Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Your name is Dirk Strider, and your life has never been what anyone would call ordinary.

This is through no fault of your own.

Your baby pictures appeared in US Weekly before you even knew what a tabloid was, nor why someone would pay your guardian a million dollars for the exclusive. You were weaned on a steady diet of lazy take out and instant meals prepared by a man who had no business being successful but stumbled into auteurism with the grace of a drunken gazelle. Your fifth birthday gift was a book dedicated to your name by your fabulously wealthy aunt, which promptly sold a million copies. She neglected to send you one because the amount of violence and "sapphic experimentation" was too explicit for your age.

Around 13, you realized most kids weren't the wards of multi-millionaire self-made media emperors.

Around 15, you started to resent that, and began acting out in increasingly dramatic ways.

After sinking a yacht off the coast of California and getting off with an aloof snide remark, you gave up the whole acting out thing. What was the point if you didn't even get grounded?

So, by the time you graduated high school, you were a fucked up mess with a rich film director parent, but you weren't at immediate risk of going to prison or face down in a pool, and you counted that as a personal victory. It made for a pretty fucking incredible application essay. Secretly, you figured you could have written "My legal guardian is Dave Strider" on notebook paper and sent that along, and it would have worked just as well.

You got accepted everywhere you applied. If you were still fifteen, that'd piss you off.

It was a relief to move out of the fucking Hollywood Hills and up to Washington State. Kahn Domm University was happy to have you, and you were relieved to be had.

Now, it's a crisp autumn day and you closing in on your bachelor degree. You have changed your academic plans from roboticist to cinematographer to civil engineer (a dark time) to philosophy (even darker) to now, finally, artist. Settling on such a twee goddamn path in life was a struggle, but it's less of a struggle now that you have decided to be honest with yourself and go with it.

You like art. Your most prized possession is the fancy fucking drawing tablet you got for Christmas two years back. You're going to be an artist and live off your brother's disgustingly overstuffed coiffers, and you're at peace with it most of the time.

KDU has a decent art department and is less of a cash-grab diploma mill than certain institutes you can name. Spending your college years here will be fine. A little cold, but fine.

The amenities on campus are pretty decent, too. You have a favorite spot for when you need to sit and work your way through piles of reading, and a favorite place to grab some much-needed caffeine. You’ve begrudgingly grown to appreciate the landscape of tall pines and slate grey skies, even if they’ve left you fishbelly pale.

Community’s not bad, either. The art department pulls in its predictable array of people who spent their formative years being the weird kid, but people have been generally pretty cool. You’re not really a fan of the housing situation, though. The dorms are in desperate need of renovation, and you last winter with a roof that leaked worse and worse through the perpetual rainfall. There are apartments in the city (expensive, particularly for a student artist’s budget), and then, of course, the Greek life.

You never gave going Greek any thought at all until you were looking more seriously at finding some damn alternative to shared dorms with communal, down the hall showers and rattling windows. One fateful afternoon as you split your attention between homework and pesterchum, Roxy poked around the university website’s housing information to see if it was really as bad as you said.

The next thing you knew, your chat window was filling up with aggressive screenshots of a fraternity named Alpha Beta Omega.

At first it was just a hilarious joke. You and Roxy had perused the corners of the internet, finding porn of both the hilarious and unusual variety to discuss. Or for you to attempt to discuss while Roxy rolled her eyes over your attempts to analyze the phenomenon of people being really into dog dicks. Of course you both thought it was the fuckin’ funniest shit. These dumbass dudes had unknowingly named their frat after a fanfic kink. That deserved a laugh.

You’re not sure when you started considering the idea seriously. Somewhere between the joke of someone like you infiltrating the land of the straight dudebro and the leak in your roof deciding to drip onto your mattress, you started looking into it more seriously.

Which leads you to today.

Because apparently hazing is a thing that frats continue to do, despite how fucking idiotic it is. But, hell, you’ve come this far.

In fact, you’ve come all the way across campus to one of the back rooms of the theater department, an area known for having all sorts of bizarre relics of leftover props and costumes. Most of them still get dragged out from time to time for plays. Almost all of them, actually.

Except for the statue, maybe made of real, solid marble, too heavy to easily use. And also too fucking lewd.

All the other guys, currently standing behind you, are chuckling to themselves at the sight of it in a way not dissimilar to the way a preteen will immediately fall over himself laughing at the number 69. It makes you instinctively roll your eyes.

The statue stands about 8 feet tall, you approximate, some of which may be the podium it stands upon. It’s of a man with a wicked smirk standing in a pose you can only really describe as all at once relaxed, inherently flirtatious, and self-assured. His hand is held seemingly relaxed in front of him giving something vaguely akin to a “come hither” gesture, while the other is out at his side keeping back the fabric of a robe that covers absolutely jack shit. Because he is completely naked, and flashing you his insane 8-inch-long dick. Fully erect.

Vaguely, you think that the sculptor could not have been straight. The craftsmanship in some places--specifically the fabric of the robe--is a bit rough in your opinion, but the pose and the expression is so inherently homoerotic and evocative you’re finding yourself a bit turned on just looking at it. If only a guy this hot would ever look at you like that. Oh well.

You’re broken out of your thoughts by one of the frat boys behind you clearing his throat, ostensibly to get your attention.

“...So,” you begin, sighing. “Ha ha, it’s a statue with a big dick. You chucklefucks going to get to the point anytime soon? I’ve got shit to do.”

“Right, soooo,” says Tom. That’s not actually his name, but you don’t really have the willpower to spend any of your quickly depleting energy towards remembering it. He looks like a Tom. “You’re going to get on your knees...and suck it.”

Your eyebrows shoot up a bit as the other boys all lapse back into another fit of giggles. You shouldn’t be surprised, yet you are. “...Uh-huh. Presumably with you all watching?”

“What, so you can weasel your way out of it?” Tom tries to tease.

“Nah. Just didn’t expect you all to be exhibitionists.” You shoot back. “But whatever floats your boat, bro.”

That apparently does, somehow, manage to get under the skin of at least a few of the onlookers. Kind of sad, that wasn’t even that good. You take a second to crack your knuckles and fuck around with your knees in a pointless show of nonchalance and mosey on over to get a closer look at this cock.

You’re looking forward to seeing the wind go out of their sails when they realize you’re actually amazing at this. There’s always a silver lining.

Close up, the statue is even more impressive. Taller than you thought, with more detail in the musculature. The face is more handsome, the eyes more soulful. The individual strands of hair are lovingly chiseled, and you're a bit taken by the craftsmanship.

And the dick, that too.

It's a special kind of unbelievable fuckboy bullshit, you think. (You go to get down on your knees before realizing that with the stand this motherfucker is way too fucking tall for that, cool.) Never in your life have you met a guy who actually likes dicks who's as obsessed with them as straight dudes. (Maybe if you just kind of... Stand up? And hunch? No, wow, that's fucking awkward, shit.) To them, the usual dickweeds who pledge to fanfic gamma psi, this is probably honestly the most goddamn hilarious thing they can possibly imagine, and the most humiliating for a normal pledge.

"Losing your nerve?" one of the guys jeers, and there's actually a bit of real contempt in his voice. "I've heard you actually go for this kind of thing, Strider."

And it's that edge in his voice, that suggestion that you should be as embarrassed and ashamed and unwilling as any 'normal' guy would that makes you think - - oh, fuck this, assholes. Now you're going to get a show.

You grab the statue's outstretched hand. It's solid and huge, and using it to steady yourself, it's pretty easy to kind of lean and twist and get on eye level with what the fine marble man is packing.

Not bad. For, you know, a rock.

The sculptor was definitely not straight. No straight guy would have lovingly detailed the slit, or spent ages on each individual wiry pube, or evoked a retracted foreskin with such worship. Fuck, you're pretty sure that there's a sweetly rendered drop of glistening stony pre balanced on the end of the tip.

You lick it.

Cold, rough, unwelcoming. But hard and so well formed, it actually does kind of get you going. If you close your eyes, you can definitely imagine you're getting ready to go down on the world's best hung, most stoic vampire.

The rise of raucous laughter behind you kind of breaks the spell, though.

Your forehead creases in irritation, and you resist the urge to pull back and shoot them a glare over your shoulder. They want a piece of entertainment for the night, huh? Fine. You can oblige.

Using the statue’s hand to brace your weight, you lean in on the side opposite from the frat boys and slide your tongue up the length of the dick, making sure to angle yourself so that they can see your lips dragging against the marble schlong. Eyes slitting open, you watch as one or two of the ones near the back go red and fight back the urge to smirk in satisfaction. Yeah, surprise, motherfuckers; you know what the fuck you’re doing. Siddown and get schooled.

...And then there’s Tom. “Nice try, Strider,” he calls, lips pulled wide, “but you’re supposed to suck it.”

You raise an eyebrow and lean back. “Wow, your ex-girlfriends must have some stories. Ever heard of foreplay?” you shoot back.

A couple of guys snicker, going silent when Tom turns to glare at them, but you ignore them and turn your attention back to the statue’s dick. You wrap your other hand around the base, fingertips not quite meeting around the girth of it, and lean in to mouth over the head. You make a show out of it, of course, keeping it just sloppy enough to be good, and within a minute the wet sounds of your mouth and the other guys’ quiet breathing are the only noises in the room.

Ha. Gotcha. For just the briefest moment, your lips twitch up into a smirk, and then they spread wide over the head as you slide down.

Holy shit, it’s thick. Your brow creases in concentration as you stretch your jaw enough for the solid marble to push in, and even then it’s a strain. The craftsmanship on this thing is fucking incredible, though: You lick over the tip, and you can clearly feel the texture of the slit carved into the marble. The carved drop of pre is a nice touch when you run your tongue over it, and you spend a few seconds just rolling your tongue over and around the head.

Fuck, if you had a boyfriend with a dick like this, you’d spend a hell of a lot of time on your knees.

When you pull back, the marble shines under your saliva, adding a veneer of realism to the drop of precum carved against the tip. You lick your lips and barely notice how one of the guys’ breath hitches.

There is a fleeting thought that you would really enjoy this more without the audience. Which is a patently absurd concept; without the crowd around you, you would not decide to initiate your most dedicated artful fellatio on an old prop in a dusty storeroom, incredible dick or no. But as you lean back to take a breath, you can’t help but wonder if this wouldn’t rev your engines a little harder without the reminder of other people around.

Your mouth is wet, and you resist the urge to wipe some of it away. It’ll just make this harder. The stone is moving smoother now after some quality tongue action, but its still solid in a way even the most rock (ha) hard dick never is.

There is a crick in your neck. You tip your head back for just a moment.

The statue almost… It’s just the angle, you’re an art major, you know how this shit works. You know about the techniques that are used to give stationary objects a semblance of life. The statue isn’t looking down at you with a quiet, fond expression. But hey. That kind of illusion is an impressive trick.

Someone shifts from foot to foot behind you. You don’t think anyone has the balls to heckle you anymore. Even Tom seems to be silenced by the show.

So… should you just pull off and be done? Your point’s been made by now probably.

The stone hand under yours is warm. Your fingers twitch around the phantom of sensation.

Your kind of want it on your lips too. Holding on tighter, rebracing, you lean in and decide to see how far you can swallow this thing. Such artistry deserves its dues.

The slick stonework doesn’t relent under your lips. The facsimile is obvious, and yet you still take the courtesy and hide the edge of your teeth with your lips as you breathe out slowly and sink further down. The carefully sculpted glans brush against the back of your tongue, and you stop to gather yourself again. There is no way in hell you are going to gag. You fucking refuse.

With a delirious whirl, you think this statue has probably had its dick sucked by a hundred shithead pledges in the past few years. It’s unacceptable. It deserves something better.

What a weird fucking thought. You almost fuck up and gag around the jagged edges of the idea, how it chafes and doesn’t quite fit into your brain, like someone else thought it.

Christ, you need to just get this over with. It’s reached the point of diminishing returns, and not even the greatest dedication to taking bad jokes too far warrants this.

You place your other hand on the statue’s chest, right over the intricately shaped loops of coarse hair. Your fingertip slips into the dip of his navel, smooth and weirdly textured. The pad of your thumb finds a convincing line to trace, the mimicry of sinew and muscle perfect you could imagine it was moving with deep breaths.

Okay, you’re done now. Seriously.

Bracing yourself, you give the stone cock one last suck, pressing down as far as you can manage; your mouth fills almost completely, your tongue pinned down under slick smoothness. There is a vein to follow, and you grunt a little in effort as you move your tongue along it.

Then, you lean back, seeking to give your jaw some desperately needed relief.

The perfect curve of the cock head catches against your lips.

And a hand lands heavy and solid against the back of your skull.

For a moment, for one bleeding edge of a moment, you think it's one of the fuckboys watching the show, your future "brothers." That this is about to become less hilarious, a lot more dark.

So you start to panic.

And then.

And then there's something... else, instead. A different sort of feeling, with a different sort of shape entirely. It settles into your mind, soft and soapy and warm.

No panic.

Calm.

The vein under your tongue pulses. You taste the unmistakable salty tang of cock at the back of your throat. And the stone is... soft.

One of the guys gasps. Breathy, thick.

"What the fuck," says another. More a sigh than an exclamation.

The hand on the back of your skull pushes you forward, and you shudder and breathe roughly in through your nose as you're shoved down. There's no fucking doubt, something is happening. You move on instinct, swirling your tongue as you go down, covering your teeth, opening your throat. Purely without thinking, doing what comes naturally, you look up through wet eyelashes. Past thick, dark pubes. Past rich, mahogany skin.

And you meet a pair of green eyes like pools in a fucking magical ass fairy forest clearing.

"Boy howdy," a voice rumbles from the statue, deep and pleasant as stones down a mountainside, rich as coffee, and playful as a kitten. "Don't stop there, sweetling. What kind if dastardly fiend would leave a bloke in such a darned state?"

You think one of the frat guys faints.

Frankly, you don’t blame the guy. You feel a distant, bewildered pang, but it is swiftly subsumed into the the calm weight in your mind. The hand tightens in your hair, giving you a split second of warning.

Then the statue pulling out slowly and thrusting in again, letting you adjust to the movement. You let out a baffled whine, unable to make sense of this, especially with the warm fog surrounding your thoughts.

The statue makes a soothing noise and squeezes your hand even as it, he, holds your head at the perfect angle to fuck directly into your throat. Your jaw still aches, but the feeling recedes as he continues to make use of your mouth. There’s some noise, maybe one of the frat boys speaking, but your consciousness narrows down until it’s just a meaningless blur of input.

They don’t matter one whit. The only thing of importance here is being of service as best you can.

“And you’re just ducky at that, aren’t you,” the statue says, continuing to fuck right down into your throat with evenly paced thrusts. “I think that’s something you rather like about that idea. You’re going to hit all the sixes for me, aren’t you.”

He tugs on your hair, tilting your head back until you find an angle you can meet his eyes from. They’re just as astoundingly green on second sight. They’re borderline fucking enrapturing.

You can’t look away. You can barely blink. The only sound you can hear is ringing in your ears. Giving your all to sucking this dick feels like the most important task you’ve ever set yourself to in your entire life.

“Perfect,” the statue groans, somehow pushing even deeper down your throat. “That’s just aces, exactly like that — Dirk, yes. That’s a good name.” He’s still holding your hand, gently rubbing the back of your thumb, utterly incongruous with the face fucking of a lifetime he’s giving you.

Nothing in the world exists, you think dizzily, except for those eyes and this cock. There’s nothing else. You sink down and down under the comfortable warm weight in your mind, until you have nothing in your mind beyond the awareness of the steady rhythm of his hips.

And then you sink even deeper, eyes falling shut, and between one infinite stretch of a moment and the next, you slip into unconsciousness.

Chapter Text

Your name is Dirk Strider, and you do not remember how your obligatory machismo-fueled sacrificial life event went. Which, as far as things go, you think not remembering the particulars of your hazing might be the best outcome possible. There is a humming inside your head that threatens to tip into a full hangover, but that’s small price to pay.

You wake up in your room in ABO fraternity, laying on top of the still-made sheets and surrounded nearly on all sides by the taped up moving boxes that amount to the things you cared enough about to ferry over to the house. The fact they are still here and unmolested makes you think you passed the trumped up test of manhood. This is really your room.

Sitting up gingerly, you keep one hand against your chin, supporting your head. It's heavy like a glass about to tip, and in that direction surely lies the hangover horseshit. Taking it slow, you swing your legs over the bed and get yourself standing. Last night, the house had been a raucous despair of your alleged peers, drinking and partying in celebration of new blood injected into the fraternity. Maybe they're still down for the count at the moment. God, you hope you're that lucky.

... Honestly if you can't stop shittalking these guys, even in the privacy of your own head, this whole dorm room expatriate thing might not pan out. In a fleeting moment of uncharacteristic hopefulness, you try to put your reservations aside for the moment, and take a deep breath. In front of you, dust motes flicker in the morning light. How the fuck did you wind up with a sunrise-facing room? This isn't your first home in some gentrified suburb with walking distance to the subway and a corner store, you don't need sunlight in the morning, christ.

You take another deep breath. Bright side, Strider. Look on the bright side. It's a room with an unwanted sunbeam, but it’s also a room without any dormmates or interlopers. Well worth the price you've paid.

Whatever price that was, you guess. Frowning and rubbing your jaw-- there's a weird soreness there, and your throat hurts a bit. Maybe you had to recite something. Drunk. And loud.

You shake your head and walk the three steps towards your desk to flip open your laptop.

The campus has a few news sources that you like to keep tabs on. It's good for avoiding demonstrations that'll slow you down on the way to class, or finding really heinous demonstrations to go crash. Both very useful, as well as news on the latest offerings of free food in exchange for membership among the organizations. You have a black credit card and will never have want for any material good, but immersing yourself here demands certain customs be respected so you can truly get the Real College Experience.

Regardless, you check the homepage of the campus bulletin.

It tells you in a severe flat serif font INVESTIGATION INTO THEFT IN THEATER DEPARTMENT.

You close the tab and reopen another, to the less-official campus blog, anonymously kept by some anonymous members of the student body.

It says GIANT STATUE STOLEN SOMEHOW. HOW THE FUCK. The subtitle underneath helpfully elaborates no really it weighs a fuck ton, how the fuck.

Something twinges behind your eyes and you close them, pressing a palm against your lids. Maybe you should skip the morning reading today.

You take your time to do your morning routine, ignoring as much as possible that there is anybody else living here other than you. You discover another silver lining: the bathrooms in here are private and somehow aren’t disgusting, unlike most male public bathrooms. (One of them, anyway. The downstairs bathroom apparently has somebody passed out in the bathtub, among other things. Upstairs is fine, though.) It lets you get a nice, relaxing shower in and are able to do your hair in relative peace. You come out feeling refreshed and cleansed of the trials and tribulations of last night.

You get several texts from Roxy which you ignore, for the most part. You have classes and a seminar to go to today. Not much, but since you moved all the way out to the greek housing, getting to the academic buildings is a much longer walk.

The rest of the day feels uneventful. You take notes, go grab a coffee in between classes, run into Roxy but manage to weasel your way out of being dragged off for interrogation by the fact that she’s really gotta run, no seriously, she’s going to kidnap you later, you owes her one.

And it’s not that you don’t want to hang out with her. You’d just like to avoid discussion of the hazing ritual you don’t even remember very clearly, along with her inevitable teasing or dwelling on all the dudebros you’re going to have to figure out how to get along with. If she was just going to ask you about the bathrooms and help you move in, that would be a different story.

The final seminar of the day is long and boring, and by the end of it the sun has begun to set and your mind drifts to thinking solely about your new, comfortable bed, and all the unpacking you still have to find time to do.

So as you trudge back to your new home, you ignore the prickling sensation on the back of your neck, like you’re being watched. Paranoid impulses aren’t exactly new for you, and you’ve hit the point of exhaustion and apathy where you can safely dismiss it.

An hour or so later, you’re nursing a warm cup noodle with the curtains drawn, listening to some music through one earpiece as you sift through your box of books. You’ve only go so much shelving, not as much as you’d thought, so you need to really think about how you’re going to organize it all. You’ve got a pile for philosophy, one for art, one for fiction, and you’re just now finding the few bits of porn and erotica you had at the bottom of the box.

Your first instinct is to hide it all away under the bed like you’re a goddamn preteen, just to avoid the inevitable bullshit, and not because you’re ashamed of it in any way. But then, why should you need to act like you’re ashamed of it? You’re not. You should put it on display with everything else, along with your semi-ironic poster of buff dudes in horse masks with bunny ears and various pieces of commissioned furry art. Your last roommate was cowed enough by your ‘aloof’ personality not to ignore it comfortably, but you’re on a different playing field now. This would need to be a seriously calculated power play...

Planning for this is interrupted by a knock on your door. You groan and take the earbud out of your ear, glaring at it. You wonder if you don’t answer whoever it is will be cowed into leaving you alone.

Yeah. Fuck it, you can't imagine anyone who might come through that door you might actually want to talk to. You shove your ear bud back in, bending over your things. The theme from one of your brothers movies is playing, and it's a jam. Time to focus in that and calculate the precise way to play this whole Bad Dragon Dildo thing...

You nearly fucking jump right out of your skin when someone taps you on the shoulder.

You yank your buds out, springing to your feet and whirling around.

"What the shit, don't you guys have any sense of personal --"

Whoa.

Uh, okay.

Standing in front of you is just about the hottest guy you've ever seen. Like, ever. And you've hung out at a McDonald's with Ryan Reynolds.

He's all broad shoulders, white teeth, long legs, chiseled jaw. Flawless mahogany skin. Thick chocolatey hair. A dusting of soft looking hair covers the back of his arms and his athletic legs. His chest pulls at the fabric of his t-shirt. The gap between his teeth somehow makes him look even more perfect. And his eyes, green like fucking... forest pools or some shit...

Hold up.

Something about that thought echoes strangely in your head like the ringing of a bell. It's familiar like deja vu is familiar, comfortable and alien at the same time. It's the eyes. The way they pull at you. The way that they draw you in. Forest pools. Deja vu.

"Oh hecking yes!" the hottie says with a grin that could melt steel. "It is you! Was worried I didn't have the juice to track you down, but you sure did work some fine voodoo on me, if you don't mind me saying! I've got more than a few drops of the old mojo back after all!"

He sticks out a hand and without much thought you act on impulse, reaching to take it. There's mind shattering familiarity in his grip as he pumps your hand cheerfully. You recognize the lines of his hand, the pressure of his fingers against your wrist.

"Uh, what? Hi," you say. You sound like a fucking idiot.

He doesn't seem to care, just pumps your hand away like he's trying to get water in the desert. "Hi!" he echoes. Jesus. That smile. It's making you a little weak on your feet. He peers at you, tilting his head like a sexy bird. "You look different from this angle! Hell, you're a lot taller than I expected. Almost taller than me in this form, hah! Isn't that a kneeslapper? Well, we'll do the old flipperooni on that real soon here, won't we?"

"Uh," you say.

He finally slows the furious handshake. His brows pull down a bit. "Am I laying the aura on a little thick, good buddy?" he asks. "Trying to dial it down, here. Don't want to turn your brain into a mushroom stew sort of situation while we're getting proper introductions underway, yeah?"

"I think I know you," you say dumbly.

He laughs. It's fucking delightful, and it curls through your loins in a way that makes you shiver.

"Sure as shit balls you know me," he says, and then one corner of his grin turns up a little more. It transforms his face immediately. He goes from loveable sexy goofball to fucking sex god in zero seconds flat. "Maybe," he says, with a little lilt in his voice that makes you kind of dizzy, "you'd recognize me a little better if you got on your knees?"

You're halfway down when he blinks and shakes his head and snaps you out of it.

"Shit. SORRY. That was supposed to be flirting, not a command. I'm so rusty, dude, you gotta give me a sec to... Argh! I sure am making a mighty wash of this, aren't I just?"

He hauls you back up.

The two of you stand here for a second. Your head feels like it's been stuffed with cotton balls, and your stomach feels like you've taken one too many spins on the tire swing. What the fuck.

"You can call me..." He tilts his head, considering. "Uhm. Jake will work, I think. Yeah. Jake."

"Dirk," you say, because you finally have an answer for something here. "Dirk Strider."

"Righto, yep." He nods once, conclusively. "Got that. We met last night, when you snapped me out of my dire state. Uh, just checking, here... did you know that made you my bound consort and potential high priest for this era, or do I have to explain all that?"

Oh.

Jesus.

Fuck.

You remember.

It all comes flooding back to you. The memory of that enormous cock shoved down your throat, his hand in yours, gentle and tender. His eyes, mesmerizing, the grip on your hair, arousing. It's...a lot, especially with how off-kilter you're already feeling, and you think you might actually lose your balance.

Next thing you know you're sitting on the edge of your bed, Jake next to you and holding your hand. He shoots you a disarming smile that makes the questions of 'what just happened' and 'what do you mean' all die in your throat.

"Woah there sweetheart. I think we ought to take this a bit slower, don't you?" He brings up a hand to rub your back, and you feel his fingers idly play with the strands of hair at the nape of your neck. You find it difficult to look away from his eyes--and then, suddenly, not so much. "I'm terribly sorry about all that. Really, I want you to remember this part! I'll turn it off for now. Let me just give us a bit of privacy, first."

A wave of his hand, and you hear the door shut quietly, as if by itself. Probably by itself, actually. Holy shit.

"So...you're..." you manage, dumbly, not even sure how to finish the sentence.

"A god? Right-o!" He winks at you. You swallow. "And you, my fine fellow, are quite literally my savior. You're very special, you know. I couldn't have asked for a better consort."

"Consort," you echo. Something tells you your inability to string words together has less to do with some spell he's casting on you, and more to do with being a socially awkward fuck. Great.

"Now, I hope the wording doesn't scare you off. Really, it's hardly a raw deal!" He pauses, seems thoughtful for a second and chuckles. "Unless you want it to be. If you catch my drift."

"Uh." Man. You could...really use a fucking nap. Is it just you, or has something changed in the lighting? Jake is still holding your hand. It's warm.

“Look at you. Good gravy, I lucked out this go-around. And I had a jaunt around the place too, it’s perfect!” He beams, charismatic in a way you rarely see outside of Hollywood. “Last go around was just a slough, it was a big abstinence boom and,” he waves his hand, like swatting away a thought. “Well, you saw how that went.”

“Which is you,” you ask quietly, trying to put it all in order. “The big-ass statue or… this.”

“Neither! Both! It’s not, oh whatsit, glamor, so much as…” He snickers. “A form you are more comfortable with is the line, I think. You haven’t pulled a Pygmalion here, don’t worry.”

“Well, shit, thank god,” you say dully. “I didn’t want to start out my year pulling a Pygmalion. Now I’m reassured.”

“Sass. I like it.” He turns on the bed, cheating in towards you, and reaches out. You jerk back, surprised, and he thankfully still. “Easy, tiger. I’m really not going to hurt you.”

That doesn’t make you feel much better, actually, and you scowl. Squeezing your eyes tightly shut helps with the persistent warmsofthappy feeling that wants to tangle around your brain like cobwebs. “Right. Then what’s the parameters of this… consort thing?” you ask when you finally feel safe opening your eyes again.

He sits up straighter and thumbs his chin with a smirk. “Hm. It’s dashed tempting to keep a tight lid on the whole kabosh, really, there’s nothing like a little mystery to keep things exciting.” His eyes catch yours, and your belly swoops with a golden glow vertigo. “Why don’t,” he says slowly, and he eases in so slowly you barely catch the movement, “you just trust me for now?”

You put a hand behind you and you ease back. “Don’t think I should.”

“Well, there you go thinking when feeling is so much better.” His hand is on your knee; it feels big, and you glance down at it, checking to make sure it’s human-sized and not…. fuck statue-sized. When you look back at him, he’s closer, and you sway back. “Easy, tiger,” he says again, but this time it’s a purr of noise. “Easy.”

He leans into your space, and you are certain something is fucking going on. All around you, the electric bulbs have taken it onto themselves to soften and flicker like candlelight, and the imagined flame catches sparks in his eyes.

He lifts one finger and pushes down on the tip of your nose, and you slump down on your back with a gasp, head spinning, liable to spill out your damn ears.

You see him recline next to you, his head propped up on his fist as he beams delightedly. “Maybe you don’t trust me yet, Dirk Strider, but you and I are going to get along. You’ll see.”

When you next inhale, the light's changed.

A moment of disorientation crashes over you. A second ago, you think, you were laying here with your entire concept of who you are pouring out of you, liquefying into a pool for you to float in. And there was someone else with you, a dreamy sort of gorgeous...

Him.

You think, maybe it was a dream. Maybe I'm working too hard. But no fucking way, because now your head is so clear it's like you're made of glass. Each detail is carved in diamond. Hazing, statue dick, hand on your head, guy in your room, guy fuzzing your head, guy laying you down...

Guy claiming to be a God. Guy claiming to be your God, more or less.

Holy shit.

You breathe deep. This light, wane and watery... It's morning. You slept, apparently. Slept so deep and so sound you don't even conceptualize the passage of time. And now...

Hold up. You furrow your brow. Is that...?

You sit up.

Your TV is going. A frazzled Winona Ryder is clutching a ball of Christmas lights in a crawlspace. The lights are flickering on and off as she calls to them. Also, your new friend is maybe a centimetre from the screen, hands cupping either side of it like he's drawing it in for a tender kiss.

"Is that... are you watching Stranger Things?" you ask, dumbfounded.

He turns, smiling widely. His eyes sparkle with excitement.

"You're awake!" he cries happily. "I told you to sleep as long as you needed to and boy frigging blitzen, I regretted that after a while! You must not get very much rest if that's how long you needed to be dead in the water before your subconscious thinks you're ready to handle me!"

You don't know what to say. There's something almost puppy-ish about the guy, which is, uh. Your crystalline memories very clearly highlight him in roughly face fucking you until you straight up passed out, and also, he definitely slipped into some kind of mode last night right before apparently grabbing the reins of your subconscious?

So... Maybe don't just come out and tell him that, yeah, you've been on and off sleeping pills for years and they never seem to help and your therapists have always said it's all tied up in an obsessively bad self image and also a bunch of anxiety and all the other stuff that you just feel utterly compelled to spit out without thinking.

"Were you just here all night?" you say, instead.

He bobs his head happily. "Hella! Nowhere else I'd rather be, my compadre! Uh, also, being around you is really charging the old batteries, if you get my meaning."

His chipper expression shifts, and his teeth gleam in a winsome smile that makes you go a bit breathless. You feel this compulsion like gravity to roll off your bed and go to him and just...

Worship. The word whispers through you. You don't like it. You look away from him.

He sighs, sounding pretty disappointed indeed. "Anyway, I got this thing up and running and darn frigging nabbit, I can't even believe how much I've missed! My last consort filmed me a rough cut of himself just going to town on me and it looked nothing like this! And the story! Dirk, you wouldn't believe the narrative here! These boys, see, are all playing a game, and then one finds a monster, and --“

You cut him off. "I've seen Stranger Things, dude. Everyone's seen Stranger Things."

He pouts. "Well, I hadn't! Some of us haven't had the opportunity, you cad. I think my favourite is this lady here. Gosh, you just feel how she misses her boy! It's bringing me to tears! I sure hope they get him back -- no spoilers!"

You shake your head faintly, looking around. "... Did you unpack all my shit?"

"I got bored," he says, wounded.

"Yeah, I see that."

Everything is organized. Your clothes carefully packed away, your DVDs lined up, your books on shelves, your Star Trek TNG model ships, aka the nerdiest fucking thing about you, all carefully assembled and sitting next to...

Oh, lord.

He follows your gaze. "Oh," he says, and you get the shivers as his voice shifts. "Let me just say, my good friendo, you have excellent taste. I liked those quite a bit."

It takes a lot to get you blushing, but something about the loving way all your toys have been arranged, carefully posed and supported by open dirty magazines, is just obscene. And creepy, because they're clearly arranged in order of your favourites. The ones you use most are in a place of honor, set up so it's like all the others are bowing to then.

It’s not a shelf full of spaceships and dildos. It's more than that.

It's personal.

"They're not... Really meant for..."

And then he's there with you on the bed, kneeling and cupping your face in his hands.

"They're incredible," he whispers, his voice rolling over you and making your head spin. "You're incredible. Some of the energy coming off them... Well. I'd say it could feed me for weeks, but it'd be a lie. Truth be told... it really just got the old tummy rumbling."

"What time is it?" you ask, faintly. "I've got a life drawing class this morning, I..."

"Shh." He breathes, tipping your chin up, and you go silent. He smiles. "I want to get a look at what makes you tick, Dirk Strider. Tell me about you."

You feel soft buzzy honey sweetness in your head. You don't think you can answer.

"Oh, that's right as rain," he murmurs. "I didn't meant with your mouth. Or, at least... Not your voice."

You feel your heart rate start to ramp up, the sweet fog nearly completely filling your awareness. It feels like his words echo, as if the sound were bouncing around your completely empty skull, compelling you to obey.

He tips your head to the side, to kiss your cheek, and it’s so tender you feel heat radiate out from the spot. You suck in a breath, and your eyes wander aimlessly, before settling on the digital clock on your desk. 9:00 am.

You have class in 15 minutes. It takes almost twenty to get there.

Suddenly, the spell he’s cast on you seems to have broken with the sheer power of the feeling of panic that raises in you. You sit up suddenly, nearly headbutting him. “Fuck!”

“Sssssssh,” he insists more, trying to push you back down. More fog attempts to encroach on your brain, but you shake your head and push him away.

“No, you fucking ‘sssshhhh’,” you snap. “I’ve got class. Get off.”

Jake’s eyes are wide with surprise. He blinks at you for a few seconds before he seems to decide you mean business. He moves over. “...hmmm.”

You ignore what that might mean, and quickly get up, grabbing your bag and art supplies in a rush without looking back. You can’t even take a shower, god dammit. You look disgusting.

On your way to class, you find yourself looking over your shoulder every few seconds, but eventually come to the conclusion he isn’t following you. Thank god. You’re late, but nobody cares and you apparently don’t miss much.

The next three or so hours seem to go in a blur, with you barely able to take any notes or focus. Once you get out you head straight for the bathroom and splash some fucking water in your face, trying to get rid of whatever weird lingering pheromones or something he must have got all over you. Also, your stomach growls. Right. Food.

You check your phone and Roxy has apparently dictated that now is the time for your interrogation, over at the grill. To entice you, she says lunch is her treat. You still aren’t looking forward to her probing, but at this point you’d do anything to get back some small amount of normality.

So you head over, combing your fingers through your hair the entire time to make absolutely sure it doesn’t look even remotely sex-ruffled. Roxy is waiting at a bench outside, and she waves to you. Oh, cool. She snagged the one with the good shade, and already bought you a hot dog.

“Hey,” you say, huffing a bit as you sit down across from her.

“Oh, ouch, what’s with that face?” she teases, taking a bite out of her hotdog immediately and looking way too smug than she has any right to be.

“What about my face,” you groan, not even sure what she means. Is this an excuse for her to try and prank you or something?

“It looks like you saw a gross lookin piece of roadkill on the way here and then you just got stuck like that,” she quips, tapping the table and wiggling her eyebrows. “Are you already so world-weary, Mr. frat boy?”

You stall for time by grabbing your hot tog and take a bite. Yes, the irony of you eating this phallic object in light of the circumstances is apparent to you. You just don’t give a shit.

“So I heard some srrrrrrsss hazing went the other daaay,” her eyebrow wiggling increases in intensity. “And then did you see the news about that statue that just went missing? At like, the exact same time! Woah, what a fuckin coincidink, huh??”

“...Sure is,” you say, taking another bite. She huffs with dissatisfaction, but you just gesture to your very full mouth and avert your eyes.

...Ah, fuck.

And who should your gaze land on but the guy you’ve been running from all morning, leaning against a tree not 10 feet away and looking at you with the most self-satisfied and flirtatious smirk you’ve ever seen. He licks his lips and waves.

You nearly choke you swallow your food so fast, and no, you aren’t blushing. Roxy says something, but you don’t really register it, because you’re already standing up.

“Where do you think YOU’RE goin?? I’m not done with you!” you hear her huff.

“Late for class,” you choke out.

“No you’re not! It’s not for another 45 minutes!”

“BYE!” you shout, waving behind you as you hoof it and DON’T look behind you. Your figure drawing class is pretty far from here, anyway. You’re just getting a head start.

Roxy shouts something back at you, but you’re already turning the corner out of sight.

The rest of your day is quiet. That should help you chill the fuck out, but really it just leaves you tense, on the verge of some precipe. Nevermind that you’ve been basically running from the hottest guy who has ever given you a time of day or night. The more minutes you spend out of his presence and thus further settled into your own head, the more the litany of holy shit holy shit gets louder.

But there is no alleged sex god haunting your steps. Maybe he discovered Hulu exists and got distracted. Maybe he got tired of you fucking hoofing it at the first sight of him and went to find a less skittish person to be his consort.

That thought gives you a pang.

You’ll deal with it after your finished for the day. Now, you sit at your workstation in the last class you have before you’re let loose. Advanced Color Study 503 is a little repetitive given the other classes you’ve taken, but you like the professor enough to pick it up. As long as you’re blowing all of your bro’s money on college, you might as well take classes you enjoy.

She takes a few minutes tweaking your assignment for the day; on a pedestal in the middle of the room is an arrangement: an old blue wooden window shutter with a bowl of glass spheres set at its base, all half-covered with a twisted off-white gauzy drape. She flicks on an orange-bulbed lamp and points it at the arrangement, and announces you’re doing practical work today.

Your classmates quietly take out their weapons of choice. One goes to the sink against the wall to fill a cup for her watercolors.

Shame this isn’t a place for your tablet. Instead, you break out a meticulous sharpened array of pencils.

The professor throws on some lo-fi tunes and everyone gets started. Now, with the narrow weight of a pencil in your hand, you relax, leaning forward on your elbow and starting to describe the shape of the arrangement with light overlapping lines.

Diligent, uninterrupted work is what you enjoy most in life, and when hunched over your station in a way that’s probably a chiropractor’s nightmare, you feel the tension unravel from your spine. A few times you spin the pencil around your finger, dextrous and showy for no one but yourself. It’s good.

The instructor walks around the room periodically to give notes, but after the hour mark, the only sound is the harmonic white noise from her speakers and the sound of art happening.

The stillness in your head is a felted thing, like tactile static. You exhale deep breaths and narrow down on the scratch-drag of your pencils as you try to capture the exact angled shadow built from blues and oranges. It thrums through you as your knuckles coast over the page, the barest brush of sensation. You almost sway as your eyes get into a rhythm sweeping up to the arrangement and down to the page, up again, and down, up…

Up, and the door has opened a sliver.

Down, and the glass gleam is filling in nicely.

Up, and you squint at the gauze and trying to follow the way it colors the shadow.

You glance to your side, to see how far along the rest of the class is.

The guy on your immediate right is working in heavy paper and inks, softening the lines with very precise water placement. It’s a pretty cool technique, but something else is more pressing; that absolutely looks like a dick.

The glass spheres are nestled too close together, and the twist in the drape is too loose, and with the shadows in place, it looks like a dick artfully standing in front of the wooden shutters.

You blink and look away. Alright. You were in the zone, but you still have dicks on the brain. That’s fair.

You check the punkish girl tucked up against her sketchbook on your left.

The light reflects off the bowl and onto the shutter, and that’s a dick too.

What the fuck. You shut your eyes, count to three, and look again.

Yeah. That’s objectively a dick.

With a heavy sense of dread, you sit back and look at your own sketch. And… it’s there. Yeah. There is a phantom cock thrusting out of the negative space. Ripples in the pattern of the light through the gauze even gives it some freakish texture. It would be a good piece if you had intended to draw a massive shadow dick.

Before you can excuse yourself to go to the restroom and take a hard look at yourself, you here a soft gasp. “Now that,” Jake’s voice says, cracking the diligent silence like a hammer against glass, “is some… some art.”

You nearly give yourself whiplash as your head snaps up towards the sound. Jake is just standing there, on the other side of the circle of work stations, his hand braced on the far edge of the table, his body tilted around the watercolor girl. He pushes up his glasses and peers close at her work. “It’s damned impressive, have you seen this?”

He’s talking to you. Your mouth drops open as you look around the room.

No one is looking up. Everyone is so focused on their work, they don’t even blink as Jake moves to the next student and whistles. “What do you do with all these when you’re finished? Do you sell them? I’d love to throw a few up on the wall back at la fraternità. Do you think they’d let me?”

“What,” you say, your face flushing hot all at once, “are you doing here?”

Jake waves his hand dismissively through the air. “Well, I got bored waiting for you, didn’t I? Swanning off without so much of a how-do-you-do. I took a walkabout, getting a feel for the area, the sort of lovely folks pouring their hearts and souls and time into the earth. The place has really shaped up since last I had the gumption to explore. And, you know. The ability.” He shoots you a grin and lightly slaps his hands against his thighs. “You try being plum stuck in a stony rut and see how stircrazy you get!”

You look around the room again. Even the professor seems… not frozen in place. They haven’t all stopped but they just around noticing Jake. And you would have called him pretty damn hard to ignore.

Following your anxious stare, Jake cuts through the desks and over to your professor. “What? What, are you afraid of? Am I going to embarrass you, Dirk?” He nearly skids to a halt by her desk and waves his hand in front of her face. “Hullo, there! Salutations!”

“Knock it off,” you hiss.

“Oh, relax. You are quite the strung up fellow, has anyone ever told you that?” He loops around to her side. With a wicked grin, he takes a pen out of the cup on her desk, and plucks the one out of her hand, tucking the new one in place.

She shows no sign of noticing, writing in her planner without a care to the intrusion.

“See,” Jake says, stepping out into the center of the room and parking his ass on the edge of the platform holding the arrangement, “there are a few perks to this. A shroud of privacy whenever we might need it.” He crosses his arms; it shows off the curl of his biceps nicely. “I’m not here to get your fine behind tossed out onto the cold hard asphalt.”

You put your pencil down before you break it. “What are you here for then?”

He blinks and tilts his head to the side, like your something interesting. “You know… if you asked me that last night, I’d just have gabbed about having a good time and stretching my legs, getting back into the swing of things. But yesterday, I thought this was going to be easy.” He flashes his teeth at you. “Forgive me the terrible presumption, but you do give a fellow the impression of being easy at first hot blush. Clearly not though.”

You press your lips together. It’s hard not to notice how the orange light looks glancing off his skin, the angle making his jawline sharper, somehow even more fucking handsome than before.

“Today, what I think,” Jake says, voice softening, the stark bravado in his tone melting like butter in a hot pan, simmering into something so private you want to bristle at the audience. “I think that you and I could do some remarkable work. You just need to let us have a little fun.”

“Meaning?” You suck in a breath through your teeth. “What the hell does all this shit mean? I was supposed to put up with some hazing and get into a shitty frathouse and get my degree. Now…”

“Now,” Jake says, still almost unbearably gentle, “there’s bigger plans in place for you. If you want them.”

“Why me?” you ask, accusatory.

Jake snorts. “Why not?”

You glare at him.

His perfect smile falls away. “Because you’re my consort.”

“Because I gave you the first decent blowjob you’d had in centuries.”

“No!” Jake springs to his feet and stalks over to you. His hands grip the edge of your table and he leans in. You feel the instinctive urge to lean back in turn seize you, and then release just as quickly. “That’s a symptom, not the ticket to the trolley itself. Dirk.” He moves so fast you barely catch it, and his hand closes around yours.

He’s dense heat and entreating as he stretches your arm out, pulling your hand close. You feel the ghost of his breath before he presses his mouth to your knuckles. It could be a chaste gesture, just his mouth against your fingers.

But it burns through you like hot coals.

“This is some damned age of skeptics,” Jake murmurs. You can feel his lips against your hand. “I get that. But give me a chance to show you.”

His lips close around one of your knuckles. His tongue touches you lightly. A shiver rolls down your spine, and if you weren’t sitting your knees would buckle.

Jake watches your face closely, and whatever he sees makes him grin.

“Yeah,” he says, straightening and tugging you up. “C’mon. We could do this here, but I doubt you’d forgive me, hm? Let’s head back.”

You follow, as if you were always going to follow him.

Getting back to the frat house is something of a blur. It feels almost instant, which is probably the point. You recall Jake holding your hand, or you holding his. Looking at his back. Feeling a compulsion to slip your hand into his back pocket, which you decide not to ignore, to Jake’s obvious delight.

And then you’re on your back, and Jake is kissing you. Presumably, you’re in your room and on your bed. But that detail is unimportant, because your entire world has narrowed down to nothing but Jake and the points of contact between you. He’s boxed you in underneath him, his limbs like sturdy marble pillars.

For all you know, he could have actually reverted back to a statue. The murkiness of your own perceptions would normally freak you the fuck out, but it seems like everything is being dulled by that sticky sweet fog. His lips are pillow soft as he takes both of yours, one at a time, between his teeth -- licking and sucking and gnawing until they’re swollen and puffy and hot.

Jake’s not wearing anything. Not sure when that happened, or if it literally happened just now, instantaneously. Hard to tell with all this god powers bullshit. You’re not able to dwell on it long at all because Jake apparently takes great pleasure in torturing you by slowly peeling off your clothes, his hot breath and tongue somehow managing to trail over every inch of exposed skin as he goes.

When your pants come off you’re rock fucking hard, and Jake chuckles.

“What a marvel you are,” he hums. “So stubborn, so skittish. Yet look at you now. Laid out before me like a present.” He’s holding your hand again, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles. You gasp. “Isn’t this nice?”

It is nice, you think. It’s really nice.

“I thought so.” Jake’s other hand slides along your side, until he grips your thigh easily with just one hand and gently spreads you wide. You want to bite your knuckles to keep from moaning, but he’s holding your left hand hostage while the other is gripping the sheets for dear fucking life.

Your leg is brought high to rest on his shoulder, and before you have much chance to adjust, you catch a whiff of something disarmingly sweet. Already slick fingers are squeezing your ass, meandering their way towards your hole. The smell makes you feel like you have to sneeze, and your face scrunches up.

“What is that?” you croak out, trying not to totally kill the mood with something as unsexy as a sneeze.

“Hmmmm?” Jake trills, fingers lazily circling your entrance. You twitch involuntarily. “Oh, just some scented oils. Lube. Whatever you’d prefer to call it.”

“That’s a scent alright.” You blink, because you think your eyes are actually going to water. “A little strong, isn’t it? Where the fuck did it even--” you suck in a breath as Jake teases you with a brief poke inside. You groan.

“Don’t fret over inconsequential little details like that,” Jake says. Your asshole must smell like fucking burnt sugar at this point. “It’s special. You’ll like it! Just trust me.”

“Couldn’t you just snap your fingers and have my insides instantly coated with the stuff?” You shift your hips, a bit frustrated, trying to get him to stop teasing you already. “God--like literally god, come on--”

He actually pouts at you. You grit your teeth. “Well. I suppose I could… but where’s the fun in that?”

You groan in frustration, which turns into a loud moan as Jake finally, finally sticks his fingers in you. Two of them push in and they go deep and they are not small, yet there’s barely any pain at all. Just a pleasant and maddening burn of a stretch. “There it goes,” Jake says. “Relax. Relax and you’ll see, lovely.”

And you do relax. In an instant you feel muscles you barely knew could tense up go slack, and that sticky sweet smell seems to only encourage it further, radiating heat and making you feel painfully needy. You need Jake to touch you. If he’s not touching you you’re going to die.

You whimper, needing more, and he gives it to you. Three fingers, fucking you open with hardly any friction and all. Then they’re gone, and you whine in protest.

“Oh, hush up, you were the one making such a fuss about taking our time.” Jake pats your leg with his slippery fingers and then rolls the line of his dick up over your hole to bump across your balls. You try to hitch your hips up and fail, too limp and relaxed to do more than twitch. Come on, you’re so ready for him. It’s not like you’re new to bottoming. He should be able to slide right on in, if he would quit fucking around.

“So impatient,” Jake tsks, and then he’s lining himself up to press against your hole. You groan. Yes, that’s what you need. Please, please.

He breaches you in one smooth thrust, and all your thoughts are obliterated from your mind. Jake squeezes your hand and moves it up by your head to lie limply against the sheets, and then he does the same to the other, balls-deep in you all the while.

“Keep those there,” he instructs, and then uses his now-free hands to holds your thighs wide apart and pushed back toward your stomach.

It’s killing you, having his dick buried in you but unmoving, barely even a stretch. You want the hot shock of it as he fucks into you. You need it. If you could move from the lax position he has you in, you would shove him down and do the work yourself, ride him until you came.

Your head rolls, and you see him watching you with avarice, a yawning chasm of hunger in his eyes, wet gleaming like bared teeth. Or hooks might be more appropriate, since the moment you catch his gaze, you are stuck like that, and a heat floods your cheeks.

His hips rock in a very slow, patient (or cruel) circle that makes your breath stutter. You see his tongue flash over his lips, like you’re a meal about to be swallowed up.

His knees shift, a wider stance, and finally his dick draws out of you. It’s slow, and you feel every inch of him in the glide. And the absence,  it’s so much worse, and you try to shut your eyes against how empty you feel. Your fingers curl and twitch; you want to grab him, yank him back in, now.

“That’s my favorite, right there,” Jake tells you fondly. “That kind of desperation. Wouldn’t you just give anything for more, Dirk?” His hand strokes your leg, fingers tight and pulling against your muscle. “What could I ask you…”

Your entire body tightens and he rocks into you, just a bit before rolling back again. “Come on,” you groan, defeated. “More, come on, more, don’t just sit there, I-- please, fuck.”

Jake smiles warmly. “That’s it.” He reaches up, over your head, bending you almost in half to grab the headboard as he pushes his dick back inside you. “More for my scrumptious devotee. As much as you can take.”

It’d vague nonsense, but you don’t give a fuck. He strokes into you with the same endless patience, until his balls are against your ass. This time, at least, he doesn’t make you wait again, and pulls out a little faster. All the way until just the head of his cock is in you, and all the way back again.

“More,” he says, and laughs softly.

On the next stroke, he pushes in harder. The drag of him against you is overwhelming. All you can do is lay there and pant open-mouthed as he fucks you with the patience of a distance runner.

He fucks into you, and your brow furrows at the pressure. As his pace quickens, it feels like… more each time. Like he’s getting deeper into you, like his dick’s going to find a path to your soul, it’s so much.

He pulls out and pushes, and you feel yourself stretch around him, tension strung tight in you as your legs twitch. “Uh-- fuck, I…”

Jake smiles warmly, and thrusts into you again, and your toes curl. It’s bigger. He’s someone getting bigger inside you, and you can feel it happening, slow but steady and unstoppable. “Fuck, unh, J-Jaaake,” you groan, shivering as you’re pushed further.

“You asked for more,” he tells you sweetly. “Never…” he hums, leaning harder into you, his dick sliding all the way home and making you yelp in shock, fuck, it’s huge, “Never let it be said I don’t…. treat my consorts to whatever their heart desires.”

The unreality of the situation, of all of it, is rocks over you in time with the next slow, invading thrust. What's happening? Where are you, who is this, is this a dream? It's not real, it can't be any sort of real.

"You..." you pant, and rough and harsh and breathless.

"Oh, mnn, yes, me. Me, me, me, Dirk, my perfect marigold blossom, it's only me, now, me and you..."

You shake your head, hard. Your fingers claw helplessly against the headboard behind you, scratching futilely against the shitty fake wood. He's big enough that it aches, but sweetly. Poignantly. Like the first few chords of an emotionally manipulative love song catching you off guard.

He bends over, fucking smashing you up like an accordion, and he kisses you. Deep. Desperate. You hear your own wild groan echoing through your skull, and his harmonizes with it a moment later. His tongue presses against your lips. You let him in. It's got to be as big as his cock, and he fucks your mouth with it as he fucks the rest of you. His lips and mouth and tongue are heady and redolent like hibiscus syrup. You feel yourself sinking.

The only thing you've ever been good at is being... Objective. Clear-minded. Analytical. You fight the sticky sweet currant jam that surrounds you. Turn your head to one side, his saliva smearing your cheek.

"What are you?" you ask.

"I told you." His voice is hot against your ear, and it rumbles through your skull, your brain, your soul. He takes your earlobe between his teeth. You whimper like an animal. "I'm a God. And you're my chosen vessel of divinity, you studmuffin, you."

It's the word 'studmuffin' that gives you a little bit of your power back. It's mind bendingly hot spoken in his honey-thick voice, and the implications make your toes curl. But still.

Still.

"Studmuffin," you repeat.

"Yep," he says.

"Oh my God."

"Yes? This is him speaking," he laughs against your ear.

"Wh..." you begin, and he pushes into you again. All the way. Harder, faster, rougher. You feel the blood pulse through his cock. You swear he swells and swells and swells with every beat of his heart. You curl your fingers around his wrist experimentally, like a captive testing his bonds. Your fingers barely wrap around him. You have long ass fingers.

"You're too big." You try to say it like an accusation, like an observation. Hey, you were smaller than this, before. Reality doesn't work like that. Conservation of mass, you know. Instead, it comes out like the cry of a twink in a porn movie as he's destroyed, and fuck, fuck, fuck if it's not accurate. "How big are you? How are you -- why are you --?"

"Shh, now," he commands, rough and harsh against your ear. "I'm trying to concentrate, now." And he laughs. "This is the good part, after all. Trust me. You want me to hit a runner."

You’re torn between wondering at his wording -- a runner, seriously, not even a fucking home run? -- and wondering at the way he is still fucking getting bigger inside you and you could swear your fingers have slid apart another half-inch where they are around his wrists. You try to take a breath and it shudders through you. You could swear it still doesn’t reach as deep as his dick does, and a beer can is one thing, but it’s getting fucking longer, too.

“This doesn’t,” you gasp, and he laughs in your ear. It’s a sound like a fucking babbling brook. You hate how goddamn poetic that is. Something about this asshole, who is apparently the god of assholes, just makes your brain steer out of its regular lane and straight onto Purple Prose Drive. If this was the way you wanted to think, you’d have fucking gone into Philosophy.

That thought cuts short as he pulls out, slow. It feels like an eternity later, he’s still dragging himself back, and dragging the air out of your lungs with him. You gasp and your fingers clench around his wrists and he gives you a smile that’s crooked as the fucking Cheshire cat.

Then, all at once, he shoves back into you and starts fucking pounding.

It’s too much. You thought it was too much before, but this is really too much. Your fingers fall back open because you are too damn busy having your mind blown open for even your muscles to work on their own. All systems offline. Reboot your system now. “Fuck!” you gasp as his hips piston, and he laughs again and rakes his teeth over the top of your ear. “Fuck!” you repeat.

“That is the intent, my good bearcat,” he hums, taking only a moment to pause before he pushes forward. His breathing isn’t even harsh or fast. He could have just woken up from a long nap as far as you can tell. It’s really hardly fair.

He grins again as you go to tell him so and, for just an instant, he shudders before he fucks hard, deep, and you feel him, all at once, practically exploding in you with the sudden size and girth. You choke out air. Your tongue feels heavy. You’re poised on a precipice above an entire fucking sea’s worth of that syrup that is everything about him.

“Now, there, valentino,” he says, as idly as commenting on the weather. “I think it’d be swell as sugar if you’d come for me, don’t you?”

Objectivity nothing. You don’t have a choice about that. He bucks into you and blinks and says, “Now, then,” and as you feel him start to come, you do the same, but to about the ten thousandth power.

You lose track of yourself. You lose track of him, too, except for the bulk of him in you and around and above you and the fucking fairy-pool green of his eyes -- occasionally piercing through your blurred vision. You’ve had your share of good fucks and your share of orgasms, sure, but they don’t -- you don’t --

You breathe.

Like a piece of driftwood coming back to the surface, you take another lungful of air. It’s dark. No, your eyes are just still closed. You shudder and try to open then; it’s not difficult but you have to make the effort.

Your room is flickering warm lights and soothing touches. Jake has one of your hands in his, and-- jesus. You blink hard, as if that will resolve what your seeing into something easier to handle.

He is really big. It’s hard to tell with him curled along your side, but he must be over seven foot, and broad and almost gleaming in a way that’s hard to define but definitely reminds you of that night in the theater backroom.

He lips at your fingertips, and smiles when he notices you watching. “Just a mo’. Gotta remind your limbs they’re yourself. Can’t have you goin’ about your day tomorrow with a bunch of limp noodles.”

Under his attention, you can feel whatever command he put on you rub away like chalk. As soon as they can, your fingers tighten, clutching his.

“What the hell are you the god of,” you ask in a strained voice. You could use a drink of water. “Statuary and aftercare?”

He lets out a sharp laugh. “Oh, well, one of the above! It’s not sporting to have your wicked way with someone and leave them a puddle with no mop.” He lays your hand down on your hand, and picks up your other one. “The rest, though… you’re a clever one. Sure you’ll cotton on soon.”

The way his fingers dig into yours and stretch them feels amazing. Eyes sliding shut, you groan softly, exhausted and unspooling after… everything that just happened.

“I can see your brow scrunching up, there, Strider,” Jake says, and the next second, two of his fingers rub along your forehead. “Smooth that line right back out. I’ve gone and found myself in an era of non-believers, but you can just sleep on it, okay? You need rest more than a dozen answers right now.”

Right. You are fucked to exhaustion, and being told to just give into it is a fucking benediction. You sink down into a warm kindle of afterglow, listening to Jake hum quietly in your ears before you’re down and you are out.

Chapter Text

Even by other, non chronic insomniac perspectives, you sleep like a fucking log. You honestly don’t think you move more than an inch the entire night, head still exactly where Jake left it on the pillow.

It’s a feeling of vague annoyance with the rising sun beaming directly onto your eyelids that rouses you. You try to flop an arm over your eyes as a defense against cruel sunlight and smack your hand into something suspiciously fleshy.

“Morning, sunshine!” says an irritatingly chipper voice.

You mumble something under your breath that could maybe be interpreted as a greeting by the truly optimistic and rest there for another moment, trying to collect your sleep-dazed thoughts.

So… this is happening. There is a… being, one who has demonstrated a degree of power and control over you and your head that should be a big fucking turn-off. Last night he pinned you to the bed and fucked you with a body that grew bigger until you aren’t sure you could have pulled free if you tried. He seems to know exactly what switch to flip to get you to collapse into a limp puddle for him to have his way with, too.

And he says you’re his consort, even if he’s being annoyingly vague on what exactly that means.

“Oh, shit,” Jake breathes, voice almost directly in your ear. You try not to flinch away. When you open your eyes all the way, you confirm what the weight on your body was telling you. There is a handsy, friendly godling draped over you, legs tangled with yours and laid out half on top of your body. Both of you still naked.

Jake isn’t looking at you, though. He’s… wearing your headphones? And his gaze is fixed somewhere behind your head.

“Dude,” you say.

He shushes you, looking enraptured. You knock your head back and yep, that’s the uncomfortable edge of your laptop. Jesus.

“Jake,” you say, louder.

Jake shoots you an annoyed glance. “Shh, it’s getting good,” he says.

Yeah, okay. You sit up, sending Jake sprawling off of your chest, and snap the laptop shut on Chris Hemsworth’s face.

“What was that for?” Jake demands, looking wounded, finally removing your headphones. Those things were expensive, some designer shit that Dave passed on to you. Jake sits up, offended, human-sized again. Shorter than you.

You pinch the bridge of your nose and breathe in slowly. “What are you doing,” you ask flatly. “Were you lying on me like that the whole night?”

“Well, yes,” Jake says, still with the expression of someone who has been grievously and unfairly injured. “You liked it! When I went to get the computer you clung onto me so I wouldn’t be able to mosey off anywhere.”

“That’s…” You can feel yourself flushing. Goddamnit. “That doesn’t matter. You can’t just… We only met like two fucking days ago. You can’t just move in and start using all my shit and sleeping in my bed with me. That’s not how this shit works.”

“Why not?” Jake asks. “You’re my consort. If you need to be held in order to sleep well, then I’m pleased as punch to provide.”

You are not wearing enough damn clothes for this conversation. Neither is Jake, which is stupidly distracting. His hair is tantalizingly ruffled. You pointedly look only at his face.

“It’s…” How the fuck do you explain this. “This is like boyfriend shit, dude. We barely know each other.”

“I’m not your boyfriend,” Jake says, as if it all makes sense in his head. “I’m your god. It’s my responsibility to keep you comfortable. But if the nuance makes such a difference to you, that’s why I watched all those brilliant movies. Gave me something to do while you were snoring away.”

That should be reassuring. Instead, it sort of pisses you off. You turn over why in your head as you do your level fucking best to keep your mouth from pinching itself to one side. Your aunt always warned you that it’d get stuck like that. You’re beginning to wonder if you shouldn’t worry more, now, about it getting stuck in a different position.

Okay. Wait. You’re sure that thought wasn’t your own.

Jake grins at you as you keep your eyes on his face. “A fellow can’t help himself!” he offers.

Okay. That’s it. You’re done. You climb off the bed and stumble over to your dresser, trying to ignore the weirdly pleasant ache in your ass. At least you’re not so sore you can’t walk, which is definitely more along the lines of what you were expecting.

“Aw, come on, big six,” he wheedles behind you. When you look over your shoulder with a ratty t-shirt between your hands, he pats the bed beside him enticingly. He’s already opened the laptop back up. “Thor and Loki are about to go get the Aether from this Malekith chap!”

You take a minute to remember what the fuck he’s talking about, and another minute to willfully jerk your eyes away from the curve of his hair trailing down his adonis belt. Face. But no, that’s not any better, and just being around him makes your ears feel like that honey is being drizzled into them. Time to bail.

“Well,” you reply, yanking the shirt over your head and taking the moment of darkness to cut eye contact, turning back to your dresser, “seems to me if it’s just a god-consort thing and not a boyfriend thing, then I’ve got no reason to suffer through the sheer shittiness of Thor 2.”

“Thor: The Dark World,” he corrects you. You resist the urge to look over your shoulder at him. That’s a trap. A sticky, sweet, honey-filled trap, and fuck if you’re not the winniest of pooh bears right now.

“Thor Whatever The Fuck,” you reply as you pull your pants on. “Have fun with Age of Ultron. Seems right up your weirdass alley.”

You don’t bother to pull on your shoes and socks there, just grabbing them in one hand and leaving before he can get another word in edgewise.

The door latches shut firmly behind you. You pause for a second, listening hard, but there’s no sounds that would indicate that Jake leapt up to come after you. There are none. You’re a little relieved, but mostly just more pissed.

Whatever. Fuck him. You need some time to clear your head while he can’t insinuate and cloud it over again.

It’s early enough in the day that most of the frat is still conked out. Saturday morning isn’t really prime time on campus. Still, when you wind up in the kitchen to grab some cereal, there are a few guys milling around. You really should work on learning their names, but it isn’t exactly high priority right now.

“Hey,” you say, out of a vague sense of politeness.

The two in chairs at the table look up in alarm. They slide away from each other and won’t make eye contact with you. Oh, god fucking damn, you forgot your shades. The dude all slumped up against the counter won’t look at you either, averting his eyes and flushing blotchy pink all across his face.

...Christ. Were you so loud last night that the whole frat heard you? You dump cereal in a probably-clean bowl and wish for a swift and merciful death.

Come to think of it, they were all there when Jake came to life. So does that mean that they all… know? There’s no way they were in on Jake being a god. That wouldn’t make any fucking sense.

You tap your spoon against the bowl just to see if anyone glances at you. Nope. One of the dudes at the table looks like he’s about ready to flee the room.

So all they saw was some weird statue come to life mid blowjob hazing, and then start visiting the frat in the shape of a human guy with bizarre sexy mind powers to fuck you.

Wait.

You have to bite the sides of your tongue to keep from snorting with sudden laughter. Are they being affected by Jake? Is his presence getting them hot and bothered? That would be fucking hysterical. Holy shit, you hope that’s what this is, not some variant on homophobic awkwardness.

Either way, you don’t want to stick around and push your luck, especially with Jake probably still in the house. You finish up your cereal and stick the bowl in the dishwasher. Mourning your lack of shades and also that you left most of your crap in your room, you prepare to strike out for the day. You’ve got your wallet in your pocket, earbuds, and your phone, hovering around 60% charge. Not a terrible start to the day.

Jittery energy has a hold of you as you set out and look for a place to spend it. Sightseeing is difficult to do when you’ve lived in a place for a few years; you’ve already hit up the local attractions and museums, or at least the ones cool enough to reward with your attention. With your phone, you check for seasonal shit you might be able to do. There are some movies out you could make yourself sit through, but the experience of going to the cinema alone has always been a lackluster one; there’s no one to discuss with after you leave, no sounding board to toss a ball of rhetorical commentary to and fro with.

Jake would probably enjoy the shit out of seeing a movie with you. You frown at the sidewalk as the thought collides with you. With your distance, both physical and temporal, you don’t think it’s the kind of thought loaned to you by your alleged patron. It doesn’t have the strange against-the-grain suede feeling that his influence sometimes does.

He’s probably back at your room, still watching Netflix. Hopefully he learns to plug in the damn laptop before it cuts him off like a stern bartender to a lush calling for another whiskey.

It doesn’t matter anyway. You have no way to contact him. You walk through a fairly ritzy outdoor mall and look at the telecomm shops. If Jake is going to acclimate, does he need a phone? Do gods need anything?

The last thing he needs, you think, is another screen enabled with streaming. You shake your head and move on quickly, and try not to think about the ethics and implications of gifts between a…. consort and his god.

You have lunch, sitting alone outside of some overpriced restaurant in the shopping plaza, holding a sandwich in one hand and scrolling through your phone for reading material about divine experiences with your other. To the shock of fucking no one, you don’t find much useful. A lot of it is cult material (which has you a little worried, admittedly), or some Touched By An Angel shit. A few older instances documented are intriguing, like old followers of gods in polytheistic religions; that makes sense, since you don’t think there is anything remotely fucking Abrahamic about Jake’s divinity.

There is a pothole of an existential crisis waiting for you to shove your foot in it. Instead, you tuck your phone away and start walking again.

It’s hard to know how to wile away the hours. Roxy is busy today, is busy every Saturday, and you really don’t want to brave going home and finding Jake exactly where you left him, commandeering your laptop.

You go to the library. There’s computers there. It’ll be easier to dig a little deeper, use some of the databases to find stories of old fertility or virility gods. There has to be something to give you a better idea of what you’re dealing with. And if nothing else, it’ll spend more time. Really, you should be working on your classwork today, but, well. That ain’t happening, not with this mess to deal with first.

The internet offers some more things of interest. A few tales of gods of virility, with associated ceremonies that sound more like glorified orgies to you. But none of those stories are from North America, much less Washington State.

You figure a god could technically relocate, especially one tied to a statue like that. Or one who can become a statue, you’re not totally clear on the details still. But that statue has been on campus a long time, as far as you know. So maybe you need to be looking closer to home.

Alright. The statue was kept in the theater department. You had never seen it in person before, but everyone has heard about it to some degree. The theater building burned down in 1954 and had to be rebuilt, but (as you once heard from some distinctly drunk students) the statue survived the fire and was moved to the new building. So you should be looking at records from the area before then, at minimum.

You hope this doesn’t end with a stress headache from squinting at a microfilm reader, but knowing your luck, it absolutely will.

The local paper does have a huge backlog of articles online, however. You think it only goes back to a certain point, or maybe they’re still in the process of scanning things in. What they do have, however, is a weekly feature of an interesting or strange article from sometime in the decades prior. You like to read through them sometimes when you’re bored. There’s some weird shit in there.

It’s tricky to sort them. The throwback articles are sorted chronologically by posting date, not by date of when they were originally written. You’ll have to check articles from 1950 prior. Hell, you’re not sure when this paper established itself. A quick check tells you that it began in 1887. Alright, that’s a hell of a time range to go through. You rub the bridge of your nose and begin searching.

Deviant is the word that catches your eye, hours later when your stomach has begun to rumble and the sky is growing dark. The article in question is from 1891, and it proclaims LOCAL DEVIANT GROUP DISBANDED AFTER DISAPPEARANCE OF LEADER.

Despite the growing tiredness of your eyes, you refocus and lean in.

It’s the end of a long series of articles from the local paper, celebrating the dissolution of an apparent rash of debaucherous renegades that made a nuisance of themselves around town, devastating good virtuous local businesses with their presence and patronage. The ringleader was some strange vagabond who had impressed his undesirable menace on the town, and in doing so collected an avid following. So devout was his entourage, multiple attempts by the local constabulary were waylaid, giving the man time to escape.

You end up switching to microfilm after all to read the other articles from that time period. You grimly review accounts of this guy and decide it has to be Jake. It’s dripping from every passage written about him. The devil in his grin, the hellfire twinkle in his eyes, the way everyone seems almost pissed at how attractive he was. It tumbles through the cracks in the indignation and brimstone moralizing.

It’s not a fun read, but it’s educational.

Eventually, you notice a recurring name. Some young man named Bellvue was known to be the “deviant leader’s left hand man.” The papers were really fucking concerned with the man being lead astray, and how he was blowing his family’s fortune to keep his leader safe and comfortable.

One particular article from about four months before the disbandment even quotes Bellvue. Your fingers twitch against the dial as you narrow in on the microfilm machine, and read about how “My regard for this gentleman is not sordid or depraved, but divine.”

You remember Jake mentioning his last consort, and the fondness in his voice.

Over the next two hours you read everything, twice. Apparently the mysterious unnamed stranger vanished one night, causing dismay among the ranks of his followers. None more so than Bellvue, who was found incoherent with grief in the aftermath but, (well thank god) then had a chance to return to “family and flock” and move on from it all.

For a moment, you consider looking more into the old consort. To see if that was his eventual fate, if he ever got over Jake disappearing.

Instead, you turn off the machine and sit back heavily in your chair, rubbing your mouth and thinking.

There are two ways your evening could go.

You could go back to the frat house and see if Jake is still there, if he’s been there all day. Maybe tell him you needed a little fresh air to think everything over, maybe even tell him what you found. You wonder what he would say if you mentioned the articles you read.

You think, vividly, that he might like to know what happened to his last consort.

But, instead of that, of course you don’t go back to the frat house. Instead, you go further afield from the campus and surrounding area. You walk until the sun is down and the night chill starts to really set in. A jacket would be nice right now, you think, curling your arms around yourself with your elbows tucked into your sides.

There is music on this street. You have panic-wandered your way to a party street lined with various establishments; sports bars, open mic gatherings, a club down towards the other end of the block. Without really thinking about it, you swallow the lure of joining a throng of people and continue your meandering down the street, considering each locale as you pass by.

Sportsball ain’t really your thing, and attracts the wrong sort of crowd besides. You’ve had fun at open mics on occasion, usually with Roxy alongside so you two could make snide asides to each other if you didn’t like one of the performers without feeling like tremendous jackasses.

A group of swifter-moving pedestrians overtakes you, laughing amongst themselves and making a beeline towards the club. You let them pass, looking them over to gauge their style. The club is probably your best bet anyway, with the weird mood you’re in after reading those frankly depressing articles. You fall in behind the group of people and use their momentum as propulsion into the club, pay the cover fee and, once inside, consider your next move.

Why did you come here? You got stressed out, sure. This whole business has been an utterly unexpected heap of crap. You want…

You want to get out of your head, that’s what.

Clubs aren’t usually much of your scene, but once you’re inside the venue, you find the thrumming beat hits on something almost primal inside you. It’s easy to lose yourself in the rhythm, though you are more than a bit grateful that they’re at least not playing dubstep. There’s hard beats, and then there’s wubs, and you usually prioritize avoiding clubs that dabble in the latter.

It’s a weekend in a college town so, needless to say, the place is fucking packed. There’s a DJ about your age onstage, mixing and spinning with skill as laser lights go off and the people around you dance in some sort of half-mosh half-grind against one another. You have pretty much no doubt that at least half of them are high, and half of those are probably high on something that isn’t weed.

Well, there’s one guaranteed way to get out of your head, and this is sure as good a place as any to look for it.

It’s not that you’re loose or anything, but college is the time where everybody loosens up a bit and has some fun. Your brother, in fact, all but explicitly instructed you to get as much tail as you could while you were off getting your degree, and though you didn’t take his instruction that seriously, neither have you ignored it. Usually, you stick to dive bars and hipster coffee shops, but tonight, maybe this is what you need. You’ve been fucking a sex god whose dick grows inside you, after all. How much crazier can you get?

You slide up to the bar and take a seat. The bartender gestures to you and you nod. It’s packed enough he’s probably got a full lineup of drinks to make. You can wait your turn. You let the music hum through you, trying to turn off your brain or at least let the noise of the crowd and the DJ haze over some of the details from your research.

It doesn’t take long before someone slips onto the barstool beside you.

You almost expect to see Jake there when you turn toward him, but no, it’s a man you’ve never seen before. Tall, dark, and handsome, to get as cliche as hell. He’s got dark brown eyes, a few white streaks in his black hair, and a smile that makes you almost as dizzy as Jake’s does.

Almost. At least you’re pretty sure that his dizzying smile doesn’t have any sort of divinity behind it.

“Drinking alone?” he asks in a light tenor.

“Apparently not anymore,” you reply.

He grins a bit sideways and shouts to the bartender. It’s too loud for you to hear what he ordered, but what does it really matter? As long as it gets you a little bit buzzed, you’re fine with it. And the bartender must not have been as busy as you thought, because only a minute of small talk later, a shot of tequila is in front of you.

“Getting me drunk that fast?” you ask your apparent suitor.

He grins again. It’s nice, how easily he smiles. “Maybe a little bit,” he replies. “But you look like you could use it.”

You can. You down the shot in one swallow.

“So,” he says. “What’s your name?”

As you consider telling him, or maybe making a coy joke about how you need another shot before you start telling people big secrets like names, you are nearly knocked off your stool when someone squeezes in on your other side, wedging themselves between you and the next person down.

You turn your head to give them the most icy glare you can manage, only for it to slip off your face in shock as your patron god gives you a smile. Or, it’s something similar to a smile. There are teeth involved, and the handsome lines next to his eyes deepen.

“Well,” Jake says with a long, drawn out curling sound. You can see the tip of his tongue against his lip as he says it, just dramatic and ridiculous. Still, your heart rate picks up, double time. “I spent all day waiting, you know, just twiddling my thumbs and wondering what you’d gone and abandoned me to the gutter for. Surely only something vital and daring, something worthwhile would have my consort off dancing with the faeries all day without so much as stopping by to sup.” He looks around, eyebrows lifted as he surveys the club with all the air of a visiting king in a strange land. “And this is where you’ve gone off to cut a rug?”

You look back at the guy you were trying to get on with, at the tight confused look on his face. Shit.

Jake is grinning when you meet his gaze again. It’s smug and victorious, and deeply fucking compelling, but no. You hiss, “What are you doing, jesus fuck.”

There’s naked amusement in his face as he leans his elbow on the bar and looks past you, directly at the other guy. Just having Jake notice him makes your nerves shake, like you’re going to have to do something metaphysically akin to leaping on a grenade.

As if he saw it or felt it or something, Jake shoots you a stern look. “Oh, stop.” He shakes his head and lifts two fingers in the air, twirling them in a lazy circular motion.

Without another word, the guy who you were very probably going to hit it off with turns around, smooth and without hesitation, and walks away from the bar.

You stare after him, waiting for something else, but he just… leaves, vanishes into the crowd without so much as a glance back at you. His drink is left half-finished on the bar. “The hell,” you breathe.

There’s the gentle pressure of two fingers against your chin, and your gaze is pulled back, redirected to Jake’s face, at his warm pleased expression. You’re not sure how much of it was touch and how much was the simple fact he wanted your attention. “Anyway, sweeting.”

“Hey,” you murmur, your voice low and resonant in your chest. “Not cool, dude.”

He feigns hurt. That, or he’s actually hurt, which seems a lot less likely. Still, you don’t like his sad eyes, and you very much want to look away. “Now, you hold up, sassafras. What else is a fellow supposed to do?”

“You don’t own me,” you say. You’re not kidding around, you fucking mean it. But your tone is quiet, dreamy. Soft. God fucking dammit. He’s up in your head again, his aura plucking at your synapses and strumming clear chords that reverberate through your brain cells. You raise a hand to brush him away like a pesky fly. He takes it and pulls it lovingly to himself, resting it against his breast. You feel his heart beating.

“Don’t I?” he asks, smiling flawlessly. The devil in his smile, the article had read, and fuck if it hadn’t been the worst kind of accurate.

“Cut it out.” You manage to pull away, climbing to your feet. The room spins around you, the music pounds though your skull, and you gasp on one echoing breath. You feel your knees buckle.

And he’s there, his arms coming up beneath yours. You all but swoon back against him. His thick forearms are buried in your pits, and he’s gazing down at you, upside wrong. “Hey, now, Valentino, are you all right as rain down there? Need some air? Something to drink?” He looks thoughtful. “Me?”

“Help me sit,” you say, trying to ignore the tug in your groin at the suggestion in his last word.

Without hesitation, he swoops you up into his arms, bridal style, and carries you over to an empty booth.

It’s weird. You could have sworn that when you came in, all the seating was crammed full except for the bar. But here you are, in a cozy, massive booth for a party of at least six, and the music seems dim and distant. Jake is blinking guilelessly at you, and it’s bullshit, because you don’t think you’ve ever met someone quite so overflowing with guile.

“Better?” he asks.

“I’d be better,” you say, “if you weren’t doing that shit you do to my head.”

“Ah, oops, I -- here, okie-dokie, just one second, let me just…” He scrunches his face up, comically, like a cartoon of a guy taking a shit. The weight of that drastically unsexy thought comes off you all at once, and you breathe a sigh of relief. You feel like you’ve gotten a bit of air.

“Better?” he asks again, and this time he sounds almost plaintive. You look up at him, at his worried eyes and the set of his mouth. There’s something almost… Puppyish about the guy, in a way. Sometimes, at least. When he isn't radiating an aura of sex and heat and erotic energy. Or manifesting divinity to grow into a giant while rawing you.

“Better,” you agree, and he settles back a bit, seemingly pleased. “Thanks.”

“No problemo, my good compadre and devilishly sexy consort!” he chirps.

There’s that word. Well. You have your head about you, some manner of privacy, and he’s in a good mood. Is there a better time? “Consort,” you repeat. “Of which I’m the next in a long and auspicious line.”

“Absotively,” Jake says, bobbing a quick nod. “The chosen one for this Era! My other half! My high priest! My prophet! The rock upon which I will build my church!”

“Like Bellvue,” you say.

The transformation in his face is instantaneous. His lips part. His mouth goes slack. He blinks, and his eyes shine. He sits back a bit. “Bellvue,” he repeats, and there’s a kind of reverence in his voice. “That old so-and-so. Why… Wherever did you get that fine old name, Dirk?”

You swallow. Hard. You weren’t fully prepared for the way that look of fond, achingly sweet sorrow might make you feel.

Jake blinks rapidly and shakes himself. “Now, no, don’t be like that!” he says quickly. “No need for the old green eyed monster to make its appearance on this stage, surely not! Don’t you get yourself all wadded up in a ball over nothing, here, now, Dirk --”

“Oh, fuck off,” you retort. “Didn’t you just send a guy crying by twisting something around in his goddamn head just for talking to me.”

He puffs up. “That’s different!”

“That,” you point out, “is bullshit.”

“I’m a god,” he says, as if that explains absolutely everything. “It’s not like I’m out there scooping up gents and so on into my bag like a farmer collecting his hens for market --”

“What the fuck? I’m pretty sure nobody suggested that you were? Was that the happening party activity at the end of the 19th century or, like... “

“Worship is what feeds me! It’s what sustains me, you see? And Bellvue…” He shakes his head. Reaches out, and takes both of your hands in both of his. “No, no, now, I don’t like this very much at all. It’s making me all sorts of discombobulated, see? Here, look into my eyes, Dirk. Isn’t that so much better?”

You are trying very hard not to grind your teeth in frustration at this shameless dismissal of your concerns. You have every right to be concerned, god damnit. The fact that the word ‘god’ is probably going to be tripping you up forever now is not helping.

“Better for who? Because I’m getting the feeling it’s not me.” You try to gently pull your hands away from his, pointedly not looking at his eyes. He actually pouts and tightens his grip. You grit your teeth and tug not so gently, glaring at him. Jake’s pout turns into a frown, and he lets you go.

“I don’t see why you’ve got to be so contrary.” Jake looks at your hands, then back up at you, almost pensive. “I can give you my solemn godly guarantee you’ll enjoy what I’ve got in store! Aren’t these the eyes of a gent whose word you can trust?”

“Am I going to enjoy it because you’ll make me?” you snap back at him. “Fuck with my head until I do? Because if so, then no, I don’t think I trust you, thanks.”

Jake purses his lips at that. “Well...that’s. See, now, you can twist words around and make it sound as sinister as you want. But at the end of the day, from my perspective--”

“So that’s a yes?” you’re starting to feel a bit queasy. Both at the implications here, and at the idea of maybe getting some actual answers. Or maybe it’s the tequila. “You’re telling me I, essentially, don’t have a choice.”

“Well of course you have a choice,” Jake immediately retorts. “Everyone does! If I could force every dick and jane to worship me I’d hardly have been in the pickle you found me in, now would I?”

“That’s...” you’re grinding your teeth now, trying to process this. That makes sense, logically. Yet you aren’t put at ease. “That still doesn’t explain anything. I wasn’t given a document to sign. I didn’t wake up one morning and think ‘man, you know what I want? To be some god’s consort or priest or--’”

“But you’re perfect for it!” Jake interrupts you. “Can’t you see? Why get so hung up on dotted lines and this and that? You were meant for this!”

“I don’t even know what ‘THIS’ is!” you snap at him. “Why me?”

“Why you? Well...you...” Jake seems, for a moment, actually not sure how to answer. But then the moment is over, and he’s smiling at you. “You were the one who woke me up. You weren’t exactly the first person to pay lip service to that good gent standing at attention.”

He winks at you. Ugh. He needs to stop being so fucking charming.

“Okay...” His answer seems to make sense for all of about a second, until you realize it actually answers nothing. “What, did Bellvue not give it a shot? Was he not good enough suddenly?”

You realize you probably shouldn’t have said that when Jake’s smile immediately vanishes and you see something like actual, genuine hurt on his face. It’s gone in less than a second, but your stomach sours with guilt anyway. He seems like he’s about to say something, but you actually don’t want to hear it.

“Look,” you say quickly. “What is it? What did I do? Why...” You think for a second, mulling over everything he’s said. “Hold on a second. Do you even know--?”

“Oh! Would you look at that?” Jake interrupts, looking away from the table as suddenly a stranger sets two drinks at your table, smiles at you, and walks away without a word. “Lovely timing, I was just thinking we could use some refreshments.”

This is a distraction and you are perfectly aware of it. You’re not exactly sure what Jake has ordered the two of you -- or when he had time to order -- but whatever’s been placed in front of you is bright orange, with a heaping mound of whipped cream and a cherry on top.

“These aren’t drinks,” you grouse. “They’re desserts.” Still, you’re not rude enough to turn a god down when he’s offering you free drinks. His drink doesn’t look that different than yours -- blue instead of orange, and with a whole fruit skewer, but the whipped cream is still there. You take a sip of yours through the straw sticking out of it. It’s -- surprisingly decent. Whatever vodka is in it, it’s sure better than you expected. You raise your eyebrows at your apparent patron. “And how expensive were these?”

He snorts aloud, sliding the skewer of fruit into his mouth. The strawberry on the end disappears between his teeth. “I was really hoping you mortals might have gotten over the whole ‘money’ thing by the time I popped back ‘round,” he says. “It’s almost barbaric, don’t you think?”

“So, free.”

“Free for me.” He pops another one of the fruits into his mouth. A grape, you think.

“You’re getting damn good at dodging my questions,” you supply, “but I really want to get some kind of answers. You and Bellvue. Do you know what --”

“Are you going to eat your cherry?”

The question catches you off guard, and the question you were about to ask slips out of your fingers like a fumbled ball. “Am I what?”

“Your cherry!” Jake points at it with his now-empty skewer. “They didn’t give me one, but they’re my favorite.”

You pluck the cherry off its throne of whipped cream and hand it to him. He grins at you and pops the whole thing into his mouth, chewing with apparent delight. His dark eyebrows furrow a bit as his mouth works.

“As I was saying,” you start.

Jake isn’t about to let you get away with that one either, apparently. He holds up one finger and when you cooperatively go quiet, he reaches over and takes your hand, spreading the palm open with his fingers before leaning down to kiss your palm. You’re about to ask him what the fuck, again, but when he pulls away you see what this is about. The cherry stem is resting on your palm, tied not into one knot, but three.

You feel yourself swallow, hard. You suspect Jake feels it too, from the beaming grin he gives you and the mischief that seems to blossom in his eyes.

“You liked that!” he exclaims, and claps his hands together in apparent glee. “Good! I thought you might!”

“Are you ever going to answer a goddamn thing I ask?” you reply, depositing the cherry stem on the table.

“Well,” he says, and drags the word out, using the fruit skewer like a toothpick -- which honestly should be a huge fucking turnoff, but the way his smile glitters in the dark is captivating. “Well,” he repeats. “I suppose I could show you a few answers, if you’d like. Give you a little preview of what all this means, how’s that sound? VIP tickets! Backstage passes!”

“Uh,” you say, because you’re not sure how to answer that.

“Dirk,” Jake says, gently, “I promise you this is going to be a right friggin’ ripsnorter of a time. But you’ve got to trust me, okey-dokie? You’ve got to just --” he spreads his arms, shrugs, and grins at you. You wish that grin wasn’t so goddamn handsome. “Just let it go!” he finishes.

Well.

Again. It probably isn’t the craziest thing you’ve done this week.

“Alright,” you say. “Fine. Give me this exclusive sneak preview of yours.”

And he grins. He grins in that mesmerizing, heart-stopping, unbelievable way that turns all your insides to well-churned butter. You sense, feel, on a bone-deep level, when he… shifts. No more haplessly magnetic young man. He's the statue, the incredible force of nature who nailed you to the headboard last night. Your vision narrows, the music fades even further away, and it’s all him. It’s all just him.

He takes your hands and puts them against his chest. You feel him, warm, solid, real. Radiating heat. Radiating power. You focus in, once again, on the thud-thud-thud of his heart. God, maybe. You don’t doubt that, not after what you’ve seen in the last three days. But man, too.

All man, rowr, Roxy’s voice echoes through your head as he lowers his mouth to yours.

Sparks. Electricity. Fucking lightning. It goes through you, toes to crown. You shudder, and he likes that very much. He hums, pleased, wrapping his arms tightly around you. His tongue is a demanding pressure at your lips, and you barely hesitate to let him in. You feel a hand in your hair, threading between the strands and massaging your scalp. It feels absolutely amazing.

“Ah,” he gasps into your mouth.

Your toes curl.

He’s a god. He’s a truly divine entity. His very presence turns you into liquid. And yet, your mouth makes him sigh.

You can’t say you dislike that. Not at all.

His hands run down your back. Up the back of your shirt. Yours find their way into his hair. It’s thick and wiry on top, but soft near his scalp. His breath is hot on your face. His tongue prods the corners of your mouth, running over your teeth, dancing with your own and then darting back into his own mouth. Your reality narrows to his tongue, teeth, lips, hands, breath. There’s nothing but him.

At least, until you feel his hands on your ass. Until he shifts and shoves the table back and you find yourself in his lap. You break away, gasping for air. From your position, you should be above him, but instead your foreheads press together tightly, sweat pooling between you.

“Stop,” you gasp out.

“What’s wrong?” he breathes into your mouth. He hips roll steadily against you, and you can feel the massive, gorgeous cock in his khaki shorts pressing up against you, coaxing you open. You clench your hole automatically, like a baby bird begging for a worm.

“Stop,” you repeat, but you don’t pull away. You tangle your fingers in his hair. Is this you, you can’t help but wonder. Do you want him this badly? It feels like you, but god, who can tell? Because God, God is him. He controls everything. Dictates everything. Do you even want this?

“Of course you do,” he says, kissing down your jaw, along the line of your throat. “You do. I feel it, too, you know? It’s not just a one way street, me and you. I don’t have any power you don’t give me, my marigold lovely. “

It feels like a platitude, but you accept it anyway. Let him roll against you. Roll your head back when his lips touch the hollow of your throat. He’s growing beneath you. It’s ludicrous. He’s a human erection.

It’s devastatingly hot.

“We’re in public,” you gasp out, your blood pounding in your ears with the rhythm of the music. “This might be a sleazy fucking club, dude, but you can’t just grow three feet and raw me in a booth and expect no one to throw us out. Fucking… come on, jesus…”

“You’re forgetting.” His words slip out of him like sighs between his kisses and licks and nips. His hand cradles the back of your head as it lolls back. “Remember, in the studio? We talked… The students all drew…”

“No one saw you.” You remember. Dicks as far as the eye could see, and you starting to realize just how in over your head you actually were.

“People see what they want to see… And what I let them see.” He scrapes his teeth along your clavicle. A terrible kind of whining sound tears out of your throat. “Don’t worry. No one’s going to throw us out.”

It’s a flimsy sort of comfort, but it’s all you really need. Whether it's what you really want or just want he’s making you want, you’d rather die right now than say no to him. One way or the other, what you felt last night, stretched painfully wide by him… It was pretty much the best sex you’d ever had.

You manage to push off his chest.

“One last question,” you pant.

“You’re hurting me something awful, Dirk,” he whines, pulling you back. “You wouldn’t let a poor fella go parched in the desert, would you? Hold out a glass of water and keep it at arm’s length?”

“One question,” you repeat. “One answer.”

He looks miserable, honestly, but he nods.

“What are you God of?”

He tilts his head. His fingers run up your spine, beneath the cotton of your t-shirt. He picks out one vertebra at a time. It’s the most bizarrely erotic thing you’ve ever experienced. Each touch radiates in your groin like a slowly building fire, and you squirm against him like a porn bottom. “What do you think?” he asks.

“I… “ You remember the Google searches you’d taken. You swallow. Shake your head. “I… I don’t know. Fertility? Love? Bacchanalia?” You remember the joke you’d made the night before. “Aftercare?”

He chuckles. It rumbles through you. His cock is a pressing demand, a constant reminder, an insistent pull. You want to grind down against it. You want to spread your fucking ass cheeks wide for it. You want to drop down onto your knees, unhinge your jaw, and worship it like you’re in church.

He laughs louder at that. You don’t know if he’s in your head again, or if you’re saying all this outloud. You’re more than a little loopy.

“You are in church,” he teases, his eyes twinkling. “I’m church, boyo.”

“Question,” you pant out. “Answer.”

And he kisses you again, kisses you stupid, kisses you so deep and so thoroughly that you don’t even remember the question at all.

“There’s only one shoddy half-baked and frankly just all around jackdump word I can come up with in this limiting language for what I preside over,” he says when he pulls away, and you think with a flash of irritation that the damned asshole just wanted to answer on his own terms. “It’s really not doing justice to the house I govern at all, Dirk, and it’s gonna sound real tawdry and slimy and altogether crummy if I just…” And he sighs. Bites your bottom lip. “Sex,” he says, finally, low and sweet.

For all his warnings, it doesn’t sound tacky or scummy at all. It sounds like the sweetest, hottest, most wonderful word you’ve ever heard.

“I’m the high falutin god of sex,” he repeats with a mournful sort of sigh, and then his hand is down the ass of your pants.

Okay, you think. Fine, I guess. You’re about to be mounted on the magnum dick of the god of sex in public. Sure. Let’s go. How much weirder could this possibly get.

At least a little bit weirder.

His fingers caress between your cheeks, fore and middle drawing a feather-light line down and up and down and up. You squirm. Bite your lip. Close your eyes. He’s warm, wonderfully so, and you let yourself lean forward, resting your weight against his chest. Relax. Breathe and relax and stop thinking so much for a goddamn second. That’s your problem. Always thinking too much.

You frown. “Is that you?”

“Oh, Christmastime, yeah,” he breathes. His fingers rest against your hole, and you shudder. “It’s all me, one hundred percent me, not from concentrate and finger-licking delicious and you’re going to see, here, sweetness, just how good this can be.” His forefinger presses forward. Then relaxes. Presses forward again. You shiver.

“Not that,” you pant. “Obviously the f-fingers are you, asshole. I mean -- is that, are you in my fucking head again… “

He pauses. “No. Oh. Nerts, do you want me to be? Did I get the big old whoopsie-do bad read on that one?” He sounds genuinely confused.

Fuckin’... Great. It’s just your own brain, apparently.

His finger is teasing at your tight ring of muscle, pressing and then releasing, over and over. It’s having a pathetic and deeply wonderful effect. You’re clenching and unclenching involuntarily, trying to draw him in or push him out. It’s desperate and humiliating. You’re flushed from arousal and embarrassment.

Fuck, but you fucking love it.

“Is everything A-okay there, Dirk?” he asks, breathing into your ear.

No, it’s not okay. You’re getting slowly fingered while deadmau5 plays. When you crack your eyes open, there’s two guys grinding to it five feet from you. What about this is okay? Jesus!

But you close your eyes and turn your face away, nestling into the crook of his neck.

“Yeah,” you say, barely louder than a whisper. “Fuck me. Please.”

He likes that. You hear him groan, feel him groan. His chest vibrates, your ear tickles. His finger slides inside of you. It’s slick.

“What the fuck,” you gasp against him. “Is that… lube, or…?”

“Sure,” he replies. The hair on the back of your neck is standing all the way up. “Totally normal lube.”

“Jesus shit,” you mutter, shaking your head against him. His finger slides in, up to the first knuckle, and you whimper. He’s bigger, again, he’s definitely bigger, because you’ve taken toys less thick than his goddamn pointer finger. “Why not just snap your -- ahhh -- your fingers and have me slicked up and ready to go.”

“Because I like this,” he says, sending an electric current from your ear to your spine down to your throbbing dick, trapped between the two of you. “I think you like this, too.”

He crooks his finger. You whine.

“I do,” you agree, not even bothering to come up with some pithy-ass remark. “I do, I do, shit, I do.”

His chuckle, dark and low, curls in your lower belly and makes you writhe against him.

He’s big in a way that’s maybe magic, maybe mundane, but you’re relieved for it, for his broadness to cling to and hide against. You’ve seen firsthand how he can twist perception, but it still helps to mouth at his neck and drag your hands against his sides and back.

His hand is fucking enormous pressed against your lower back, balancing you on his lap. Your legs burn a little, spreading further just around his hips. He keeps slickly chafing at you with a finger, dipping in, tugging until you jolt against him, easing off again. You’re panting thinking about how you’re going to make him fit.

It’s not going to work with your pants still on, god or no.

“Yeah,” Jake groans, and kisses your forehead. “Let’s do some unwrapping here, up you go.”

Your desire to remain settled right where you across his wide, warm legs is at war with your desire to get fucked right now. Another encouraging press of his lips has you nodding along, sucking in a breath as you brace on his biceps-- nice, god, he’s sturdy as stone even now-- and push yourself up. His hands catch you, steadying you before you stumble back into the crowd and probably break the bubble of privacy you have.

There is two feet of space in front of him, and you stand there, looking at him sitting like a king, the curved seat of the booth a throne.

Jake smiles like a conqueror and lifts his eyebrows at you.

Your reach down and pull your shirt off, dropping it on the narrow table next to you. The air is hot from the proximity of so many revellers-- so many people. Still, you shiver once all over before unbuttoning your jeans and shoving them down. It’s easier; you never had a particularly impressive ass, you think a little bitterly. Maybe that wasn’t on the ephemeral consort checklist.

Jake tsks softly. “It’s plenty impressive, Dirk, don’t you fret one sec.” He slaps his hand against his thigh briskly. “Let me show you, sit down and we’ll cut that beautiful peach.”

What, you suck in a breath, both hit by that fucking phrasing and also the fact his hand struck bare skin. Somehow, without you even noticing, without you even blinking, he’s naked, and his dick is pointed up, waiting. “What,” you say out loud. “You’ll expend some divine will stripping yourself but--”

“I prefer to watch, now c’mon, hop up.”

You step closer, one final hesitation keeping you back. Jake reaches to twist you into his lap, but you resist for the moment. "What--facing out?" You resist the impulse to glance back over your shoulder.

"I told you," Jake says, coaxing, smile dizzying you. "It's only a show if I want it to be."

Okay. "Have it your way," you mutter, and let him turn you around.

You settle gingerly on his thighs, dick long and thick and pressed against your ass, up along the very base of your spine. "That's more like it," Jake chuckles. His hands easily span your thighs as he hooks under them to spread your legs.

It's--almost an uncomfortable stretch, your legs dangling on either side of his knees, toes barely able to brush the floor. You don't have a ton of leverage this way, hardly able to so much as grind back against his dick without beginning to feel the strain in your quads. Jake's lungs expand and contract like a bellows, a reassuring rise and fall against your back. Even with your head so sweetened and dizzy from his strange aura, there's something about him that is more ordinary.

Jake laughs into your ear. "We'll see about that," he says.

You open your mouth to complain, half ready to twist back around to see his face, but then Jake hitches your hips up easily, and his dick presses hot and demanding against you. Throat going dry with want, you swallow hard.

"Take it slow," Jake says, head rubbing over your hole. You tip your head back to rest against his chest and nod.

The initial push of his dick is already right on the edge of too much. It burns, right between a feeling you want more of and something you have to breathe through to tolerate. He’s--just too big, uncannily big almost, but it goes right to your dick and you take him deeper. You get the head in and have to pause to suck in air.

Jake lets go of your hips so suddenly, you almost panic and fall down, instead whipping your hands back to plant on his arms. “Shit,” you let out, terse and shivering as your tension has you tightening around his dick, the sensation acute like the prick of a knife. You let out a sound that is so loud, even in the club’s thrumming atmosphere, you want to cover your mouth, to muffle yourself.

But you can’t. All you can do is hold yourself suspended, breathing heavy.

At the same time, Jake’s hands find their way to your ass. And there must be some truth to his words, because he cups each cheek in his hands tenderly, his thumbs pressing in hard. With a hiss, you rise up again and hear Jake let out a soothing noise. His hands grasp and knead and pull you open.

The faint chuckle behind you rings in your ears like a struck bell. “That’s it. Nice and slow, just like that.”

He’s watching you as you mount yourself on his dick. Your face flushes hot, just imagining what you must look like, a desperate scramble for leverage as you ease yourself down by centimeters. It doesn’t get easier as you go, and you think he’s growing again, unfair since you haven’t even fucking managed this yet.

Big hands slowly massage your ass, grip round and going hard and soft in turns. It feels good. You bite your lip and sink down into it, onto him, fuck. Fuck.

“Yes,” Jake says, emphatic.

The heel of your hand skips down his skin, and you sink. Once it starts, you can’t fucking stop. Arms gone wire-tight with effort, you can’t move, you teeter between balance and freefall, and his dick opens you further, wider with every passing second. A hoarse sound strums through your throat.

You sink, and his hands release your ass. He’s not touching you anywhere, and you shudder and sink. It has to already be mostly inside you, and you sink, and there’s more, and he’s still stretching you further.

Two fingers casually walk up your spine, pinpoints of contact. A thumb tenderly strokes the hair at the base of your neck.

Your arms give out.

It’s all at once; your feet leave the floor, your toes’ tenuous grip just gone, and they curl painfully as you are impaled on that divine perfect enormous cock. All your weight rests on Jake, across his legs, hips completely flush, and you feel a fucking scream tear out of your throat, shattering the suspension you were trapped in for so long. You scream, and fall back, and sink against his chest, your knees drawing up, useless grains of leverage before your body catches up and you’re stuck.

Shaking, you go boneless, laying against him, mouth open and panting. You’re so full. You’re entirely full.

Your mouth works, soundlessly. You struggle to remember what thinking feels like. What words sound like. What being anything other than a divine vessel for a fucking metre of cock even felt like.

“Ah, Dirk…” His words are hot against your ear. You lean back into him automatically, like a freezing vagrant pulling up to a fire. Your eyes scan the dance floor, the bar, the lounge, but you don’t see any of it. Shapes. Impressions.

“How is this…” You swallow, hard. Your tongue is the size of a sausage. “You’re too big. You’re too big. How.”

His hands are on your belly, and you look down. You feel dizzy and wild with lust at the sight of his thumb rubbing along the unmistakable outline of his own cock head, pressed up against the flat expense of your stomach. Like. Fucking. Through your skin. You could faint dead away with how it looks, how it feels.

“How,” you repeat, the part of you that studied philosophy and reads Wikipedia articles trying to make sense of black holes swimming to the surface. Doesn’t make sense, doesn’t make any sense. There are laws, natural laws. He’s impossible, and fine, he’s a god, you guess. But he’s making you impossible, too, and it tears at your mind. You can barely conceive of it.

“Now, you calm down there,” he coaxes, his fingers running down the fucking line of his own dick through your skin. What the fuck. What the fuck! “None of that, don’t fret so, you’re getting yourself all worked the hell up over nothing, take a breath, that’s it, that’s a good one, just a nice big long breath... “

Fuck. You didn’t ask for this, you didn’t ask for any of this. You just wanted a nicer room and to make Alpha Beta Omega jokes and get your degree in peace.

Would you go back and unsuck that magnum marble dong?

You can’t lift yourself up off him. He’s too big; your feet can’t reach the ground, and your hands can’t wrap around his thighs or his biceps enough to get any purchase. And it burns and aches, but sweetly, unreasonably sweetly. So instead of getting leverage, using it to thrust, you grind.

You bear down on the cock splitting you open, mounting you, scrambling your insides with magic godstuff. You roll your hips back to front, and then circular. Jake hisses against your ear, his hands going tense against your belly. You grind down harder. You rotate your hips in small, tight circles, feeling the massive tool inside of you shift and pull. By rights, it should hurt like fucking hell. But it’s sweet and filling and glorious. Basic bullshit like physics and anatomy and matter fall away, leaving ideas and feelings and sensations. It doesn’t matter that he shouldn’t fit, that you should be howling, that there’s a funhouse-grotesque hentai bullshit bulge poking out your abdomen. It’s good, it’s intense, it’s sexy, and you feel like… Like a supplicant at the throne of God. And that’s what defines reality.

“That’s the ticket, now you’re on the trolley, ah, yes, brilliant, good, yes,” Jake gasps. “You’ve sussed it out, sport. You’ve cracked the code.”

He stops giving himself the world’s weirdest, hottest hand job and switches his grip to your cock.

You look down. His massive hand envelops your dick completely so that only the tip is peeking out. He brushes his thumb across you, and you whimper. Your hands come up, reaching back. You find his neck, barely, and try to twine your arms around him, but eventually settle for barely holding on. But he seems to like it, humming delightedly while he strokes you.

You become aware of your surroundings as you grind down on him and he palms your cock. Your eyes sweep out over the dance floor. No one is dancing. Something’s happened in this club.

Two guys both kneel to share an exposed cock between them. A couple are pulling off their clothes right at your feet. A line has formed to spit roast a gorgeous twink. On the bar, a guy is stretched out on his back, legs in the air. There are balls in his mouth, and his ass is being tongue-fucked by one of the most ripped dudes you’ve ever seen.

“Holy… “ you breathe.

“Exactly,” Jake says.

“You’re making them do this.” You shake your head. This is fucked up. You’re responsible for this, in part, and you have this moment of clarity that it’s got to stop. This isn’t -- normal, this is so far beyond normal! “Stop it.”

But he laughs. “Now, what’s that about? I’m not making anybody do a single thing, Dirk! Haven’t I made that clear? You read about Bellvue. My last incarnation. The puritans got me real good in the end. If I could just wave my hands and make this happen, how could some prudes waving pitchforks around do a damn thing?”

“Don’t know. People don’t do this on their own.” It’s hard to form complete sentences. You feel good. So good. You’ve never been so full, so complete, and you rock your hips in time with the pounding bass. The guys in front of you are 69ing now, making slurping noises so loud that you can hear it even over the music.

“Something is always holding them back,” Jake breathes. He thumbs the head of your cock, rubbing pre all over it. It’s like heaven. “They want to do what feels good, but they’re tied up all in knots, balled and crumpled and hogtied by rules and whatnot.”

“So you... “

“We,” he stressed. “We’re doing this, you see? God and consort. This storm we brew between us, ah, Dirk. It doesn’t stay here. It can’t, see? Too big. We’re too big.”

The guy on top pulls off his friend. And he looks up at you.

Meets your eyes.

You jump as if hit with an electric current, and then immediately start scrabbling. “Fuck! He sees us. Jake! Jesus! You said no one would see!”

“I said people see what they want to see, and what I want them to see.” He laughs. “He sure as hell wants to see this, and, mhn, well, can you blame a fella, there, Dirk? You looking like that, why, who wouldn’t want to show you off.”

“Shit,” you pant. “Stop.” But you’re flushed head to toe, barely able to swallow, and you’ve never been so turned on in your entire life.

The guy straightens up onto his knees. He looks at the place where Jake’s glorious divine dick presses against your stomach. His head slowly tilts to one side.

“Amazing,” he breathes.

“Why!” Jake exclaims, happy as can be. “Thank you bunches! But tell me now my good new friendo, what do you think of my sheikish consort, here? Be as descriptive as you can be, really, that would be just the ticket!”

You close your eyes as the stranger’s eyes sweep your body. Fuck this, no way. At least Jake has the kindness to sound out of breath. You’ve stopped grinding. You barely want to move, lest you draw more attention to yourself. But the weight of the stranger’s eyes are like coals boring through you, and you’re intensely aware of your cock weeping pre. Jake’s steady, patient thumb paints you with it.

After what feels like an eternity, the guy’s voice reaches your ears again.

“Can I suck his cock?”

“Oh my god,” you hiss. Your balls jump. You’ve never been so humiliated, so exposed, so aware of your own body.

You love it.

Jake makes a ponderously slow, thoughtful noise against your ear. He licks the shell and then nips the lobe, and you whimper, squirming against him. It only serves to shift his cock. You’re on fire. You’re going to die.

“You know, I think I might allow that,” Jake said eventually. “I must admit, I’m a little shocked! I’ve recently discovered I’m a bit grabby-hands when it comes to this gent, and I don’t much like the thought of anyone else getting their fingerprints on him! But you’re not going to steal him from me, are you, my good fine pal?”

“I only want to please you,” the guy says.

“That’s just what I thought! Well, have at it, then!”

You squeeze your eyes shut. You hear whimpering, desperate and pleading and anticipatory, and you realize with a red hot dagger of deeply erotic embarrassment that it’s you. You squirm, writhe, the cock inside of you is a magnificent burning brand, and then there’s warm breath on your cock.

“Wait,” Jake says. “Hold on.”

The breath fades.

“No,” you whisper, and Jake laughs.

“I guess that answers my question!” he exclaims, but he continues anyway. “But I think I wanna hear you put voice on it for realsies, here, now, my good buddy. Do you want him to polish your gherkin while I start hammering away at you?”

Yes. Yes, fuck, yes. You don’t exist beyond this moment. You don’t have enough of a conscious, sane self left to question whether letting a complete fucking stranger suck you off while you’re riding another guy’s dick in a booth in a gay club is a good idea. You don’t have the time or the wherewithal to fully form the thought that when your brother told you to have some adventures, this wasn’t what he was talking about. You don’t even have a minor panic attack about whether or not someone has a camera, whether this is going to be all over Perez Hilton in a couple days.

All you think is: he wants me to say yes.

So you say yes.

It’s not only that having a blood hot mouth around your dick feels amazing. It’s the way the guy crawls forward with his eyes on the prize with naked, reverent desire clear on his face despite the shifting club lighting. He puts effort into it, tracing the curve of your cock with his lips, still damp from going down on his partner before. Kitten licks turn into wide sweeps of his tongue before he sucks you down.

Behind him, his partner lays against his back, watching avidly, excitedly.

Behind you, Jake nuzzles your hair.

You can’t focus on any one thing, your brain is too overloaded on stimulus, it’s skipping tracks. Jake’s hand rubbing your belly twists into the sweet suction around you which tangles with how the dick in you throbs and makes you tighten around it.

You just can’t. Luckily you are spread across a big, broad sex god who is happy to take hold of your hips and move you when you become too completely insensate to make your body function even enough to grind against him. He lifts you and pulls you back down, sometimes harsh enough you bounce out of the random guy’s mouth, making him whine each time.

There is wire-taut tension in your body. Orgasm looms. It’s just not here yet, no fucking release from all of the layers and layers of unending sensation and helpless desperation.

You try to pivot your hips to help Jake fuck you a little better-- as if there is anything to this except full and not full right now. You’re stuck in some binary state, all ones, the light brilliant green behind your eyelids.

When you finally come, it’s nothing, it doesn’t matter. All there is to focus on is a moment of coiled release, and watching the guy at Jake’s feet swallow before falling to the floor again in some kind of jizz-fueled rapture. But you are still riding a high that has its hooks deep inside you.

Jake strokes your arms in a way that would be sweet if he wasn’t what felt like four feet up you. As you bump and grind on his dick, you look around at the colors and let them wash over you.

Eventually, there are other touches. Someone strokes your leg up to your knee, against the grain of the hair there before smoothing it back down. Someone else thumbs a nipple in a slow, patient circle, like a worry stone. There are hands, people reverently tracing the shape of Jake’s dick through you, and you are just done. It’s worship and reverie and you can’t track any of it anymore, so you stop trying.

All that matters is Jake leaning down to press his lips against the top of your head periodically. That. That’s nice.

Through the haze of sensation and confusing emotion, you think maybe you’re hard again. It’s not easy to tell. You feel the hot need for friction, compounded by Jake continuing to roll your body against him. His dick feels like an ecstatic burn inside you, and you feel like the most glorious scabbard Jake has ever sheathed himself in. Or… that’s his thoughts, what he feels. It all feels like one dizzy echo inside your head.

Then someone fits their mouth around your cock again and none of that matters because oh, it’s rapturous, perfect suction as you fuck into their throat and they just swallow around you without so much as a gurgle of complaint. You were already so close to the edge, and it hardly takes more than a few deep, smooth thrusts and then you’re shouting, coming hard down their gullet, energy rolling off of you, and Jake sighs contentedly. He squeezes your thigh, and if he weren’t keeping you upright like a doll on a stand with the rod up your ass you think you would be on the floor.

What—what was that? Those weren’t your thoughts, were they?

Doesn’t matter. Another thought-feeling of orgasm hits you, bowls you over and under. The burn in your shoulders, wrested behind you as your prostate is hammered again and again and again, it’s all one shock of undiluted pleasure as you throw back your head and howl, and Jake laughs, bending to kiss your hair. More vitality soaks into him.

“J—Ja—” you stutter. You want to touch your dick or belly, see if you actually came, but your arms are so heavy, your body simply one drop of sensation in a room filled to the brim, and you’re adrift in it.

Except for the endless pound of Jake’s dick into you. The feeling of that is crystal sharp.

“Hush, lovely, don’t you fret.” Jake takes one of your hands and sets it over the bump in your abdomen. You think you hear yourself whimper.

There is no possible way you’ve come again. You’re not there yet, you have not wound up enough, even with all the hands on you. Yet there is still a sensation like it humming through you. It crashes hot and good into your body, making your feet flex uselessly, your legs rubbing against Jake’s skin as you shift around.

It happens again even faster and you think… maybe it’s someone around you? There are people on the floor who are writhing and fucking and sometimes one of them comes and you fucking feel it like a struck chord running through you and back into Jake. An instrument.

You laugh deliriously at the pun, but after that everything just becomes a rolling cascade. Votaries and disciples are a sea around you, their hands on you, careful not to touch Jake, and you ring with every morsel of their belief that fills you.

Your head falls back. Jake kisses you, gently, almost chaste and innocent despite him lodged inside you and having turned this club into a temple with just his presence.

Mind wipes free of any coherent ideas or thoughts, you lay against him, a tired vessel. Tired, but happy.

But several dozen orgasms will do that to a guy.

You don’t know much after that. Not for many hours.

You know that Jake carries you home. Your feet are cold. It must be deep night. Also, your clothes must be gone. That’s annoying but not exactly surprising, all things considered.

The image of Jake courteously grabbing your clothes and shoes on his way out of the orgy makes you shake with effervescent mirth. There is no doubt you sound like an idiot, coming out of a fucked-out divine stupor to snicker against Jake’s chest, and yet here you are.

“Hello, there, are you conscious again?” Jake asks somewhere above you and beyond the safety of your closed eyelids.

“Mm, no,” you hum. Which makes him laugh. It feels nice.

“Well, I’ll have you tucked up in bed soon enough, and you can take all the time you need. After a bangarang like that, you’ve earned your forty winks. I may even be convinced to give you fifty.”

It’s all nonsense. You want to let it be, just not think about it all yet. Still, the rational part of your mind has been held under the waters of primal fuck and weird erotic spirituality for too long, and it’s pissed, and demands a question: “What the hell was all that?”

“That?” Jake chuckles again, and that alone seems to banish the night chill from your skin with its warmth. “That was your sneak peek, chickadee.”

Chapter Text

Unknown Number: (Winking Face)(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant)(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant)
Dirk: Who is this?
Unknown Number: (Person With Folded Hands ≊ Folded Hands)(Upside-Down Face)
Dirk: I think you may have the wrong number.
Unknown How Do I Finagle This Contrapt: (Frowning Face With Open Mouth)
Dirk: ...Jake?
Right I think if I just trJake: Salutations and a bonny good morning to you dirk!
Dirk: How did you get a phone?
Dirk: You know what, don’t answer that.
Jake LOOK DIRK I’VE WRANGLED IT: These devices are truly a marvel! Did you know you can get netflix on here??
Dirk: Uh, yeah. I did.
Dirk: Look, I have class soon, so I won’t be able to answer.
Jake(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant)(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant): (Pensive Face)
Dirk: But I have a few minutes, and
Dirk: Well, I think maybe it’ll be easier like this, actually. You can’t screw with my head from a distance, can you?
Jake(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant)(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant): I havent tried! Should i give it a shot?
Dirk: No, don’t!
Dirk: At least not now. Look. If we’re doing this, there’s some shit we should sort out first.
Jake(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant)(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant): I’m all ears! (Ear)(Ear)(Ear)(Ear)
Dirk: You don’t actually have to punctuate everything you say with an emoji, you know.
Dirk: But, ok.
Dirk: I think we should have some ground rules.
Dirk: Firstly. I’m not necessarily opposed to, uh, things like you pulled over the weekend at the club. But we got lucky there because it was, you know, a gay club.
Dirk: Wait, do you know what that means? It means it was catered to men who prefer to get it on with other dudes. Like me. Which is my first rule, here. I don’t want women getting involved if I’m getting off.
Jake(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant)(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant): Well frankly that was abundantly clear. Clear as a crystal-clean pool.
Jake(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant)(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant): OH SHIT THEY HAVE ONE OF THESE LITTLE SYMBOLS FOR THAT!! (Two Men Holding Hands )
Jake(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant)(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant): But yes not to worry my toothsome consort. Your baloney pony will remain untouched by any lady attendees to my church. (Winking Face)
Dirk: Ok, good. And related to that, I have a friend, Roxy. I don’t want her getting pulled into this, either. Her or either of our families. That would just get really fucking weird.
Jake(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant)(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant): (Thumbs Up Sign ≊ Thumbs Up)
Jake(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant)(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant): She must truly be a gal of unique caliber to hold a spot in your heart eh? Id like to meet her unless thats off the books too.
Dirk: No, knowing her it’s a shock she hasn’t met you yet. Only a matter of time, really.
Dirk: Right, next rule. I want Sundays for a day to work on class work. I do actually need to get this degree. It’s taken long enough already. And try not to keep me up until 4 am the night before my morning classes, ok?
Jake(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant)(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant): Sure thing! That leaves me most of the week for some good clean fun now doesn’t it.
Dirk: Yes, but not during finals. Or midterms. I really gotta be able to concentrate during those weeks. I am dead serious about this.
Jake(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant)(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant): I can do you double on that one. All these weeks of hard work you’re offering me will more than get me able to lend your brain a little pick me up. (Winking Face)
Dirk: Uh, what kind of “pick me up” are we talking about, here.
Jake(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant)(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant): Oh you know. Just a little boost. Not that your whip snap of a brain really needs any sharpening.
Dirk: Right. Sure. Class is starting, so I’m going to be afk for a bit, but thanks.
Jake(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant)(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant): THEY HAVE SO MANY OF THESE?? (Evergreen Tree ≊ Evergreen)(Blossom)(Bouquet)(Closed Umbrella )(Shaved Ice )(Balloon)(Balloon)(Eye)(Snow Capped Mountain ≊ Snow-Capped Mountain)(Mouse Face )(Eyeglasses ≊ Glasses)(Cancer )(Last Quarter Moon With Face )(First Quarter Moon With Face )(Dizzy Face)
Jake(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant)(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant): Haha look its you (Dizzy Face )(Tongue )(Dash Symbol ≊ Dashing)(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant)(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant)(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant)(Weary Face))
Dirk: Ok I'm turning my phone off now.

Jake sends one more string of meaningless emojis before you shut your phone down and stow it in your bag, just in time for your professor to begin talking. You feel pleased with how that conversation turned out, and reassured by Jake’s willingness to listen to your insistence on there being some rhyme and reason to this absurdity. It’s not hard to concentrate on class after that success.

The class is a longer one, so the professor always gives you a couple minutes in the middle for a break to stretch or piss or gossip before knuckling back down. You reopen your phone cautiously. More aimless emojis, which you’d expected, and a screenshot of Jake’s Netflix queue, hilariously.

Then there’s, uh. You’re deeply grateful that nobody sits next to you and that you had your phone down in your lap, because. Apparently Jake had discovered the camera and decided that while you were in absentia he should send you dick pics.

You scroll through them quickly, trying not to let your eyes land on any particular details. Dick, dick, more dick, Jake’s grinning face briefly, then more dick. The last photo just came in a couple minutes ago, and it’s a picture of an eggplant resting innocently on a countertop. It startles you out of your careful blankness badly enough that you actually laugh aloud. Several people look up and you hastily shut your phone off and stuff it back in your bag.

The rest of class goes without issue. The professor lets you out right on time, which is an unexpected stroke of luck. He tends to keep you a minute or two past time, which is annoying as hell, because your next class starts in just twenty minutes and is much farther away than should be fucking allowed. You shove your things into your bag and swing it over your shoulder, out the door before most of the class is so much as out of their seats. Hey, at this rate you’ll have time to refill your water bottle.

Or, you would, if you didn’t come to an abrupt halt the moment you step out of doors and find a sex god sunning himself out on the grass next to the walkway.  Which, when you take a moment to remember how dreary and overcast the day had been last you glanced outside, is a pretty impressive trick. You don’t want to contemplate too closely the full scope of divine powers and just how sympathetic reality seems to be to his whims.

“Dirk!” he says, beaming up at you delightedly. “Now aren’t you a sight for sore eyes. Come here, darling, take a sit on my lap.”

“Uh,” you say. The door behind you opens and startles you back into motion until you’ve drawn close enough that Jake can loop a hand around your ankle and tug playfully. “I can’t, dude, I have another class.”

Jake’s face falls immediately. “Another one? But you’ve been out all day. A fella gets awful lonely without you to brighten things up, you know.”

You flush, never sure what to do when he gets into a complimentary streak. “My class is on the dead opposite end of campus. Sorry, man, but I’ve gotta run.”

Jake drops your leg with a sigh. “I need a copy of your schedule,” he says. “These dry spells really leave me craving a top off.”

You step back, feet itching to get back to power walking your way to class, but Jake looks genuinely downtrodden. “Can you get something from someone else?” you suggest. “I think you’d have people lining the blocks for a chance to suck you off if you wanted.”

Jake shakes his head. “Can't, nope. It’s got to be your lovely mouth or bust, I’m afraid. But go on, I won’t keep you any longer. This is your last class, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, and it’s an easy one, so I’m all yours once it’s done, okay?” You do feel a little bad, and your curiosity is itching to know what Jake means by not being able to get off with anyone else, but the seconds are trickling away. “See you then,” you say, and offer him an awkward half-wave as you start off.

“I’ll be waiting,” Jake calls, and you don’t look back because if you do, you won’t be able to concentrate during the lecture from the memory of him sunlit and smiling after you.

You arrive to your next class out of breath, uncomfortably sweaty, and a minute late. There are never many spots left by the time this class starts, and being late leaves you stuck with one right in the middle of the back row. You have to climb over a couple people to get to it, and it’s generally the worst. The professor sighs and gives you a moment to sit down and stop making a mess of her class, and you boot up your laptop to take notes guiltily.

So you’re the only one who can suck Jake off. The only one who can touch him at all? The orgy at the club is blurry in your memory, and thinking about it too long sends a startling shock of electricity down your spine, but you’re pretty sure that in retrospect, nobody was touching Jake. Or, rather, they only touched him with you as the conduit.

This line of thought is not helping you feel any less overheated from your dash across campus.

You apply yourself to your note taking. This is an art history core credit that you usually enjoy the hell out of, on account of the professor being genuinely brilliant. Today, though, your brain is not cooperating. It keeps drifting back to Jake, waiting for you to emerge from the building with that big-toothed grin of his, and his plans for how you were going to spend the time. And to the dick pics that you only let yourself catch glimpses of. Your fingers tap the keys without pressing, and the lecture slides further out of your grasp. Shit.

Come on, you tell yourself. This is a good class. Concentration is important. You focus your gaze on the PowerPoint slides and try to form an opinion on the photograph displayed. The use of negative space, the high contrast, come on, you can do this. You just need to get some keywords down so you can figure out what this lecture was about later, at least.

Painfully slowly, you write down the names of the artists on the next slide. You’re not sure you know what decade these photos are from. They’re black and white, but that doesn’t mean shit. Didn’t Jake say that Bellvue took photos of them fucking? No, it was a short movie, that’s right. You liked the way Jake’s dick curved back in that first selfie he sent. No. Focus.

You type down the name Philippe Halsman, valiantly trying not to think about Jake taking pictures of you with his newfound camera phone. Jesus, are you getting hard? You don’t think Jake can affect you from a distance like this. Wow, that’s a new level of pathetic. Would he arrange you how he wanted before taking the photos? Or would he just whip his phone out while you were speared on that monster cock and snap a few pictures while you were too dazed to react? Both have their appeal, frankly.

But, fuck, you really need to not be thinking about this. Your poker face is good, but it’s been a few years since you were such a hormonal mess that you would get a hard-on in class.

You bite the inside of your cheek and think unsexy thoughts. Your brother’s horrifying collection of dick-patterned shirts. Allergy season in the PNW and the gross way your nose constantly runs. The time you slipped in the muddy grass and nearly faceplanted in dog shit. Jake propped up in the sunshine with an easy smile, eyes the same green as the trees, telling you to sit on his lap.

Yeah, this isn’t working. You tap your fingertips against the keyboard agitatedly, staring at the PowerPoint and trying to absorb something, anything from it. The best you can manage is thinking that the shade of green in the next photograph is an almost perfect match for Jake’s eyes when he first met yours, a statue come to life, right before dragging you down on his dick.

God, he has such an amazing dick. You lick your lips, remembering the taste of his pre, and drop a hand to your thigh without really thinking about it. Your thumb rubs circles over the fabric of your jeans, and the way that Jake held you as he slid into you last night, before he took his hands away. Everything about him is big when he grows to his statue size, but his hands, fuck. Those huge fingers would spread you so wide if he slid them into you, maybe reaching over your back to finger you while you suck him.

Your throat tries to tighten, to make a quiet noise on your next breath, but you force yourself to relax and breathe evenly. You’re pretty fucking turned on, though, aimless arousal washing through you as your mind skips from memory to fantasy to Jake, Jake, Jake. Hands and mouth and dick, shit, it’s all you can think about.

It’s around the time that you start squirming in your seat, unable to sit comfortably with the pressure of your dick against the confines of your jeans, that you decide that yes, apparently Jake can affect you at a distance like this. And if he keeps it up, you’re going to come in your pants in the middle of a crowded lecture hall.

Keeping your eyes on the PowerPoint, trying not to draw attention to yourself, you reach down for your bag and fish out your phone. It doesn’t make a jingle as you turn it back on, thank god, and you keep the screen face down against your thigh so that the bright light doesn’t catch any eyes.

It buzzes on startup, and you nearly jump out of your seat as the vibration runs through the stretched denim of your pants to your groin. Fuck.

There are several text notifications when you look at the screen (mostly from Jake, one from Roxy), and you swipe through them to send a text of your own. His response is almost instant.

Jake(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant)(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant): You do look awful good when you’ve got your serious academe face on you know. All thoughtful with pen ink smearing on your jaw. Can’t blame a gent for getting ideas!
Jake(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant)(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant): Ideas that might involve seeing how wide that pretty jaw of yours can stretch.
Jake(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant)(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant): You aren’t even reading these are you. I’ll just mind my own business until you’re done with class then.
Dirk: Jake. Is this you.
Jake(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant)(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant): Is what me? (Smiling Face With Halo )

You’re about to call him on it when you’re hit with another wave of arousal, stronger than before, and fuck. You fumble your phone, and it falls to the ground with a clatter.

No one so much as glances in your direction.

Well.

That answers that question, at least.

You’d be more grateful for Jake’s “notice-me-not” field if you had the brainpower to spare, but as it is you’re putting all of your attention towards biting back the moan building in your throat. You can feel the barely-cushioned chair digging into your thighs, but you’d swear that you can also feel fingers tracing over your nipples, dragging over your belly, sliding into the crease of your ass. You hunch over your laptop and your nearly painful erection and suck in breaths as quietly as you can.

The sense memories overlap. You remember the way your breath heated your face as you groaned into your pillow, the way Jake’s fingers were so slick as he worked you open, the mouths that closed around your dick, the fullness of being spread over his lap. They don’t line up together, don’t form anything like a cohesive experience in your mind, but you still feel them.

You’re rocking in your chair, you hands gripping the edge of the desk. It’s senseless, but the rhythm helps. Or, it doesn’t fucking help, because it reminds you more of Jake fucking you. The sweet stretch of him, and how overwhelming it is as he grows and makes you fit him every time.

Your tongue touches your upper lip, and you can’t see anything, all the tension stringing tighter and tighter. The whine in your throat should be turning every head in this room, it’s porno sounds of the highest fidelity. You sound incredible. The thought is not yours, and you shake your head in denial, chin dropping. You feel so open. It’s hard to tell if its just the memory taking hold or if somehow you are stretching around a phantom dick. You don’t know, it’s impossible to know.

The first time you come, you swear to fucking god that it’s to the sensation of Jake’s dick hitting your prostate dead on. One hand claws at your fly as if you can get there in time, to somehow squeeze it down and keep from coming in your pants, but you drop against the desk, nearly knocking your laptop off the table, and spill a hot mess in your jeans.

Next to you, a student reaches out and nudges your laptop away from the edge, keeping it from falling. Their attention doesn’t shift from the lecture.

Slowly, you push back against the desk, and ease yourself into your seat, head bumping into the wall behind you. There’s enough room to stretch your legs out, and it both pulls at your jeans, renewed pressure against your dick, and makes your legs sore as you point your toes and shudder through a breath.

Okay. Maybe now you can refocus and put this weird episode behind you. It’s possible to salvage this if you just get back to your notes and don’t think about Jake’s big, wide hands on your hips, moving you up and down on his cock like a toy. A beloved toy, though, you can feel it as if through his fingerprints, how covetous he is, and the whispers of encouragement. You were made to do this, the lightning pole with a storm bearing down. Each time it’s like being struck anew, and you keep expecting to get used to it.

But you’re not yet. Your heels press hard against the floor, half-lifting you off your seat, one hand scrambling to hold on behind you, the other fucking wandering without your goddamn permission. Nails trace the shape of your mouth, and your fingers push against your lips, and god, if you’d slowed down and stayed with him, it’d be perfect.

It’s the weight of it you like the most. The way his cock is hot and heavy, pushing your tongue down, demanding you yield. It’s not a hardship. On your knees, you feel so fulfilled, like some vault lock in your chest spinning and clicking into place. If he told you that you were destined for this, you’d believe him.

Shoving your fingers in your mouth is a near fucking thing. God, you want to. But it’s only going to disappoint you. Better to let the disconnected sense of it fill your mind. Instead you pull your palm over your mouth so you can fucking groan with more volume, helplessly riding another wave of absent sensation to orgasm, too fucking destroyed to keep your voice down now.

You slump back in your chair, panting, arms loose at your sides, trying to catch your breath. Holy shit.

For a moment, you’re fine. The cool air of the room feels refreshing against your flushed face. Already you’re tired, your muscles strung too tight through two bullshit magical orgasms. What you need is to relax. What you need is something softer. Like at the club, when everything had gotten disjointed and indistinct, and you felt all those hands on you. Thumbs pressing into your exhausted forearms, hands pulling open and stretching your fingers out, slow meandering spirals around the knots at your ankles and wide palms running up your calves.

“Shit,” you mutter. Now, you can’t move. You feel so many hands gently, firmly keeping you in place, a grip as unbreakable as iron manacles. Pressure rolls up your chest, strokes the line of your throat, traces reverently in a circle around your Adam’s apple. You swallow and  groan, thinking about all those people, devout and devouring, until you shiver and come a-fucking-gain, weak and trembling.

You barely hear it over the thrum of your heart racing in your ears, but somewhere on the ground at your feet, your phone is buzzing. Your entire body shivers and shakes as you lean forward, stomach fluttering and dick aching at the renewed press of your jeans from the angle. With tingling numb fingertips, you fish your phone off the ground and swipe to unlock the screen. It takes a couple of tries.

As you sit up again, you glance around, glad to see that no one seems to have taken note of your moans and groans and writhing as you came several times in a row. You weren’t exactly quiet, and you’d flush if you weren’t already completely red-faced from arousal. Jake’s still keeping you hidden, though, an impossible shield of your neighbors’ obliviousness, and your lips twitch into a wry smile as you mutter, “Thank god for small miracles.”

There are a few messages waiting for you when you look at your phone. You read them and slowly type out your reply, fingertips still shaking against the screen.

Jake(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant)(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant): Whew! That was sure a whirlwind of (Weary Face) wasn’t it?
Dirk: Holy fuck, Jake.
Jake(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant)(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant): That’s the idea! (Person With Folded Hands ≊ Folded Hands)
Jake(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant)(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant): I daresay you quite enjoyed that particular round of holy horseplay. (Winking Face )
Dirk: I didn’t think your ability to fuck with my head was quite that literal.
Jake(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant)(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant): It was a bit of a trial to unravel all the bits and bobs that make your melon tick, but I think I tinkered all the kinks out of it now.
Jake(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant)(Aubergine ≊ Eggplant): In fact, I bet if I just...

You’re still staring at the screen, waiting for him to complete that thought, when the arousal slams into you without warning. You’d been winding down, heart rate settling and trembling easing as you came down, but without even a moment of buildup you’re back at that peak again. You let out a shocked cry, fingers spasming around the case of your phone, as you feel an intense knife-edge pleasure of orgasm sweep through you, unbelievably intense.

When it passes, you’re gasping again, limp against the seat, shaking from pleasure and shock as you stare wide-eyed at the ceiling. Your lips move soundlessly, mouthed curses. You don’t even know if you got hard again, it was so fast. Fuck.

Part of your brain is frantically reviewing everything you know about biology and neuroscience, the way that neurochemicals and hormones interact in the strange dance of arousal and orgasm. The rest of you is reeling, awe and disbelief. The degree of control that Jake has over you, to be able to play your body like this without laying so much as a finger on you...

You shiver and feel a sliver of heat slide down your spine and settle in your overworked dick.

It spreads through the rest of you, faster than even the strongest kick of arousal you’ve felt before, and that’s your only warning before Jake shoves you up to the peak again. You feel it down to the roots of your hair this time, fucking shit, these are some of the strongest orgasms you’ve had in your life, and he’s just slamming them into you.

You shout, eyes screwing up, and curl forward, hips jerking. You vaguely feel your grip slip on your phone, but you miss the inevitable clatter, too overwhelmed and overcome and unable to focus on anything past the intense pleasure sweeping through you. You’re falling to absolute pieces in the back of a crowded lecture hall, but there’s something close and intimate about it, this little bubble of privacy that Jake has given you while he takes you apart.

Your voice is hoarse when you come down this time, gasps ragged as they tear out of you, and you lean your weight heavily on the little fold-down desk. Your forearm rests across the keyboard of your laptop, probably leaving a long stream of letters in what was meant to be your note-taking document, but you frankly can’t be bothered to worry about it. Your heart is pounding, racing in your chest, all your muscles trembling, and your whole body feels oversensitive. You’ve come...five times, now? Six? And each one more overwhelming than the one before.

But, fuck, the fact that Jake can just control you like this, send you straight into orgasm over and over and over just by fucking with your mind, completely bypass the normal route of arousal and foreplay and buildup and just push you straight into overwhelming pleasure--

You whimper and feel the phantom sensation of fingertips brushing over the back of your neck. It sends a shudder through you, soothing but still too much on your hypersensitive nerves. You moan thinly and drop your head forward, wishing there was a solid hand there for you to push back into.

Soon. With effort, you focus your eyes on the clock on your computer screen, and you’ve managed to miss almost the entirety of the lecture. Just another fifteen minutes left, and then you can go find Jake.

The next wave takes you completely by surprise, and you let out a strained scream as you throw yourself back against the chair, writhing as if there’s any relief to be found. Fingers white-knuckled around the edges of the desk, hips lifting off the seat, head tilted back, you sob out pleasure as your entire body, your entire mind, lights up. It’s so much, fuck, it’s so much, and you collapse limp again when it passes.

Eyes still closed, you pry your hands off the desk and run them through your hair, damp and wilting with sweat. They’re still shaking when you hesitantly drop one to hover over your lap. Carefully, you press against the wet mess at the front of your pants, and you don’t even try to bite back the moan. “Fu-huuuuck,” you groan, taking your hand back immediately. It’s too much, too sensitive, you’re stuck at half-hard without enough time to get all the way there before Jake pushes you over the edge each time.

And shit, you’re pretty sure the heat that rolls through you at that thought is entirely your own. You rub your hand over your thigh, drag the other down your face so that your fingertips catch on your damp cheeks, your open lips. You’re overwhelmed, so overwhelmed, but you want more. You want Jake’s hands on you, big fingers tracing your ribs down your sides until warm palms brace against your hips and your ass.

Like the way he held you as you lowered yourself on his dick last night, fingertips digging in and spreading you wide as you sank onto him. You shudder and tilt forward, hips shifting in your seat, and lean on the desk again. It’s a dazed sort of arousal, less focused than the knife-sharp pleasure that Jake’s been pushing through you, but with you already so wrecked it doesn’t take much to get you to drop your head and whine desperately as you tilt your hips back. You want to feel him on you, in you, surrounding and filling you.

And then suddenly you do.

It pulls another choked gasp out of you, the sense memory of being opened up on his massive dick, and you can feel it, the stretch and the pressure and the slick hint of a burn as it forces you wide around it. Shit, shit, shit, you want it, you’d beg for it, please god something solid and hot and heavy to take you apart.

Your hips rock, sending a pained noise out of you when the motion shifts your dick against the wet confines of your underwear. But your hole is clenching, twitching, trying to draw Jake’s dick in even when there’s nothing there, and you need it, you need it--

It’s not even a conscious decision, shifting your weight to one arm and moving your other hand back, shoving it down the back of your pants to where you can feel Jake pushing into you. You press fingertips over your hole, rub them across the twitching muscle, and even knowing it’ll be a rough drag with nothing to ease the way, you try to push one in.

It slides in slick and smooth.

You swallow, mouth suddenly dry, and feel your mind sink another layer deeper into the haze of Jake’s hold on you.

He slicked your finger. The same divine trick he pulled before to work you open, magical lube or whatever, he pulled it on you now so that you could fuck yourself in time with the memory of his dick fucking into you.

You moan, high and needy and a little bit wild, and pull your finger out. You add another when you push it back in, and they’re both slick, oh fuck. You piston them in and out, and the relief of having something tangible to focus on, even if it’s your own fingers, is incredible. You work them deeper, twisting and rubbing in a vain attempt to mimic the sensation of Jake’s huge dick sliding deep, and the noise that comes out of you is pure desperation.

Around you, you can still hear the quiet click of the other students tapping away at their laptops, taking notes as the professor continues lecturing about who even fucking knows, but it’s all just white noise compared to the sensations shaking through you. You gasp and moan and whine as the pleasure twists tighter, a few tears squeezing out through clenched eyes. Your fingers and Jake’s dick slide deep, push you open, and when you add a third you feel him thrust directly across your prostate.

“Oh, god, fuck, fuck!” you gasp as everything tightens, and you bury your face in your arm, whining. So close, you’re so close, and you pump your fingers hard, trying to push yourself over the edge.

When you come, it’s with a high, wavering keen, and your whole body pulses with the force of it. You push your fingers deep, clenching around them, as your mind whites out under the pleasure, and

it

doesn’t

stop.

You’re gasping, shaking, crying out as the pleasure wracks your body, and the intensity just keeps building, building, until your mind starts to skip, unable to track it all, and--

Fingertips clutching and scrabbling at the desk, and--

Hole clenching and spasming around your fingers, and--

Dick jerking, almost painful from overstimulation, and--

Sparks skittering over your skin, prickling jolts that leave you sensitized in their wake, and--

Pleasure all through you, even your scalp tingling, and--

Toes curling so sharply that your foot starts to cramp, and--

You’re screaming, throat burning with noise that you can’t hear through the ringing in your ears, and--

Sightless gaze fixed on the front of the room, and you’re gasping and gasping and gasping and everything starts to slide out of focus, and--

It’s over.

Your orgasm releases you all at once, and you collapse back into the seat, absolutely and completely wrung dry.

It’s all you can do to pull your hand out of your pants and wipe your shaking fingers dry against your thigh. Aftershocks rock through you, shudders that shake you and leave you trembling as you suck down breaths. Your heart thrums, beating hard against the inside of your chest, as your body slowly, finally, comes down.

You close your eyes and just breathe.

There is no point trying to figure out what’s going on around you. When you drag your eyes up, as if through wet cement, and find the digital clock mounted on the wall above the lecturer’s desk, you see class is moments away from dismissal.

For the remaining, dwindling time left, you rest. By now, you figure you deserve it.

By the time the instructor releases the class, you’re at least on your way to having control of your legs again. It’s an arduous process. For the moment, you sit your ass still, and wait for the rest of the class to drain out.

Only then do you stand, hefting your bag on your shoulder. The shift in weight nearly topples you, but you brace on the desk and regain your footing. God willing you still got that aura around you, so no one will notice you stumbling around like a newborn deer.

The stairs down to the ground level of the room are treacherous, but you manage.

Then, between you and the door, are people. People looking directly at you.

You freeze, a whip crack of sharp fear hitting you.

Before you can come up with something to say or to bolt the other way or, fuck, elbow check them and run out the door-- the one with a prominent septum piercing and some smudged eyeliner takes a nervous step towards you. In their hand are a few sheets of paper, which they extent to you with a soft smile, teeth against their lower lip. “Uh, h-here, I thought yo-- you might need the lecture notes.”

Their companion nods quickly, and they take a water bottle out of the netted wrap of their backpack. “And this! S’not cold anymore, but… please.”

What the fuck. You stare at the offered…. shit. Shit. The offered gifts.

They could see. They know. Jesus H fucking Christ, the shine in their eyes reminds you of the guy at the orgy, who looked at you like you were something amazing.

You swallow against the knot in your throat and take the notes and the water bottle. And, yeah, holy shit, you are thirsty, and crack the seal on the bottle immediately, and polish half of it in a few gulps.

“Cool,” you say. “Thanks.”

The true believer with the extra water bottles smiles, their cheeks dimpling. “Thank you. You’re…. so pretty.”

You grimace and walk between them, and out the door. “Sure.”

As you hurry away, you hear the other person whisper angrily, “You made it weird! I told you not to make it weird!”

The last you hear of them is an equally muffled, “Sorry, it just came out!” before they are out of earshot and out of mind.

If you were not already convinced of the presences of miracles, the fact you manage to walk out of the lecture hall would do the trick.

It feels almost like you are made of static electricity, unseated and shivering and liable to crash into something. Your hand runs along the wall, bracing you, keeping you upright and walking. Maybe the “notice-me-not” field is still wrapped around you, keeping you safe from prying eyes. Maybe not, and like always the students around you are all too focused on getting to lunch or their next class or home to notice how wrecked you are.

Honestly, you don’t care. Your mind is almost placid, calm in the wake of the onslaught that poured over you through. More than anything, you want to get back to your room. Take a hot shower. Change into clothes that aren’t wrecked.

The sun is still just barely up as you step out the double doors, a sharp gleam of it peeking over the engineering building in the distance, cutting into you like a blade. It’s rousing, which is not really what you were hoping for; you’d be perfectly fine lingering in that post-coital haze, not thinking about the metaphysical fuckstorm you just weathered.

You squint, and glare at the lingering sun with an annoyance that just doesn’t seem to catch. You can’t hold onto it, you’re too exhausted.

One foot in front of the other. If you try really hard, you may work up the ire to tell Jake off when you get back. But it’s going to take some effort.

He’s worth the effort, you think in a warm haze as you turn along the path leading out toward Greek Row.

And there he is.

There’s an open air space with an arched canopy, meant to be a space for students to take lunch or get work done between classes. Now, as evening falls, most people have headed out; there’s just not enough light to work by at this hour.

But Jake is sitting there on one of the bench seats around a stone table, his back turned to it, elbows casually propped back against the clear surface. One of his legs is bent and braced on his knee, foot bouncing idly, without rhythm.

As you turn the corner and come into his view, his attention catches on you, and he lowers his foot back to the ground in front of him. The smile on his face is as warm and beautiful as the sunset, and would make you weak in the knees if you weren’t already.

“Well, at last, my dashing devotee,” he greets you with rich humor, his eyes dragging up and down your body. “How was your lecture?”

You don’t answer. He’s taken your tongue and rid it of whatever lingering words you could say here, reduced you down to the shaking remnants of refracting, colliding kaleidoscopic sensations, ludicrous and overwhelming.

As you approach, Jake lifts an eyebrow at you, his smile twisting into a wicked, knowing grin.

It remains on his perfect, devastatingly handsome face as you walk right up to him and drop to your knees between his splayed legs. The approval in his eyes is a balm coating your over-worked, frayed nerves, and you bend into him, bowing your head as you open his pants and grip his dick in your hand.

After so long with phantom sensations and vivid memories, the solid weight of his warm skin against yours alone is enough to make you groan slightly. You press your lips against him, enjoying the vivid softness of his cockhead as you push down and let the pressure slowly urge your mouth open. He’s big, maybe bigger than usual, maybe not, but it doesn’t matter as he stretches your jaw and your tongue works up and down the side of his shaft.

Jake lets out a sigh of pure contentment and strokes his fingers into your hair, gripping and taking control from your unresisting grasp. “Perfect. Absolutely plum-perfection. Didn’t I say you were?” His nails rake back over your skull, and his palm is wide cupping the back of your head. With a gentle, firm urging, he draws you down further, swallowing him deeper until you feel full. Not just your mouth but the quiet emptiness he’d left your mind is filled with the taste of him, the slick glide of his dick through your lips, the satisfaction that could be sinking into you from him or just…. you. Just you happy to have this place at his feet.

He laughs, like bells and dark good things. “It’s all the same, sweets.” His thumb rubs soothingly against the skin behind your ear. “Now, swallow.”

Your throat works around him as he comes directly down your throat, his breath hitching, knees pressing together, holding you between them.

When he’s done, he releases you, and you sit back on your heels, taking some deep breaths.

Jake stands, and holds out his hands to you. “Come on, buttercup. Let’s get you home.”

That sounds good. You let him pull you to your feet, and he holds you against his side as you both make your way back through the settling dusk.