish wheezing with laughter, you try to put on a pout, claiming, "Sex is cancelled. You are no longer allowed into the delirious biznasty going on in my pants, man."
He scoffs. "Oh come on. You know want a 'piece of this,'" he teases, waggling his eyebrows obnoxiously. You try your best not to be charmed. "Seriously, though! You totally do. You're all insatiable and stuff lately!"
"C'mon, man. Just got my shot yesterday; I'm a slavering man-beast. I hunger for dork flesh and I can't be tamed." You punctuate this with a halfhearted bite to his shoulder, slumping against him until he takes pity on you and hauls you up for a kiss. He tastes like shitty Coors Lite and garlic and his teeth bump into your nose when he tries to pull you on top of him. You hum happily against his mouth and he laughs, a puff of his breath fogging up your shades. You'd perfectly content to get your mack on with him for the next conceivable forever, however inept said mack might be, if you didn't have way too many hormones coursing through your bloodstream, all of them holding up giant signs that say "He wants the D".
So you stick your hand down his pants.
He yelps like you just tazed him, hands scrabbling at your wrist. "Dave, you fucker! Your hands are so fucking cold! I think my dick just died!"
You withdraw said freezing hand, crossing your arms petulantly. "It's not my fault you're a candy-ass," you grumble.
"I'm not a candy-ass! How would you like it if I got all up in your business with icicle hands!?"
You slump on him again, groaning dramatically. "I'd like that fine, because you're taking forever to seduce and I'm hard."
He seems to forget the fact that his dick is apparently dead, waggling his eyebrows at you again in the most ridiculous way. "Oh, are you now?" he says, his eyes going all hooded and mischievous and you can't believe that this is working on you and you're not laughing your ass off, you're officially broken, John Egbert has broken you. His hands find the front of your pants, giving your junk a thorough grope, before faltering slightly. His brows furrow and he kind of pats your crotch, as if he's searching for his car keys in the dark and your nethers are a coffee table. You facepalm most dramatically.
"Oh goddammit, hold on, I'm not hard yet," you groan, sliding out of his grip to go searching for your boner. After a harried few minutes and one instance of getting stuck under the couch, you locate it and place it securely in your pants. John is laughing so hard that he's making little wheezy noises in his chest. You're tempted to cockslap him with the soft pack you found between the couch cushions, but then he pulls you into his lap and kisses you between wheezes and gives your now-intact junk a real grope this time and your breath huffs out heavy and rough.
He laughs at you, his voice going low and husky, and palms you through your jeans again, and you hiss through your teeth at the feeling.
“The red one, right?” he murmurs, and you nod.
“Yep.”
He grins. “Sweet. I like that one.”
“You like all of them.”
“Still,” he says. “I like this one.” His eyebrows waggle again. You swallow, hard.
He palms you again, rougher this time, the heel of his hand grinding against the base of your cock. You moan low in your throat, grabbing him by the shirtfront to pull him in for another kiss. He kisses back enthusiastically, all teeth and tongue and eagerness and very little finesse, before promptly dropping to his knees.
Your hands are in his hair before he can even open your fly, and you’re staring so hard that he is quite possibly in danger of catching fire. Agonizingly slowly, he pulls down your pants, letting them pool around your ankles before tackling your boxer briefs.
He looks up at you, doe-eyed and eager. “How do you want it?”
You bite your lip. “Don’t take ‘em off yet.”
He nods, leaning forward to kiss at your thighs. He trails upwards, finally mouthing you through the fabric of your underpants, and you bite back a moan. He grins against you, practically nuzzling your cock as he fingers the fly of your shorts.
“This okay?”
You love that he always checks.
“Yeah. Go ahead.”
He eases you out through the cotton fly--the straps of the harness nearly get tangled, but he’s still patient enough to keep that from happening--and his grin only gets wider. He strokes the red plastic, pushing the base down against you until he hears you moan, then leans forward and lets his breath fog up the shining surface.
“You just gonna sit there all day?” you smirk.
“I’m getting there! Jeez!” he replies. He shoots you a wink, then drags his tongue up the underside of your cock. Obviously, you can’t feel it, but a shudder wracks your body all the same. It might have something to do with the way he’s pushing the base against you in a steady, grinding pressure, or simply how sinful he looks when he does this to you. He takes the tip into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the blunt head, then sinks down to the base. As strap-on cocks go, it isn’t terribly long--a modest five inches, smooth shiny silicon all over--but you’re impressed nonetheless. Your grip on his hair tightens as he sucks you, making these obscene moaning sounds around your dick, and soon enough he’s looking up at you again, a finger tracing the opening of your fly and his eyes begging for an answer.
You nod.
He hums against you, still bobbing up and down on your cock as he slips a finger into your underpants. He watches you closely as he moves, first playing with a strap of your harness, then lightly tracing your front hole. You bite your lip, deliberating, but revulsion twists in your stomach and you decide that it doesn’t feel right, not tonight. You shake your head. He hums an affirmative, then moves his hand back, sliding under the base of your detachable penis to get to your real cock.
Now that, that feels right.
He pulls back, grinning at you and idly swirling his tongue around your head and you laugh, tugging at his hair to pull him back down. He obliges, sinking down until your plastic cock is in his throat, then pulling off, lifting the base of the detachable dick to suck your real cock into his mouth, swirling it with his tongue. You feel it throb, a moan ripping from your throat as you grind in desperate little circles against his mouth. He only sucks harder at that, a hand still pumping your strap-on as if you’re able to feel it. When he looks like this, you almost can.
Finally, though, you pull his head away, his mouth still open swollen and wet from sucking you. He looks beautiful. You ache for him.
“Dave.”
“Yeah.”
“I need you to fuck me right now or I might actually die.” He’s been kneading the heel of his free hand against his own erection, and you can see him quickly growing desperate. So you haul him up onto the couch, tearing at his clothes while kissing him fervently.
Soon, your shirts go, leaving his undershirt and your binder. You keep those on, even as his big hands palm you all over, sliding over stomach and back and ribs and chest alike, worshipping everything they touch. You like it when he’s got his wifebeater on--it makes him look more like you, makes wearing your binder during sex feel less uncomfortable and strange. Then his pants go, tossed carelessly on the floor despite his grumbles about folding them. His boxers follow, and yours do as well, your erections freely exposed to the air even if yours is attached by soft leather straps. He pulls you on top of him, wrapping his legs around your waist and gasping as you suck hickeys into his neck, rolling his hips against you in a frantic search for relief.
You pull off, briefly, and he whines, grumbling at you to come back.
“D’you wanna get fucked or not?”
“Yes, that’s why I want you to come back!”
“Dude, just let me get the goddamn lube, hold on just a sec--”
You practically dash into your room, nearly upending the drawer to your nightstand as you grab the tube of lubricant and make your way back to John, your erection bobbing as you walk. He’s lying on the couch, stroking himself softly as he waits for you, and you pause for a moment, drinking in the sight of him.
“You’re fuckin’ gorgeous like that, man.”
“I’m even more gorgeous with your dick in me, dude,” he pouts, and you laugh softly, sliding up between his legs. You give his cock a quick kiss, just saying hello, and he breathes in sharply, his thighs tensing. He outright groans when you uncap the lube, squeezing it out onto your fingers as you flick your tongue against the head of his dick, then slowly trace swirls and spirals around his ass.
“You are such, a fucking, tease,” he huffs. His hips stutter, trying not to thrust against your mouth, but he still eagerly pushes against your hand, attempting to get you inside of him. Finally, you comply, sucking his cock into your mouth while you push one slick finger into his ass, curling it upward until you hear him keen. The second is in quickly enough, grinding against his prostate until he whimpers, “Shit, shit, slow down, too intense--” and devolves into breathless curses.
“Shit, sorry, sorry, I’ll be more gentle,” you whisper, and he nods wordlessly, his lower lip clamped between his teeth. Finally, you both find a rhythm, him grinding hips back against you as you work him open with soft thrusts. Inside, it’s tight and slick and hot, all clenching muscle at the base of your knuckles and soft heat at your fingertips, and you tell him so, murmuring in his ears as you fuck him open.
When he takes a third finger with ease, you pull out. He groans at the sensation, his hands fisted in his own hair as he tries to rock his hips back against you. You pointedly ignore him, a grin playing at your lips as you roll on a condom, lubing your cock up once it’s sheathed in latex.
“You ready for this?” you whisper, and he very nearly moans.
“Dave, I’ve been ready for this for like, an hour. Maybe even more! I am so ready, dude, you don’t even know.”
You laugh under your breath, then hitch one of his legs around your waist, holding your dick steady as you nudge the head against his entrance. He practically pulls you in, his heels digging into your back, eager as hell as you start to push inside. You have to stop a few times in between, waiting for him to adjust, but he grins beatifically when you’re finally all the way inside, his legs around your hips tight as a vice and his hands twitching, clutching at nothing. You grin back from your position over him, your real cock pulsing and needy as you start to thrust. You start out slow, grinding the textured base of your strap-on against your cock every time you push in, drinking in his moans like they’re ambrosia. But then he gasps out a “Harder, oh fuck, Dave, harder--” and your self-control shatters as you curl over him until he’s nearly bent in half and drive into him with all the force you can muster. He keens high, his voice cracking, his thighs locked around your hips and his hands scrabbling uselessly at your back.
Sweat pricks at your hairline as you move inside him. You glance down, watching him take you in, his thighs shaking as he clenches around you. John is quiet during sex, not much for dirty talk or audible moans or even a pornographic string of “yes, yes, yes!” but you can never seem to shut up. When you lean over him, you tongue the crescent of his ear, whispering hotly that you love his body, love to feel yourself in him, love the way he moves underneath you. This draws a soft moan from him, more breath than voice, but it makes you tremble nonetheless.
You drop a hand down between your bodies, a loose fist wrapping around his erection, and he stiffens. His breath hitches, coming fast and high, and his hands fist in your hair, tugging you down to crush your lips together. John kisses you messily, his hips losing their rhythm, and finally he breathes out, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, gonna come, oh fuck--” against your mouth. You thrust in deep, grinding yourself urgently against him in slow circles as he stills against you, his cock pulsing in your grip as he paints your hand and his stomach with fat spurts of white. You push hard against him throughout his orgasm, chasing pleasure, trying to get yourself off as you watch him come undone beneath you. You’re so close when he begs off, apologizing as he whimpers that it’s too much, too intense, he’s too sensitive.
“I’m so fucking close, dude, please,” you whine, but the way he bites his lip tells you that you can’t stay inside him any longer. You pull out, a hand holding the base of your cock tight against you, and he reaches down, stripping off the condom before wrapping his hands around your own and pushing it just hard enough to make you lose control. He captures your mouth again, biting at your lips as he strokes your cocks--both plastic and natural--with frantic hands, and your hips cant wildly against him for excruciating minutes before climax explodes within you. Your breath catches, your eyes squeeze shut, your toes curl, and you come hard against John Egbert’s capable hands, your nails digging pink crescents into his back as you shudder against him.
Finally, you fall back, spent and grinning. He smiles back in his smug way, probably inches away from doing an “I-made-you-come-and-it-was-awesome” dance. (He actually did do the dance the first time he got you off. You threw a used condom at him. He shoved you off the bed.)
“So,” you ask lazily. “Was it good for you, Princess?”
He laughs, letting himself slump on top of you. The couch isn’t wide enough for spooning, but he tries to do it anyways. “It was awesome. Totally awesome.”
You smirk. “Ten out of ten, would bang again.”
“A+ orgasms.”
You glance at his neck and shoulders, grinning ruefully. “A+ hickies.”
“A+ sex faces,” he says, screwing up his features in a mock orgasm-face.
You smack him with a pillow. “Okay, okay, straight As for everyone, we all make the Dean’s list, graduate summa cum laude from sex university, I get it.”
“Hehe, cum laude.”
You groan loudly, “Oh my god, shut up.” You laugh anyways.
Later, he falls asleep on your arm, and you have to throw half a warm, flat beer on him before he’ll rouse enough to let you move. Eventually, you’ll make your way to your bed, and he’ll follow you in a sleepy daze when the dawn light wakes him up. As far as boyfriends go, you think as he presses a drowsy kiss between your shoulder blades, you could definitely do worse.