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He immediately put your obsession with phonetics and phonology to insane amounts of shame.

Ever since your eyes met for the same time, when you stared at them instead of noticing the movement of his lips, skewing you from your standard analysis of beautiful men, you knew you were insane about him. His eyes were green but dark and sat behind a pair of square glasses that were the perfect size to fit his frame.

His first word to you was “hello”, and you knew he was different because his voice was orotund even amid the shrieks around. “Hello,” you say back to him, and you don’t forget to smile.

He smiles back and asks a question, and you finally look at his mouth. He learns your name before you learn his, and when it comes out his lips don’t pout as much, and he pronounces “Dirk” in a way your mental phonetic alphabet isn’t used to describing. “Dirk, is it?” he repeats, furrowing his upper lip with a suggestive chuckle. You say yes, he types on his phone. Your eyes don’t shift, focusing on his lips as you do with every other beautiful man. “I’m Jake,” he looks up. He has wrinkles when he grins softly, and the eyes meet again, making you grin in calculation. “Jake,” you reply.

He nods and his smile grows even more polite. He turns to his side allowing you to study his nose and quickly returns. He waits for you to nod back.

You smile as if you are not thinking about everything in the world. It is always convincing.

“Jake”. It sounds correct enough. It fits his face, it fits his small wrinkles, his gentle nose and the black glasses that weigh on it. A phonetic transcription of that name would have two vowels and three consonants, sharing the voiced alveolar plosive /d/ and the voiceless velar plosive /k/ with your own. Your mind memorizes /dʒeɪk/ and thinks about what to do with that information, as the man in front of you waves goodbye, nodding once more, preparing to turn around, as you let it happen, not forgetting to look at his nose for one final second.

You promise to slander a high percentage of your education on Linguistics in your analyses of him. The formality of every admirable teacher drowns beneath Jake’s feet as his bottom half is more worth studying than any of Uriel Weinreich's insights on the social variances of the system of language. Actually, you could teach a longer course on Jake English’s body language than any William Labov could make his thesis. And joining quantitative research and qualitative research and anatomic obsession, you could prove to Modern Universities that there was something missing from the scientific study of language development: and Jake would make up your control group.

When you pictured him, it was inside your mouth. Incapable to avoid being tasted, becoming part of your larynx for the moment you called for his name, he dragged saliva over himself. The connecting ends of your body inviting in the most beautiful man you ever knew, a man unlike you and of opposite purpose; the arms of the red dress waiting for yours of long black sleeves, made with the objective of inspiring in you, your study. The palatable Jake English, dark eyes and distracting top-half, saying your name in a way you haven’t heard before, changing the rules forever and baptizing you at twenty-three years of age. The choice is his to make, and you are /dɜːk/ now. Goodbye; your rhotic vowel.

You think he would like your hands. You put enough effort into their shape, and depending on his texture preferences, he might even prefer the roughness.

He maybe would crave them on top of his chest, either pulling him down or balancing his weight. If he were like you he would like your fingers trembling by his lips, daring to push inside only for a few seconds, but otherwise staying dry and begging for him to take the initiative. If he would rather feel you touch his hair you could do that too, and in response you would go down on him to satisfy your main desire right along; and your tongue on him wasn’t debatable — he would love it whether he wanted to or not, and you had structured plans to work with, the most objective subject of your thoughts right now being Jake English. Again, his name was perfect. You move your hands to all the places before mentioned, feeling even your insides, and you try saying his name with as much passion as he did yours. He had two syllables to be worked with, and weighing in you can’t just huff it out in one go — unless your voice breaks and the last consonant completely hides the final “e”, making you come across as more desperate or pleasured, whichever route excited Jake more (making you exactly what he wanted you to be — underneath or on top of him and in whatever dynamic he would choose for you) —, so you test it out many, many times.

Dirk was a good name for him to say. With his long front teeth and ambiguous accent he would lightly bite the inside of his bottom lip and remove one consonantal sound and say /dɜːk/, and even with your ears noticing the noises your tongue made around his cock, you would make out the lip bite. You would wish to see it, but know that the sound always mattered more. You would imagine how his face looked from up close, but thrive in the humiliation of not being allowed to look. You would close your eyes and dare to create the scene in your mind, and believe that the only inaccuracy to the real scenery were the glasses you envisioned on top of his nose, also slightly moving, discreetly changing distance in a way nobody normal would be able to see.

The imagination inside the imagination cools down as Jake comes warm in your mouth and makes random noise instead of choosing your name. From the change in pitch you know his lips are apart now, tongue visible and not hidden by big teeth, a report not from linguistical analysis but from sexuality. You don’t even take your hands to him because you must swallow without any help, and your tongue already misses hardness. Outside the first imagination you cum into your real hands, and you say his name. And it is finally the perfect pronunciation, the genuine /dʒeɪk/ with shorter vowels than usual.

You know you’re in love because you keep picturing him, and you crave him inside as if your mouth was empty. Now you’re allowed to call him, with the correct pronunciation to give and his three favorite fingers to receive.

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Your first mental note was his birthday. If close, it could be part of the plan forming in your head, the certainty that being remembered would mean something to him. You still don’t know anything about Jake English, but when you meet him the next day he is surprised that you remembered “English”, as if it wasn’t an easy surname and he hadn’t remembered Strider too.

You retain his height too. His food preference, whether he was right or left-handed, assumptions of where he might be from, how his innocence matched with your favorite part of him: his mouth with large teeth. Born in December, half a year away, but fortunately ignorant about your initial intentions. He takes his dominant right hand to your shoulder when he laughs and he continues in amusement. “Can’t believe you showed up even in this thunderstorm,” he says. “Most people would give up and stay home. It’s not cold at least, classic Summer rain. It'll pass."

“Well, I live right there”. You point, and he doesn’t look because he knows where you’re referring to. Jake blinks slowly and you stare more up there than at his teeth. “So I’m not the only one not on holiday."

Jake shakes his head. “Got two days left."

“One week,” you don’t specify.

The way he smiles means something to you, and you stare again. He thinks, and he charmingly shows you the book he is holding.

“Accounting.”

“I teach Spanish.” His expression lights up. “And sometimes French. If they need it.”

“Wow, you must be really smart,” and he doesn’t know about Italian, Portuguese and Romanian yet. “I took German for two whole years and I still know close to nothing. How… How do you say 'nothing', Nichts …?” He pauses. “I do know Schei … and nevermind."

You picture the whole Germanic tree, your studies assure you that Jake was involved in two-fourths of their languages in the West. It seems correct that he embodies Die Familie while you are in vulgar Latin, far deep and gone into romance.

“You are perfect,” you tell him, and he understands right away. “Can I risk your perfection?”

“Please do,” he says fluently and unaware of the Cannibalism Manifesto and its upcoming essays. And you hold back begging for him to invade your insides.

He shows you around his apartment before he lets anything happen. His kitchen is a hallway and its length shows he is truly twenty-three. You look at yourself in a mirror and hope you can find his old selves there, left behind to wait for you to find them. His interests and his family, the sentences he learned in German and his first words, and all the names he ever pronounced before. The /lʌv/s, the /ˈbeɪ.bi/s, the /dɪər/s and perhaps even the /hɑːt/s, if he had ever said anyone else’s name or title as perfectly as he did “Dirk” (postalveolar, plosive; open-mid, central, unrounded; ː and voiceless velar plosive), which you doubted was possible.

You don’t find messages in the reflection, no literal codes of any sort, and you turn back at Jake when he is speaking to you because he is worth listening to. You incite dental sounds because his teeth are distracting, and calculate how to avoid him biting your tongue. After a few minutes, he continues asking. “What are you thinking about?”

It seems like the time for an introduction. “Everything,” you say, “like I usually am. I’ll say objectively, right now, that I don’t have words to translate my thoughts into understandable information."

“Well,” he doesn’t seem shocked. “You have three languages to work with. I don’t know how to say ‘everything’ in German, would negating the 'nothing' work? Are you thinking about un-nichts ? Can I help in any way, Dirk?”

You both choose the language of kissing as your compromise. Jake already knows how to avoid biting, and his tongue is just as heavy as you have been calculating it would be. You control the need to throw him on the floor and stick to kissing like normal human beings. And his hand travels almost perfectly to the sides of your neck.

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You know what a distaste it would be if the world were missing Jake.

Your understanding of longing was uniquely specific, privileged by your knowledge of him. The feeling of his tongue brushed against the roof of your mouth with the non-stop repetition of “I am not here, I am not here anymore…” Your body was a planet not conquered by him anymore, begging to be close, begging even to smell his presence and to grace your eyes with the vision of his pores.

Even before you met you already longed for him. Your history of obsession, your lack of control over compulsions, all of that was the expectation for him to show up. The doctors knew, and the medication was made so you wouldn’t hurt yourself before allowing him to hurt you first.

The child version of you existed somewhere and waited for Jake English. He learned Parisian French by himself and Jake, the same age and size, possibly began wondering what Guten Tag translated to. You went to several psychiatrists, counted, analyzed, and waited. All you did was wait. It continued; as you thought and stared at yourself in the mirror. Your own mirror this time, and no signs of his too-soft kiss on your skin. The clock was angry at you, as you awaited the smallest sign that you could go see him. Three hours ahead you stood prepared, and eventually the phone rang and told you to walk as fast as it would be acceptable. You had been waiting since ever.

The kissing is only meant to get better from now on, and you count so few, such a small number on your top lip. You know what a distaste it would be if you were missing Jake. If you had never met the way he formed vowels with the back of his throat. If you weren’t there to calculate the size of his every organ and its similarities with yours, to rank and compare the length of every new kiss and the speed of the tongue inside you, the times he smiled or sighed against your mouth and how many times that meant something other than natural reflexes. How long it would take for it to go to the next step, how many minutes would have to pass for every new movement and when it’d be acceptable to introduce yourselves even more to each other. Your neck feels weak when you lay in his bed for the first time, and your patience after waiting your whole life is astounding, as you allow him to take control more than you are used to, not rushing anything, not attacking his skin with your tongue as much as you were expecting to, and he notices your weakness; he holds the base of your head and pushes your jaw up as it threatens to fall between your chests.

You like his hand there, it is your favorite place for him to have the palm of his hand. What you want is for him to move your head around, taking it wherever he wants to, and you slowly measure your movements so he will not realize you are forcing him to force you to move — making him think he is figuring it out himself, teaching him to touch your body in the most perfectly exact way a human being could do.

You know how long it will take for him to know you like fingers inside your mouth as he holds your jaw, but for now you focus on pulling his hair slightly, noticing that he smiles when you do that — Danke!, natural reflexes easy to detect — and that his hands weaken on your skin. You touch his chest and he pushes you against the sheets, and he is lying on top of you being the perfect view you had been craving. And Jake stops kissing you, and he’s just like all the others when he glances at you without shifting his expression. You close your eyes and he decides to kiss your sternum.

You had forgotten you’re shirtless already. Jake isn’t, but he’s sweaty enough to want to take clothes off. You can smell his deodorant fading onto you. It’s hot when he raises his arms to touch your hair as he delivers the kisses all across your chest. You pull him up and feel his boner against your legs and his glasses clanking against your face.

“Sorry,” he says with a chuckle, pulling away and taking his glasses off, placing them on the bedside table containing his headphones, an empty cup, and a white phone charger. His glasses tremble from unevenness, and you see his eyes clearly, dark green and closer to yours than ever before, and he kisses your mouth and his boner gets more evident and also closer to yours than ever before.

He stares at you with a smile, unaware of how obscene he looks and makes you feel. There is a drop of sweat close to his hair and general humidity around his lips that smile, smile, showing all of his teeth. You are incapable of seeming anything other than paralyzed, and just stare, stare, growing harder and more hungry for all parts of him.

Before he can wonder why you’re not smiling back you switch around and get on top of him. He allows you and helps position your crotch against his, and he makes noise, but no phonemes of your name yet. His nasal sounds are sexual enough to be banned from all phonology. You can’t hold back a moan of the same manner of articulation, only more brief.

You know what he is expecting, and you know what he wants and how he wants it; you read him perfectly. You move your left hand down his pants and calculate his sounds, you move your right hand to his lips and calculate his sounds; and in less than a minute you are synchronized with him and you make noise together. Your accents are neutralized, the quickest language convergence you have ever observed. You picture your tens of hundreds of small notebooks where you keep track of linguistic phenomena, a black pencil writing on it with your calligraphy mixed with the calligraphy of your brain. You take notes in your infinite pages of the mind, looking at Jake underneath you, his eyes closed and mouth open as if all the pages in his mind were being erased. You push the tip of your finger on his lip but he is too far gone to notice; and you try to make your right hand more exciting than your left but Jake is thinking with his nether head.

You don’t consider your hand as skilled as your tongue, but Jake enjoys it to the last second. He pushes you away for a second, breathes in — his nasal cavities must work beautifully — and then he’s on top of you again. He quickly has both of you pantless, and “are you still thinking about everything?” he asks. You look up to him and if anyone else saw you they would think you are five years younger and less experienced. “Yeah?” you say confused. Jake pushes inside of you without much of your help, and you don’t attempt to speak, glaring at his mouth like you did with all the beautiful men you’ve had on top before, but in a more insane way. Jake looks at your lips too, and he slowly pushes his hips forward, watching you slowly unshut them and form lewd shapes of saliva on your skin.

“Still thinking about everything?” You feel your bones hurt. Jake feels so good inside that you almost forget your neck is supposed to support your head. You tremble against his crotch and he squirms even closer, as if angling himself, like he noticed everything.

“Please, God. Deeper.”

“Don’t worry,” he affirmed with a smirk. He makes another nasal sound, however much more bilabial this time, and his pelvis finally touches you. “How about this deep?”

Your crotch hurts at his words and you feel yourself expanding and close to exploding, begging. The pain decreases when he pounds deeply and as quickly as he can, and you push your head back and for once are not thinking about only having him inside your mouth. He is right for asking, you’re not thinking of everything, as you were before. You are now thinking beyond a semi-human level, picturing every pore on Jake’s skin, his sweaty hair and how each individual strand acts when wet, every ounce of sperm that he has so close to invading you. You think about running your hands through that hair, and are not sure whether you are or should, what is happening in reality and what is only in your head. You’re not thinking of everything, but everything + one more. And you take your own fingers to your tongue and come over yourself.

Jake laughs like it’s funny that you came so fast. He knows you’ve been fucked many times before, you are not starting at twenty-three, and less than one minute inside is humiliating. “D-Don’t stop,” you ask, and “I’m not,” he replies with amusement in his grin. “Even if you asked me to. I don’t think I could stop.”

Your groin hurts while soft, and you feel its extremities and their reaction to Jake’s deepening voice. He is relatively gentle, but you wonder how he would be if you were still hard and moaning his name. With that in mind, you call out his consonants and two vowels, and he leans down to kiss you, and you kiss and kiss for a few minutes until he also finishes with indecent phonemes.

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On the following Friday he asks you to feed his dog.

His dog is white and completely covered in fur, even his eyes. He’s had him for at least a year, but doesn’t remember dates very well. You tell him how close your birthday is to his, and that he will remember.

You grab a handful of dog food, which is what he told you to do. You are so comfortable that you forget to read the package, even if just to make sure you’re grabbing the right thing; Jake trusted you with something important for the first time. You think of kneeling but bend instead, and Jake approves which is what matters most.

He pronounces “dog” quite exactly like you do. Voiced alveolar plosive, low back unrounded vowel, voiced velar plosive, the way you’re most used to. British English speakers usually round their vowels, so that adds to his accent's ambiguity. You influence him to say it more than once so you can be sure, and he voices an open vowel every time.

You don’t doubt your phonetic knowledge, and instead accept Jake’s exception from the systemic rules, because is parole really as systematic as langue?

If that dog had a collar you could install a camera on it. If he was anything like the cats you knew, you would get close-up images of Jake’s chin. From the lap perspective would be great, from the chest would be perfect. There’s a possibility it was only allowed to lay by his feet but that angle was still acceptable.

“Aren’t you already late?”

You ask him hoping it will make him stay home. He looks back at you with his wide green eyes, so innocent he doesn’t look like an adult man. “Yes”.

You know his ‘yes’ is only a confirmation, and he didn’t understand your intentions.

“Does it make any difference… to be ten minutes or an hour late?”

“Yeah?” You don’t sound so smart when you’re talking to him, and maybe that he picks up on. “Look, I also wish I could stay. I really couldn’t have predicted it”.

It kills you that he is a person with responsibilities. It kills you even if it is just class, because you don’t like to think about him looking at anyone else. Not teachers even.

He kisses your cheek. It kills you that he respects you. “You take care of him, okay? I’ll be back as soon as I can”.

“What?” You hold his hand. “I’m staying here?”

He raises his eyebrows as if he wasn’t expecting the question. “You don’t want to?”

“I do,” you reply quickly. And now he trusts you with his home, and one week is a personal record for you. Your smile reflects his, and he looks sweet but you can only think about his moans, him kissing your neck, you pulling his hair back to make him close his eyes, your face a mess and your eyes going everywhere and shutting tight. “See you later then?”

“See you later, Dirk.”

When he closes the door his dog looks at you. Did its ears transcribe /ˈleɪ.tər/ /dɜːk/ too? Did it understand you received a confirmation Jake would be back, while its name was unspoken? “We can share an owner,” you state.

You think of Jake being in class. You don’t know what his classrooms look like and imagine sucking him dry under his desk no matter how exposed they are. You think of him paying attention to his boring semi-important subjects, or trying to, but only being able to focus on your annoying tongue drifting his mind away. Is everything about sex? you ask yourself, was Oscar Wilde right? Imagining Jake biting his bottom lip and leaning backwards, you’d say it’s sex that is about everything, not the other way around. Sex is about abusing the environment, about the weather and medication and human language, about the sky and the ground, and of course about power as well, as Jake has the power to choke you to death and you have the strength to bite an organ off his body.

You wonder if Jake wants you to stop, and if he had a choice, it would hurt to hear him say no. You realize your daydreams are getting more frequent when you notice the sound he makes when he cums is repetitive. You need to learn more noises so you can fantasize more, about things not yet in your memory.

When he comes back you pull him to his bedroom and lean him against the wall, ordering him to stay put as you travel down his stomach. He grows hard in your mouth and you put your hand up on his chest, and he could hold them, he could push them down, do whatever he wanted, but you would keep them there. You take notice of the noises, every one of them, and each is harder to supervise than the last because you grow weak as a human and succumb to your sensations, as if you were normal like him. You don’t have to try hard to not look up at him, because you know the sight of the top of your eyelids makes you look angelic and erotic, and Jake deserves your best angles. You want his sight to be of you, and wait for him to pull your head to stare back. You bet he can feel your moans as much as you can taste his laughs. And your lap is screaming at you but you’re used to focusing. And you swear hearing Jake blurt out “fuck” is less exciting than any other word he could say, but his orotund voice is beautiful anyway. You are grateful for having ears.

Chapter Text

Waking up next to him is nice. He trusts you with his unconscious body as you trust him, and he doesn’t mind when you stare, or when he opens his eyes and you’ve been staring. He stares back.

You've been awake for hours. Your bladder is punching you by now, begging you to just get up and leave him behind for what could be only thirty seconds. Even you admit you’re being dramatic, which doesn’t happen a lot. Eventually you give in. But it’s still not normal because you think about his hand when you hold yourself.

He says it feels like you’ve known each other forever, but you’ve been counting the days. You come back to bed to find the most beautiful man you have ever seen, and that is not normal, it feels new to you. Jake sleeps peacefully with his mouth open and his hands resting on his chest. You think about kissing his head, but for the first time, you feel scared. You don’t want him to wake up yet, and you want him to enjoy the peace you know he deserves. In that, you end up falling asleep again.

When Jake wakes up before you he only moves his eyes so as not to disturb you. He starts to understand the rules.

You sleep, and sleep, and say his name while unconscious, in the way only a psycho lovelorn would understand. In your dreams he looks beautiful still, but when you see him at awaking he looks perfect instead.

“Hey,” he says, slightly extending his “e”. You fall silently against the hand he takes to your face; his right, the hand he uses to touch you the most. And “hey,” you say back. He grins hugely.

“I’ve been thinking,” he begins. You stare right into his eyes that are too dark green to be true; emerald, you would say. His hand changes sides and caresses your cheekbone.

He becomes silent, only smiling. You move your head to order him to continue, but he only laughs. You laugh along.

“I thought you would make a sarcastic joke about that. Like ‘oh, you’ve been thinking?’”

“No,” you start chuckling. “Sorry, no. Just woke up. No time for sarcasm”.

“I never thought I’d hear you say that. Anyway, I’ve been thinking.”

He talks like he knows you, how you work. Like it wasn’t just understanding the rules, or some of them, but actually knowing how your brain functions, like he’s actually known you forever. You still count the days, not doubting your math.

“Should we do something? Like, plan something for us to do, together. Maybe go somewhere, I don’t know, make plans.”

He stares while you try to delete the dirtiest thoughts out of your mind. You have plans already, you are to wait for twelve different nights until he allows you to kiss his entire body. The perfect calculation was already in motion.

“What do you like to do? Do you like movies?”

“In a normal way, yes,” you lie. He nods. “Do you like concerts?”

“In an abnormal way, not really”. He pauses slightly. “Even been to a modeling event?”

You’re surprised at the suggestion, but you’ll accept going to one if Jake will be the model on the runway. “No. Do you want to take me to one?”

“They do some presentations at the Arts building. I could take you. I’ve been… No, I’ve never been. But I’ve almost been a couple of times”.

“Why do you know about the Arts building?” you ask while he yawns. “Aren’t you an Accounting student?”

“Yeah,” he hums. “And you’re a Spanish teacher. But you were at the Business building when we met, weren’t you?”

“Maybe I was there just to see you,” which is the truth.

You remember seeing him for the first time, immediately imagining a little girl of less than five years of age. Green eyes like Jake and blond hair like you, the impossible combination of you and the stranger you craved to know. You immediately saw his hands and that they were as handsome as his face, and then you heard him speak. And he had you at the voiceless glottal fricative. Your imaginary daughter committed the crime of velar assimilation.

He laughs, “maybe,” possibly considering it a joke. “Your sarcasm is back,” you can imagine him saying. “But I’m multifaceted. I have a lot of interests”.

“I don’t think you’re using that word right.”

“Well-versed.  Is that right? I mean… I’m versatile.”

You can’t help but laugh, and he laughs along you and closes his eyes for an instant. You believe he is at peace again, like he is sleeping longer.

“Yes. I’d love to go with you”.

“Great. What should we wear?”

“You should wear a vest.”

“A vest?”

“Yeah, a vest,” you confirm. “I like your arms.”

“Okay, a vest…” He nods. “You should wear a white button-up shirt. I don’t know. Sort of like, a prince”.

“Do I look like a prince?”

“You act like one. And you would look great in a black crown. Holding a cane, sitting on a red throne. Ruling over something.”

“Ordering you around…”

“Wearing those crazy tight shoes… Wearing makeup.”

“What do you think of lip gloss?”

“Men in lip gloss?” he pauses to think. He seems to consider it like he had never before. “I’ll admit that I don’t know what to think. You have good lips, so you don’t need it.”

You have good lips. You know that. You look at his and then back at his eyes.

“You don’t think they’d look better if they were glossy?”

“Glossy? Not really. Maybe just wet. I like your lips when they’re wet. That’s good enough”.

“Wet with your saliva?”

“That too,” he scooches closer to you making a mess of the pillow you share. “Let’s go to the modeling thing, then. We can play a game of how long I can go without thinking about last night”.

“I’ll try not to force you to remember”.

You think about all of it in great detail. Him saying “the things I want to do to your mouth” as you beat your personal record. His fingers pushing your head gently, his lewd sounds but innocent “good night, Dirk”. If waking up next to him is nice, falling asleep with him is great. You’re exhausted, your aggressive submission tiring the hell out of you both. And he takes his hand to your face as he would do again in the morning, and he says again:

“Good night, Dirk”.

You don’t know what is wrong with you. You don’t understand why every attractive person must bury their fingers in your mouth and hold you by the left cheek, or even the first time you did it to yourself. It’s impossible to remember the first time you felt your pants get wet by no touch just for letting your tongue lead. You had to take breaks due to frustratingly picturing, and imagining, and thinking over and over, even in class. But when he takes his hand away and pulls you in by the waist, you close your eyes and just sleep. Your noses are touching and you are deeply in love.

“I wish I could cut off your tongue and keep it to myself”.

You almost say “you can, you can…” but you are far too asleep by then.

You dream about alarm clocks and morphology classes before he shows up. In the present, Jake’s hair curls up when it’s wet. He gets dressed straight after his shower and is quickly ready and takes you by the shoulder. You look down at your clothes and at his dog, understanding where all that hair on Jake’s is coming from. He hugs it goodbye proving he really doesn’t mind and you follow him and count your footsteps. He does one, two, and you do three, four, and your proximity in height makes it perfect to walk and perfect to look in his eyes.

You turn to him while on the streets. He wonders.

“I knew you’d look just like a prince dressed like that”.

You don’t look, or care at all, about your white button-up shirt. You keep staring in his eyes. Definitely emerald.

“Has the game already started? The one where you can’t think about last night?”

“Well, I’m trying really hard not to, so, I guess?” He catches your smile and imitates it, looking at the bottom of your neck. “Did you know you have bruises right now?”

“The magic of your strong arms.” Jake giggles, seemingly appreciating the compliment you don’t have to try hard to give to him. He looks forward again, and you keep doing one, two, three, four, and he frowns when the sun hits his face.

“I like it when you touch my arms. If it’s to pull me toward you, or away, whatever. It’s nice either way”.

“I like it when you point out those things.” He raises his eyebrow. “I want you to tell me everything you like about me. In disgusting detail. All of the time”.

“Oh, okay then,” he chuckles. “I like it when you… place your hands on the top of your head…”

“Uh-huh. What else?”

“I like it when you smile… when I push myself inside you”.

“And you’re trying not to think about last night? There are people around, English…”

“The sounds you make when I think I’m hurting you… Like when I pushed your neck and made those bruises. It’s clear you were not in pain. At least… not pain that you dislike”.

“Tell me more”.

“I like it when you hum on my skin. God, it’s like you want to moan but you hold yourself back.” He turns to you for a second, lowering his voice. “It’s really hot and I need to stop talking about it because my pants are getting tight”.

“No, no, don’t stop… I mean, you’re being quite disrespectful to the church we’re passing by just now, but it’s fine”.

Jake’s eyes widened. He looks around and suppresses a laugh. “I’m sorry, Jesus Christ”.

“God, I want to swallow you whole”.

“If that was possible I’d be in danger…” he starts looking straight ahead again. “You would actually do it. Wouldn’t you?”

“Of course! Who do you take me for?” And you dabble in your laughter for a moment while you cross the street, then turn back to each other. “But I’m the one in actual danger. Cutting off my tongue is entirely possible”.

He nods, a gorgeous blinky smile. “Nice to know that you heard that”.

“Great words to hear just before falling unconscious by your side.” Jake can’t stop grinning. You capture his eyes straight-on. “Did you mean it? Would you actually do it?”

“Oh, yes,” he spoke low again. “But I’d miss the rest of your face. Your eyes… Your nose…”

“Oh. Yeah, that would all go to waste…”

“Can I cut off your head instead? Is that fine by you?”

You don’t resist your smile. “My head, okay. And what would you do with the rest of me?”

“Ah, I could find a use for it”.

It was hard to tell if he was joking. Either way, it made your pants tight too.

Chapter Text

It’s not like you can know exactly what got you in this position. Literally anything could have taken you there, you and Jake are like animals, you can’t look at each other without jumping at each other’s necks. This is the first time he’s not facing you, and the softness of dropping your head against his pillow is now the hardness of the wall against your nose and cheek, pressing your lips into a pout and holding in the moans you would love not to suppress.

Jake’s hand rubs your nape, and he always comes closer when he wants to say something, because the bathroom is narrow, tight, and has thin walls. He breathes out more than he whispers, and you obey everything he says. Arch your back slightly more, put your arms up, all of that.

He makes an interesting motion with his tongue, sliding it up against your neck in a line, like he is tying a knot around it. You are sensitive on your right side, and he knows that. He also learned that you like it when he’s holding your hair and he pulls your head back sometimes. Sometimes he even kisses you, but others he doesn’t.

You’re focused on a lot at the same time. His hands on you, his dick inside you, his hair itching on your skin, water running in the background and possible eventual feet that might appear under the door. The music of the show playing outside, a show which you are one pound away from forgetting is even about modeling.

Jake pushes forward. You hold back your sounds. You admit you’re not the best at multitasking but you’re better at not making noise than he is. You check under the door once more but he hums on your skin, and it’s hard to focus on anything apart from his pleasure.

The next time he pulls your head, you smile. Your eyes are closed but rolling back as you ask yourself if you’ll ever get tired of being fucked by beautiful men. Jake forces them open and you catch a glimpse of his green orbs as his lips tremble without touch. With a lean forward to kiss him, you know it’s not all beautiful men anymore, it’s only Jake. Jake and his perfect body, his perfect face, eyes, hair, the most perfect lips and the fingers you’ve swallowed the deepest. His perfect cock that you gained through risking his beauty, every lewd centimeter of him that you only earned because you asked, because he was good to you, because he thought you deserved it or just that you were pretty and smart.

He pounds you like you deserve it. He whispers not only that you are the prettiest man he has ever seen, the guy under him who is most capable of quoting age-old philosophers and phonetically transcribing even his most discreet groans. He also mentions that you feel good, great, amazing, that he couldn’t imagine fucking a better boy. You remember him saying he wouldn’t stop even if you asked him to, and you could cum just by picturing those words again. You could tattoo them on your body. Maybe just the spectrogram, so people would think it’s just another soundwave, while it is your contract with Jake.

“What would I do without you?” He is still pulling your hair when he says it, and you could ask him the same thing. “I want to spell my name inside of you”.

Having his name forever trapped in you sounded okay. “I love your name,” you say, in the most stupid voice with the pathetic bit of charisma you still have when you’re enjoying yourself. Jake nibbles on your ear and exhales, an “ah” again.

“I wish it was all you were able to say. ‘Jake’, ‘Jake’, ‘Jake’, all day, over and over. No other words”.

If he could read your thoughts he’d know that was already the case in some way or another. “Hrm… Jake. Jake, Jake”.

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “God, Dirk. You have the most beautiful voice… You make the sweetest sounds.”

“Please don’t stop.”

His chin rests on your shoulder. “Fuck, I won’t. But part of me wants to. I wanna pull out and make you suffer from being empty…” You furrow your eyebrows groaning. “I want to make you beg, even more than you already are”.

“P-lease. Don’t do that.”

“Yeah?”

“No. No, please.”

He leans back, but doesn’t pull out because he notices you wimp just from his chin getting off your shoulder.

“Ugh, I feel fancy. At a fancy place. Fucking my fancy guy.”

It’s like Jake has a different personality now, and you feel him pulsing inside of you. Your cheeks are even redder now that you are being pushed against the wall, your wide mouth trying to learn to breathe all over again, Jake’s hand on your nape and your attempt to balance whether he would decapitate you or make you cum all over that fancy floor. That position makes you not seem so fancy, or smart, or anything other than just pretty. At least there are some complicated words accompanying the disgustingly obscene thoughts in your mind. You still have your shirt on, even if it is more wrinkled than any prince would allow his clothes to be.

Above all disordered thinking you still have your fingers, which keep calling to you. And if Jake wants you to lose your head, you’ll need them in your mouth so you can show him how much prettier you can be.

Jake is not as aggressive as he could be, so he softens his grip to watch you place a single digit on your tongue, dragging it down with the saliva he’d draining you of. You want to taste his soft laughter and borrow his, but with your position only he can decide that. You try to see what his mouth looks like from the partial view of the prettiest side of your face, is he smiling as he chuckles? Is he touching his lips at all, or can he not close his mouth yet and is silently whining with enjoyment and ardor? Where does he place his tongue when he rests it, and is he resting right now? Does he want to use it to fuck the insides of your mouth as well?

Even if he wanted to pull that pointless stunt, he could not stop himself now. Jake starts pounding you like he hadn’t yet before. He weakens his hand and forces his hips to an extent that makes you ache more than you have, and finds a position that makes you whine more than you should. The music and the feet under the door and even your fingers don’t deserve focus anymore because the pulsing grows harder, and the sides of your legs threaten to give up, and everything feels so good that pain doesn’t even sound like a real word. You build up quicker than you’re used to, neither of you even considering being quiet, and with a shiver you stain the wall like you knew you would, while Jake doesn’t start to slow down, only when he is finished.

And you would wait hours until he was done. For Jake, you would do anything, for however long he wanted it, until he decided he was finished filling you up. But for your legs’ delight, he catches you to rest, and you don’t have to force yourself to more just yet. You don’t turn around or ask him to pull out of you, you just try not to pass out on his gentle hand while he makes his final noises that are not even your name.

You would have him inside forever, or at least forever available to be inside of you. You wish you could control what he does and doesn’t. Guide what his hands do and how often he comes straight in your throat. Pull the strings of his domination of you, the balance of perfection and restraint that you conflictingly have desired all along. Make him silent when he should and say your name when he doesn’t want to, the brown of his humid curls turning black under your command.

Jake turns you around, and it’s like he can read your thoughts, but you know that’s not true. He matches his heavy breathing to yours, pulling out when you don’t even notice it, and you just stare.

He takes a while to speak. His grossly green eyes wander around your face and you swear he has never looked so far away while still being up-close. He smiles lightly, still not closing his mouth.

“You look so fucking hot when you’re aching to use your mouth."

You whimper pathetically as you feel a second orgasm blowing your mind and brain. Jake chuckles and looks down at your shame as you can only stare at him with the reddest skin and the biggest relief any human could be allowed to feel.

Chapter Text

He now understands you a lot better. He understands you better than you were expecting he (or anyone) would. When he talks, or when he watches as you do, it sounds like genuine comprehension, one usually hard to find in men that beautiful. You consider starting to sit on his left side instead of the right and to show your face all the time, but before you can consider breaking the rules, he does first. Or at least changing them. Now, because he understands, he starts to disobey.

Where he used to be careful with his movements, he starts to tease away. He understands you need time to read, yet he distracts you by making you stay in bed. He notices you’re good with dates, so he invites you over every day just so you two will be the only thing in each other’s calendars. He changes the position of your cutlery on the table, plays with your pencils while you’re writing, all while smiling in the beautiful way you are definitely, without any doubt at all, falling madly in love with.

You love his disorder. You hate mess, but you love him. You would love him even if he were disgusting, offer him a piece of gum if he vomited over you, forgive him if he drowned you or whatever metaphors you were getting far too busy to come up with. You are enamored by the way he doesn’t seem to stress about a single thing, how his mind is not taken up by anything other than you and your own mind, and you know you did it, made him obsessed with you. You know obsession and you know him, and now after twenty-four nights spent together, you are absolutely sure he is your entire life. You skip class to masturbate to the thought of him. And you are the teacher.

He says your name an average of 32.8 times a day now, with a +28% in comparison to the previous week. He doesn’t count how many times you say his, because that is not how his obsession works. You learn Jake is determined. He is optimistic and powerful, and an airhead but knowledgeable in his area. He could never keep up with sociolinguistics statistics but he is good with the numbers related to money and taxes. You don’t understand his homework, and he can’t read the languages of yours, and it seems like a good exchange when you practice your Portuguese while he undresses you with a smile, and when he doesn’t practice anything when you blow him because he is too busy with how you make him feel, just by doing three movements, tasting him away, performing your most primitive task with your tongue that was created to pleasure men.

You believe your tongue was trained for the purpose of being pressed against. Especially when it was Jake, for being made to taste anything, to suck all of his fingers, his neck, anything phallic he desired to shove inside of you, literally any object that could fit in that beautiful mouth of yours. You still don’t remember the first time but believe you were always meant to gasp, to swallow, to never choke and to dedicate your kisses to those who deserved it. Born to keep your arms on your side as both your holes are filled, closing your eyes and embracing the touch, the joy of penetration, the privilege to rub against someone who knows you deserve to come all over yourself. Made to study linguistics and lust, the sciences of the tongue.

That rule, and that belief, Jake never disobeys.

His obsession is very respectful of yours. He asks about William Labov, pronounces Saussure in a way you’d never heard. He reads the lists you could make in your sleep and when he doesn’t comment about them, or look at you for an explanation, he lets out a small chuckle, caressing the paper, moving his eyes one more time over the paint, and turns back to what he was doing before.

There is now nearness in what you dreamed of him and what he does to you. He views himself in a close set to your Linguistics, perhaps the study as a whole number and himself as an integer; fields in your mind and now in your heart, as the boyfriend that knows more than he could ever dream to know, who thinks too much and gets easier to read with time. The handsome boyfriend who doesn’t know his family, or his friends, or teachers, or anyone other than his dog, but who had watched him sleep enough times to memorize his breathing pattern. The guy who, let’s not lie, is plagued by him, as clearly as day, as obvious as the fact that he is a tall tan-skinned man with green eyes. Jake now views you as the obsessive, compulsive mess you are, who can come in your pants just by being kissed, whose hands tremble in class, as you are a disrespect to the hundreds of students listening to you, because deep down you can only think about him.

He views your ways, he gets how you work, notices your silent counting of his dog’s food. He realizes you are picking at the scabs in his fur, not in order to hurt him but because your hand can’t stop. He can’t see your thoughts and you don’t mention them much, so he doesn’t view the part where you study that behavior and try to convince yourself you don’t hate that dog, that you don’t despise him for spending more time around Jake than you ever would, that you think that’s what others would believe if you were watched all day. That you think “it’s just a distraction” as to clarify to the audience in your brain that you are not in the wrong, that it is not on purpose. That you don’t want to pick the dog’s eyeballs out.

Jake’s disobedience reaches a high when he surprises you one day. Despite not being able to read your mind, you think he did it to punish you, a surprise, for God’s sake. You hear your phone ring and were too fast asleep when it started that you immediately feel uncomfortable. You pick up because it’s him, and you disguise your voice and instantly get up but the façade doesn’t work because he enters your bedroom with the phone against his ear and a long grin.

You are accustomed to acting perfect so you calculate your steps toward him, choosing the best position to kiss him in as to make him see as little as possible of the room. You know what he can see from his perspective, and think over and over what could be on display and how it could affect him, if there were any towels or shirts that don’t match what he sees you wear, and if something you would think to set up to impress him has not yet been thought of, because you were unlucky enough to receive the punishment of a surprise. Your clothes are not fit for him, your bed could be stained and there could be a human body around, even if the chances are literally zero.

You make him stare into your eyes, but they are also not prepared. They could be dirty. They could be tired. They could be bloody, or worse, not as attractive as his own. Your hands are tight on his nape so he will only look at your imperfect face, and he keeps grinning and respects by not pulling away. You kiss him again. Your breath is the least of your concerns.

He grins against your mouth and you’re smart enough to know he thinks it is funny. Your fear is hilarious, too unusual to ignore. And while most people would ask how he ended up inside your house, you consider the fault to be yours, never asking or wondering and instead recounting what the weather was like yesterday and how that affected the door to your living room.

Jake kisses you back at least, and he tastes as prepared as you feel he is. You want him to go down this time, and so you push his face toward your neck and shoulders, and when he easily submits and closes his eyes you quickly take a final look around.

You’re more used to his house so it is strange to be laid back on your own bed, where you’ve been sleeping by yourself forever and ever, with the rapid movement of the legs and no way to pick scabs off fur. Jake obviously doesn’t know the layout of your bedroom so he has to open his eyes, and you dread it but stare only at his face while he walks you over with backward steps. When you’re already lying down he shuts his eyes again, allowing his eyelashes to rub against yours, his nose scraping your skin as he goes down further again, meeting with your chest, hands on your side, knuckles touching the sheets.

Your knees jerk onto his thighs but he pushed them away, straightening your legs over the bed, taking his crotch to yours as he pressed down almost sitting on your lap. 

You want to pause for a minute. Take in his body, his face, the way his eyes barely darken when he takes off his glasses, but he won’t let you rest. Jake keeps pushing, kissing you until he clearly can’t breathe, and you keep allowing him to. He mistakes your desperations and you have to enjoy the few milliseconds you get to stare into him. He kisses, and he looks, and he kisses, and he looks, and when it starts to become repetitive he pulls off his shirt.

“On my way here, I checked your timetable to make sure you were free today”. He stresses the wrong syllables when he talks, and he does it to make you laugh. He comes down to kiss your jaw as you smile.

“And when you saw that I wasn’t…?”

“Oh, you aren’t?” Jake kids, and it’s interesting being so into his humor that you barely notice his tongue tracing your neck. “I thought that ‘French Meeting’ just meant ‘French Kissing Jake’”.

Your belly trembles. “You’re a tease, English.” He enjoys your smiley voice by the looks of it, and he’s smiling too when he comes back up, looking again. “Maybe you should meet up with Lambert instead. Pick my schedule, how much work I do. Since he thinks I do too little”.

“Did he say that?”

“Ah, he didn’t straight up say it, but I know it”. Since Jake is distracted you take his hand to your face. He strokes it there and comes back down to kiss. “The way he reads my notes, he barely cares. I haven’t been working for him for long. He- hasn’t- yet- learned- that I’m good”.

“Oh, and so good”. Jake leaves your mouth and goes back down to your jaw. This time, he carefully takes his right hand down your chest and keeps his left up. “He’ll learn soon. If he doesn’t, then I’ll meet with him, sure.” /ʃɔːr/, he says. “Convince him you’re the smartest and best teacher that’s ever lived. Show him all the French you’ve taught me”.

“Are you saying you’re gonna make out with my boss?”

“Stop making me laugh while I’m trying to fuck you, Dirk”. It takes only half a movement and his silly sentences for you to feel his hand on your crotch, holding you still while you jerk your knees up again, this time waiting for him to rub against you. You feel vindicated when he does, and he licks his lips because he knows what to do. It is over, he had learned all the rules. Jake holds you by the neck to push you back down, and you obey because you want to. He starts to play with the buttons of your shorts and for once you’re glad you didn’t plan your outfit.

Not so extremely innocent, he pulls the fabric down and is met with the hardest part of you and only smiles at it. He’s proud of it, of himself, of his tongue or whatever. You just take one last look around, accepting that Jake definitely doesn’t care about how messy or dirty your room looks. All he wants is you.

He’s laughing and talking and following patterns because he wants to. And he has never been in that bedroom yet feels comfortable enough that he’s not wearing shoes, nor a shirt, and now, he takes his own pants off and sits on you in only his underwear. And you twitch, and wonder if he can feel it against him.

“You look lovely, my heart,” he calls. “You look pure. With your frowned face and eyebrows, and that soft shirt covering you up. You can almost pass off as pure”.

“You’re so…” you can’t even finish the sentence. The way he slowly massages you is too disruptive. You can only whisper “please…”

“Stop begging,” he says. You close your eyes as you twitch more and more, wearing that frown Jake’s talking about just now. You’re both red. And now that he’s touching you, both panting.

“I’m sorry”.

“Nothing to be sorry about, heart,” he repeats. “Tell me something smart. Anything. So I know you’re still with me”.

“Hmm… Did you know form is content?”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, in Literature… there’s no separation between form and content, form being the way a text is structured. You… You could say that form is the visible part of content, meaning that every- thing structural, including the words used, the format chosen by the author, the punctuation, is part of the… ah God. The meaning of the text.”

“Sure,” Jake nods, and he slowly dives down to peck at your lips once more, either rewarding you or wishing to increase the pressure on your lap. “That, actually, is very interesting”.

You grin with your eyes still closed. You’d tell Jake more facts about Literature, especially if it meant he would squeeze his hand around you the more that you did.

“Are you trying to torture me?” you ask. Not because you’re courageous or desperate, but just because you are curious. “I just need to know,” you tell.

“No, of course not. Why? How are you doing?” He giggles, breaking character, showing the guy he was at the start, before he got to move his hand unbearably slowly against you. You look at him through your shut eyelashes, and he can guess how you are doing. “You’re behaving perfectly. As always. I don’t see how this is torture. I’m just making it long, good for you”.

You wonder how long. How terribly long. Probably as long as he wants to, you think, or as long as he can stand.

Your eyes shut again, with a smile. You take a while to respond.

“It is good”.

“Yeah?” That was a hot way to say that, and it’s like he wanted you to repeat it.

“Yeaah,” you say. It is also hot, but his was better. He respects the one-syllable status of the word you share. And he looks down, and probably feels that his pronunciation affects you.

His hands are better than yours as well, and he straddles your lap almost better than you straddle his. Your dick trembles between his fingers, because you push up, and your “please” is so low but he hears it anyway. “Stop begging. I’ll take my time. Unless you start crying”.

You know it’s a joke, but you consider it. You consider the idea, the memories, of it hurting so bad that tears start to form. Your face blushing so hot that you can only look down, helpless under him and sobbing through pleasure. You know it’s a joke only because crying has never helped before. It has never made him give you what you want, and it was never supposed to.

You enjoy that too, more than you should. Looking up at him as he destroyed your insides (or this time, punished you), even if your mouth was empty. His hand speeds up slightly. The tip of his thumb travels up. He parts his lips. “I’m gonna cum like this,” you struggle to get out. “I’m…” you push your hips up, “almost… done…”

“No, Dirk. You’re gonna come how I tell you to come. Have you forgotten what I’m here for? In your life?”

And he frowns. He frowns as if he’s cute. He frowns as if he’s not the most filthy, obscenely pornographic and vulgar sight in the continent.

“You’re only gonna come,” he pauses, and his hand suddenly stops, and he squeezes and this time there is no denying it is torture. “Inside of me”.

You lean up as a reaction both to his movement and to the thoughts. You haven’t been inside Jake yet, and that idea makes you hurt all over the place, makes you crave, makes you salivate, ache for a moment in solitude so you can think it over, and it makes you wanna beg out loud “thank you, thank you, thank you”, but he wouldn’t allow you to be so ridiculous.

Jake isn’t scared, nor is he laughing and he both looks pure and disgusting. He lets go of you and pulls your hair back, making you hit the bed with a sound. “Sorry,” you whisper, and you choke, and then force a smile.

He isn’t annoyed, nor is he angry and he doesn’t mind your apologies. He takes his eyes off you and looks down at himself, palming at his cock over his really distracting underwear that you’re sure you’ve seen on him before. You hurt without touch, and wonder how he’s gone so long without it, and that is suddenly all you can think about. You watch Jake’s face, and you watch his hands, and he starts to put on a show.

You have been teased before but nothing is as painful as keeping your hands back as you watch him, more beautiful than anyone else, stronger but slimmer and tanner than any other you’ve seen, with a body as handsomely toned, bringing himself to ecstasy. He uses both his hands. One is leading the performance, sliding up and down, front and back, rubbing his dick with a rhythm not easy to memorize. Behind annoying green fabric and occasionally overcast by the look on Jake’s face, green eyes shut, trembly, and lips occasionally forming shapes, sounds escaping. The other travels through the rest of him, in front of his chest, around his stomach and sometimes his navel, dragging your eyes everywhere, anywhere.

You wonder if he has a plan. You wonder if there is a pattern to where his left hand guides your sight. If there isn’t, then one suddenly comes to his mind, because with a full pump around himself, Jake takes his wandering hand near his face, firstly caressing his jaw, moving at his stubble, pressing against his cheeks, and then finally, penetrating his mouth.

You dare push your face up again, quickly reverting back, and now it is impossible to stay still. You take your left hand to yourself, working up and down, not so fast as to not disobey, but not as slow because you are physically incapable of that. Jake does not open his eyes, nor does he react, but he knows. You can tell he knows. You can tell he feels you, because how could he not? You can tell he understands, more than completely now, exactly what he has to do, and both his hands start working faster.

Both sides are arousing. Both regions could make you explode if you were only thinking about them while by yourself, both of his movements could take you to the edge embarrassingly fast. The way he jerks himself is now casual and you are used to it, but he has never fingered his lips like that, and that is probably what you favor most.

You are saying something, but not even you can hear it. You’re sure Jake can’t either, as he only keeps going, growing faster and more smutty the more he leans into his own touch. His shoulders stay perfectly still and his forearms change speed and his cheeks become a pinkish shade before he squirms, opening his eyes again but never making himself stop. You know the rules are different for him because he keeps going, and he makes indecent noises and you know exactly what he looks like when he cums.

You wonder if it’s better this time, if it’s the best he has had, if that finger in his mouth has changed, awakened, anything inside of him. Jake’s body trembles on top of yours, and when he falls forward, you almost plead again. But he is quick to take your hand away from yourself, causing all the pain again, but placing your arms up behind your head and kissing you more. Kissing more, deeper and harder than before. The mouth he just fucked, you ruminate. And when he pulls back again that mouth shows the longest, most torturous and unbelievable smile. That man is a tease.

“I- I don- I d- Jake, I- I’m-”

“Less smart by the minute,” he yelps. Jake’s breath still twitches but he’s careful to gather enough air before each sentence and is able to sound more normal than you. “Let’s see if that brain still works by the time we’re done. You’re still with me, right, Dirk?”

You want to cry, it is an information overload. The way your name’s pronounced, the decrease in charisma and charm, his desire to turn off your brain. The consequences of crying come to your head again, and that also adds to the overwhelmingness. His left hand coming up to instill your arms together, and the sudden slap on the side of your face.

It burns, but you can’t process it. “You’re still with me, Dirk?” he repeats, and God, if you weren’t before then now you are. You nod rapidly, your cock shudders and you want him to notice it. Jake accepts your silent response, and he looks back down at where you two meet, with his large emerald eyes.

He cannot wait. He only looks at you for a short second before grabbing hold of you and swallowing you inside. You gasp as you enter him, no preparation or expectation, and he smiles wide like he doesn’t need it and never has. Now he can definitely feel your spasms, and you are pulsating so strong that Jake has to slap you again to make you get a hold of yourself. You keep your face to the side now. He slapped your pretty side and you don’t mind letting him look at it, and you’re sure if you stare at him for that same short second you will burst.

“Fuuuuck,” he cries, like you have never seen him do before, and you are not prepared for those phonemes or the way he rocks his hips while he speaks. He guides you and needs no hands to help him, and sometimes he pushes your chest to keep himself straight.

Wherever Jake touches, you touch back so you can try to hold his hands for as long as possible. It’s easier to hold back when you are distracted with pressure, and he comprehends. Jake chuckles more than once at your choice of movements, and he knows, he feels it, and you are not one to let him down, so you’ll do whatever it takes.

You look in his eyes, and he into yours. His eyelashes are wet, you are stretching him. Yet none of you mind, yet he feels good. His chest goes up and down, and he is fully hard again, nothing in the world that could convince you to cum before he does, to ruin the fun he is so clearly having. Your waist moves up by itself, and your hair is wet, so wet, and the whole house smells like sex and Literature class. You notice Jake has short curls, and they fall on top of his eyelids, and you gulp. You breathe in, you cannot burst. And Jake English leans down and you can swear he just said words in Dutch, but it was simple English for “feels… so good”. You breathe again and “you fit perfectly inside”.

Jake pulls you up so you have to lean on your elbows, and that makes things worse, as your crotches touch without a space in between. He places both his hands on your shoulders, and he pants boldly. You somehow understand he is asking you to jerk him off, and you do so without complaints.

This is the first time looking at his face feels this intimate.

“Fuck… H-Hey. Do me a favor, heart?” You nod, and nod, and nod, and wait. “Come inside of me. Whenever you want. Whenever you need to”.

He doesn’t have to ask twice. With your hand working on his cock, you go back to focusing, you look everywhere, see everything, take in the whole scene, and can feel your body crashing apart. You feel Jake’s body speeding up, the warmth inside of him growing hotter, pulling you in deeper. You see him grab the collar of your shirt and know what is about to happen. You want to only sigh but you end up moaning instead. And you take your remaining hand to his mouth, more than one finger, as many as you want, and you come undone while Jake sucks you off.

It hadn’t felt that way in a while, it hadn’t felt so agonizing and the payoff hadn’t been so exhausting in longer than you can remember. Jake allows you to fall backwards as you cum inside of him. You hit your head perfectly on your pillow and make noises you don’t care about, and there is a certain pride in having done what he told you to. Jake bites his lip. He misses your fingers, he misses your chest against his, but your heat inside of him is enough to take him over the edge. You see him lean his head backward from across your dimming eyelashes, and he says it so low but you hear him anyway, the few phonemes of your name. Slow and steady. Breathy and unlike anything else. It doesn’t alarm you as much as you expected it would. You have been waiting for this, and now, it is complete.

Despite your jealousy, you appreciate his past experience, and Jake appreciates that you know what to do. He appreciates that you stay still until you’re sucked dry. That you help him finish, with quick and stable movements. He kisses you the longest this time, and you are both too worn out to do anything other than stand there, pressing against each other. The warmth in both of your faces lit up the room.

There’s something special in his emerald eyes when you pull apart. His pupils shrink and he smiles with a twitch of his lips.

“I didn’t mean to slap you so hard. I was out of it”.

You shudder. There is no apology, it is just a statement. You look him up and down. You see his smile grow.

“It was hot. For the lack of a better word”.

“Of course it was. You love things like that”.

You can’t think of a response quick enough. Jake continues, with his sight upon your heaving chest.

“You arched your back when I did it. Both times. On the second, you also rolled your eyes”.

“I… did?” The genuine interrogative tone sets him apart. He noticed something you didn’t. “God, I really have been losing myself lately”.

You don’t say that second part out loud, so Jake only nods in response. He leans down as slow as he can, kissing you gently again now that you can breathe better. “I’ll start doing it more. Not as hard, of course”.

You’re still confused, your eyes glimmer up at him. The surprise and the shifting in attitude. “You… can… do it hard…”

Jake only chuckles, and that is embarrassing. “Speaking of hard,” he starts, lifting his body up and making you sigh at leaving his body. “God, turns out you feel good in every way. And what an obedient guy, you are. Obedient, smart, beautiful…”

“Hm…” He might not ever stop if you don’t interrupt, and any sound is good to fill up space. If he keeps going, you might explode. Jake lays down next to you, ignoring how sticky and unclean you both are, and pulls you in to hold him back. “You can have me however you want, Jake... Inside of you, on top of you, on my knees”. You continue. “Choked, slapped…”

“Dirk,” Jake calls. “I can’t wait to show you all the fantasies I have about you. All the scenes in my head, in my dreams, the things I think about when I should be working”.

“Does it… include all of that?”

“And so much more”.

“Please,” you beg one last time. He seems to not be bothered this time.

“Please is good.” He is perfect, he sounds perfect and he looks perfect too. “And now that I’m sure you are such a disciplined boyfriend…”

Boyfriend. The word is still foreign. “I can take anything. I can always obey”.

“Of course you can,” he snorts. “In any way, you have to. I have the mission to shut your head up, remember? And I won’t stop trying”.

“I don’t remember hearing about that mission?”

You can hear his smile even with your eyes closed. “Ah, you have way too many voices inside your head”. You agree with everything you have. But with his orotund voice, you start to fall asleep. “Want to make sure mine is the loudest one in there”. You kiss the tip of his index finger on your favorite of his hands.

Chapter Text

He is a part of your bedroom now, and you like him there.

He once surprised you and it came off as, if it was easy to summarize it into polarities, a negative. Now you embrace it, and the door is known to him, and when he shows up now, it’s only a pretense of spontaneity. There is nothing unexpected about the way he pushes inside the room, as you don’t look around anymore, because you can place everything, about your steps toward one of the four walls and his shoes being left at the door, only your imaginations that might be able to picture the familiarity as something differently-exciting.

You always joke that there is a password to enter and if he was smarter he could figure out that it was his name, or yours, but his tactic seems more interesting, and he kisses you. He then smiles proudly believing he’s bribing his way in, but it is actually the sound of your lips clashing together that grants him entrance.

He spills inside you deeper than he ever has, and you feel like you could cough out his gust, making him watch, perhaps choking and filling your lungs and falling to your death in your own safe room. Your body allows him around, and you only think about hitting the floor and breaking your nose in half, coming up tasting blood and begging Jake to stay despite your modified face. What happens in reality is a sweet kiss, another one, and then another, and his sweat on your nose, glimmering your cheeks.

It is sweeter than you are used to.

He asks if you know why you are like this, and you have to toy with the possibilities of what you could respond, of what he can possibly mean, and with the thought of his semen dripping out of you for the next hour. “Tasty?” you choose to say, and Jake laughs his shady laugh but nods. You pull up this time, and clash your lips until you fall back with a final gasp, Jake leaning over you because two hours straight can be tiring.

The next day you continue to extend his endurance, and this sight of him is forever ingrained in your mind. He’s on his knees and you’re standing flat, and you’re far against his throat, making sure to remember all the little sounds coming out of him, all the gasping and gulping and the laziest of phonemes out of reach from most uvulas not being pounded and palates sticky with precum.

From the outside it looks like you want to hurt him, and you are strong. But he has a history of this. His tonsils vibrate and you know he is doing that on purpose, because he has pleasured men before. You would let him take a bite off your leg if he asked nicely, and if it wasn’t already obvious, you are deeply attracted to him. His aquiline nose is rough at the tip and matches the strength of his jaw, and his lips are thick and look beautiful under soft lighting and covered in spit. His eyes and eyebrows deserve no more mention and there’s no way you can’t smile, knowing everyone else can see how beautiful he is. You think of how many men and women must picture Jake English on his knees for them and revel in the fact that only you have access to that. You think of how many men he has kneeled before and revel in the fact that only you matter to him.

Do his knees hurt, is his jaw tired, is it going to be hard for him to speak for the next hour? He stares up at you while you formulate each question rapidly, and his tears answer for him. You take your left hand to the base of his nape, slightly pulling him back, being more careful instead of gagging him, taking notes, writing down the pitch in your mental notebook. You are sweeter than you’re used to.

With a flip of his neck, he brings you to the edge. You can tell he’s not trying to hold back his excitement, you see it in the way he chokes on his feelings. The first times you slept together, he, as most people would, avoided bringing himself to tears, but now he doesn’t care. It seems to be the way things are, someone is a stranger and then they become the cock you are sucking at one in the afternoon. A bridge from when he learned your name to scraping his knees on your bright floors. Being the guy with the mysterious accent, the bare consonants and green eyes, to being yours, completely. There is no greater proof that he is yours than his tears, wetting his face but accompanied by a stupid smile. Pain is not on his mind.

There is a lot of /ɐ/, a similar amount of /æ/, and the rarer /ɑ/ and /ɶ/ that he throws in. You wonder how much of it is intentional, and how much noise you’re digging genuinely. He is not much of a thinker with someone inside his mouth.

Let’s say he ate you, he swallowed you whole. You already know half of him, and you know the texture of this tongue and how it feels everywhere, against every hair.

His tongue would obviously feel the same. Two months was enough to become fluent in his tongue, the tip, the border, the dorsal surface (two and a half inches wide), the dorsum taking you to the uvula, papillae and root and tonsils and gross saliva. His lips, God-beautiful lips, his hard top and bottom jaws, him using everything to kiss you, his teeth hitting yours and a laugh with an easy purge of air, muffled to your mouth, which swallows the air from his lungs. Alveoli is a stupid name, but if he said it against your mouth you’d feast that /ˌæl.viˈəʊ.laɪ/ (God, you want to break rules for him, but you can’t help your correct usage of phones!), his nose expelling air on top of yours, him on top of you, him inside of you and you inside his larynx, or trying to fit inside his trachea with the energy of taking you to the bronchi of his lungs. God, what beautiful lungs he must have.

Could it be? It’s not just in your head? A man like him, with his voice, his striking smile that far surpassed his laughter, gathering his belongings to climb inside and live in you forever. A man with the knowledge of numbers, the one who asked you if philology and philosophy are synonyms. A man who wants you despite your messy notebooks spread open on top of the table when he invades your bedroom without asking you first.

There were also his vocal chords, which you would do your best not to damage while you were in them. You could make them vibrate by asking him to say your name, feeling the passing of air as his glottis widened, widened, and maybe you made him extend his vowels so you could feel his breath come up against you. Wider.

His vocal cavity is already yours, but if he inhaled you whole you could explore his nasopharynx and know what happens in there when you make him laugh. And it is so easy to make him laugh, smile strikingly, as natural for him to be happy as it is for you to overuse leixa-pren. And you know you could make it better for him, if you were there, in his teeth, in his tongue, in his throat, in his lungs, in his brain and in his heart.

“Look at us, I said-” he speaks, not kind, not patient. Eyes on yours. “What do you like most about me? You like my chest? Look at it”. You do. Your eyes close and open and he is still there, sweaty and flushing down his stomach. “You think too much. Way too much”.

“Make me stop-” you attempt as you wake up, as you look, as you remember where you are, under Jake, around Jake, receiving Jake. “Use your cock to- Wash them off. Fuck the thoughts out of me”.

“Look at us”. And you do. It is hypnotizing. Your favorite position is looking up at him; his favorite position is pressing you down, telling you to take it like a man; you do like his chest, and his hands, but your favorite part of him is his eyes. He likes your insides and how warm you are. If only you could invite him in.