a/n: hey, everyone! I know I've been gone for a while, and I don't really have an excuse. I'm just not a consistent person, unfortunately. I'm not sure if this could be considered a resolution chapter or a filler chapter, but it's something! I know how much everyone loves this story, but because of that I feel like I'm dragging it on. If I can continue to write consistently, I'm really going to do my best to wrap this up with a satisfying conclusion so I can focus on other things. I'll probably side story them to death though, so check my bio for details if you ever see me posting something here.
As always, thanks for your love and support.
__
Some months have passed, and the season's about to start.
I never thought I'd track the passage of time by the beginning, middle, and end of collegiate football, but it marks a big change in how Dean's time is delegated. Thus, my time. As we did last year, togetherness is scraped together on weekends the Bulldogs aren't slated to play or practice. Sometimes both Saturday and Sunday, sometimes only a few hours on Sunday. Dean is no less insufferable about this than the season prior, as if he can't or won't adjust to the drastic decrease in quality time.
In some ways, he's worse, but I think it's just the fullfledged freedom he's granted himself to
be himself.
To throw fits and be childish. On the world's stage, he's cocksure and mature beyond his years. I've never seen him soft or vulnerable in the public's eye. So, his childishness and tantrums feel like a privilege. Usually, he won't press the issue and knows when to quit, as not much can be done about our current circumstances. Our individual pathways to success just happen to be hours apart, and that's a relatively short distance to cross in the scope of 'long distance' relationships.
A privilege it might be, but--
"God, hngh! Dean--!"
"...yeah?" He breathes against my nape, roughshod and gritty. His sweat plops against my back like the start of a torrential downpour.
He doesn't
always
know when to quit, and in these moments I feel like a Michelin feast spread out for a beggar. Bones picked clean, every dish licked to spotless. Dug into and demolished messily and without etiquette. Cannibalized.
Eaten.
There's no part of me left unscathed, and even when I'd swear there's nothing left, he's yet to be satisfied.
And I start to lose my mind and think,
ah, well, maybe I'm not satisfied yet either.
But, fuck, to what end? Off and on, we've been at it for so long, I've grown numb below the waist. My arms, legs, and back are so fatigued, I can't support myself. My hole's stretched and sloppy to a point I can barely feel Dean's cock smashing through it. There's only a simmering pressure in my lower gut that frequently peaks into orgasm, and I'm left more and more wrung out after each one. A weak, limp thing for him to rearrange at his discretion. My stomach feels heavy and bloated from the innumerable loads he's deposited behind my navel, and you'd think it'd become dehumanizing at some point.
An honest-to-God receptacle.
With Dean, perish the thought. Whether it's love, obsession, or an indistinguishable tangling of the two, he never leaves room for question. His large hands cradle me preciously in the midst of fucking like beasts, and there's reverence in every gruff word. Even the harsh, filthy dialogue when his mouth runs away from him, because his unchecked excitement excites me in turn.
"Christ, stop..." I plead halfheartedly, unsure if that's what I actually want. I mean, I can probably cum at least one more time.
"Tired, baby?"
If I had the energy, I'd slap him for the stupid rhetoric. Alas, he'll always have more than I ever will, and my position trapped between Dean's chest and the headboard sees sudden, perilous change. He finds wide handholds on the inside of my thighs, and the room tilts.
"You wanna lay down?"
'Lay down' roughly translates to impalement, as laying flat across him makes it feel as though his cock is pointing upright at ninety degrees inside me. Like it might tear a hole straight through my stomach, but
holy shit,
has he discovered some secret, second prostrate? After all this time, is it possible we've never fucked in this position? Or, have the celestial bodies achieved precise alignment with the axis of Dean's dick?
"Not...like this, you--!" While definitely English, it hardly sounds human. I can't catch enough breath to form proper syllables, and I'm seized by scattered flinches.
His fingers migrate to that softened band of muscle working tirelessly to swallow him, and the touch
burns.
Previously believed to be dead to sensation, there's sudden overstimulation. Sticky, sopping, and painfully raw.
He clicks his tongue, "it's leaking out."
Those scattered flinches become a possessed convulsion when he digs three of his fingers into me, alongside more cock than any one man needs. As if trying to stuff his cum back inside, but it's really just plain sadism. An unbearable, wonderful fullness that shoves me ever nearer the brink, and Dean's meanspirited laughter washes against my throat, "isn't that better? You need at least this much to feel satisfied, such a greedy fuckin' hole."
"Shut...
up..."
When he promptly pops them from my ass, there's no time for mourning or relief. Instead, he shoves between my teeth, and my mouth is just as stuffed and heady with the bitter tang of cum. He flattens my tongue under chapped fingertips, then hooks them into my cheek. And the deeper he reaches into my throat, the tighter I clench around his cock. For all the airs he likes to put on, his trembling is as fierce and involuntary as mine.
Enough foreplay to kill a man, though 'fore' might imply there's no 'aft.' With Dean, foreplay never actually ends.
He swears raggedly against the back of my ear. Unable to bring his hips to heel, they start to flex. A gentle rocking mirrored by the fingers overcrowding my mouth, though it's not long before that motion again becomes fast and forceful. The direct, upward pressure against my stomach and continued jabbing of my uvula are almost nauseating, but also
stupidly fucking good.
On top of him like this, I feel crucified. A not-so-virgin sacrifice to the most hedonistic of Gods. Trapped, smothered, and staked through. Literally tortured with pleasure.
"Fuck, Sammy, if you could feel yourself right now--" Dean sounds a little less than human, too. The grunts and hisses of a subspecies in contrast with the very modern talk. More animalistic the closer he gets to orgasm. "...why isn't it ever
enough?
Why can't I get enough of you?"
With feet braced against the bed, his thrusts become savage. I'd be bounced off his powerful body like a paddleball if not for the tight grip he maintains. Black corrodes the edges of my vision, lightheaded from a lack of oxygen and far more stimulus than can be processed. Beat-up from the inside.
My stomach feels like a pressure cooker, and I'm afraid my dick might fly off with the geysering force of a bottle rocket when this last orgasm claims me. Not until I taste blood do I realize I've sunk my teeth into the middle of Dean's hand, but the pain only seems to frenzy him. Like a predator discovering it can bleed too
He returns the hurt by digging teeth into the juncture of my neck and shoulder, thankfully not so high as to warrant turtlenecks in early summer. It's the little things. And like that, nuclei collide in the back of my stomach and I'm ripped apart in the ensuing reaction.
As sex is essentially cardio, science says it's good for long term health: burning calories, lowering blood pressure, boosting immunity, reducing the risk of heart disease. But, surely, orgasms
like this
have to be an outlier. Deconstructed atom by atom, braindead for at least six whole seconds.
I can already imagine the cynical side-eye from God's gatekeeper.
"Death by sodomy, huh?"
It took us a while to reach this point again. Nearly half a year has passed since the incident with Matt, but all my efforts to
get better
didn't bear real fruit until two or three months ago. I didn't return to my apartment prematurely, instead waiting until I could consistently achieve a good night's sleep across the hall from my mother. I took that next, big step only when the nightmares weaned off. While difficult to suddenly spend my evenings and nights alone, I managed.
And managing eventually came full circle to thoughtless, daily life. I became less aware of my heart's pace in my chest, the number of breaths I took in a minute, and that data represented numerically on my watch's actigraph. Now, it's a watch that tells time. I can sleep alone in the dark and quiet with only mild discomfort, occasionally resorting to flipping on the bathroom's light. I can immerse myself in the world beyond my fears and doubts, sometimes forgetting them altogether.
During the months I worked to put myself back together, Dean wrestled with his own challenges, though not once did he ever make his problems mine. Nor did he share them. I'd have never known anything was amiss with him, but he'd become a borderline intolerable presence to those around him: teammates, faculty, and the few acquaintances he kept. Even Rishad wasn't safe from unwarranted outbursts on the commute.
A combination of residual anger without a proper outlet, stress born of helplessness, and maintaining a healthy, physical distance. Refraining from sex until I'd ironed out some of the wrinkles from my delicate psyche. There was nothing he could do or say to 'fix it', and Dean doesn't do well on the sidelines. He struggles with sitting and waiting, letting nature run its course. But, he also lacks finesse. Not every problem can be solved with brute force, intimidation, or manipulation. Some issues require a docile touch and an expertise he simply doesn't possess.
And as unromantic as it might be, our relationship was founded on sex. Dean's appetite and persistence got us to where we are today, and his appetite hasn't lessened any. To the contrary. Before the incident, I can't recall a time we were together for a prolonged time and didn't have sex. Honeymoon period, youth, an abnormal libidio, whatever the case. Physical intimacy made up a huge chunk of our relationship, and with the sudden cessation of it, Dean took his frustration out on others.
When it was just the two of us, I'd have never known. He was totally at ease. Tranquil, as if he'd abandoned worldly pleasure and adopted Buddhism. While he didn't avoid touch altogether, he kept a wide berth from any erogenous zones and always maintained a barrier of clothing. As far as I could tell, sex was the furthest thing from his mind.
In fact, he seemed
so
disinterred, I started to worry about whether his attraction had also run its course. Did my frailty turn him off? Did his affection become platonic after being relegated to a caretaker role?
He still acted like himself. Our dynamic didn't change much, but I could tell he was on eggshells: attentive, cautious,
naggy.
