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Jean sits very still for a very long time, glaring at the sex toy sitting atop his blankets.
Stupid fucking fleshlight.
It taunts him. A black cylinder with clear silicone padding at one end, indicating a fake hole Jean is meant to stuff his cock into. Ridiculous.
He’s so hard it hurts.
Dammit, Laila. Damn her and her stupid toys. Damn her and her date-night with Cat, leaving Jean alone in the house. Damn her and the laughably large bottle of lube she gave him, as if he would ever use that much. Damn her and her suggestion to be loud.
The bulge in Jean’s sweats is distracting. Aching. Legs crossed, he shoves a palm over it in hopes of easing the tension. It doesn’t work.
“This is stupid,” he says to himself, because Laila said to feel free to. “This is a horrible idea.”
Heartbeat pounding across his body, Jean grumbles despite the fact that no one can hear him complain. It is so stupid—but he really, really wants release. He hates touching himself, but this is a barrier he may benefit from.
Jean picks up the toy.
He had already examined it thoroughly a few minutes ago. Hard plastic shell and soft, squishy interior. The way the silicone jiggles if he hits it hard enough, and the noise it makes during collision. The material catches on his calluses when he runs his fingertips over it.
Exasperated, Jean grabs the lube bottle, squirting clear liquid into the toy’s hole. “I am stooping to a new low,” he announces to no one.
Slowly, timidly, Jean hooks a thumb into his waistband and pulls the elastic down under his balls. The sight of himself hard is close to disturbing. The first toy Laila got him, he instantly gave back because it was far too small; he refused to even attempt sticking his cock in it—it looked tight enough to hurt. This toy is significantly wider to accommodate his girth (which Laila now knows about, much to Jean’s displeasure).
Jean leans back, propped up on his left hand with the toy in his right.
He takes a deep, deep breath, then carefully places the fake hole over the purple-red tip of his cock.
He chokes on the exhale.
“Shit,” he hisses. Jean pushes the toy further down, body melting at the wet hug of silicone.
Grooves and ridges and bumps line the inside. The drag twinges nerves from his tip to the soles of his feet, and Jean finds himself thrusting into it before he makes the choice to. A groan worms its way out of his throat. Jean is shocked he made noise at all.
The rim wraps around his base. Jean’s eyes roll back, body tingling.
Jean isn’t one for fantasizing. He isn’t one for masturbating at all, actually; but Cat pulled him aside a little before they left and said to picture whatever would make him feel the best, regardless of what it was.
Right now, Jean is trying so hard not to think about Jeremy.
He pulls the toy up only to push it back down. “Fuck,” he moans louder. It feels good to not be silent, like pressure releases from his chest.
Eyelids squeezing shut, Jean falls back against the pillows.
Jeremy. He has been looking so beautiful lately—longer hair, brighter smiles, disappearing into his head fewer and further between—he’s so gorgeous it’s hard to look at. Jean wants to play with his hair, wants to run his fingers through it until Jeremy is gooey and sleepy in his lap, wants to see him satisfied and worn.
Jean uses the toy to stroke faster. He cards his free hand through his curls, pretending he’s touching his partner instead.
He really shouldn’t be thinking of Jeremy. He shouldn’t disrespect him like this.
But…God. The other day at practice, Jeremy hadn’t toweled himself off fully after his shower. Water had streamed down the curves of his body like rain on marble sculptures, small droplets dancing across his Adam’s Apple and pecs and navel. Jean wanted to chase each drop with his tongue. He has never had a good experience with oral, but he thinks he may like it if it was with Jeremy. He’d be delicious, and Jean would savor it.
Thrusting up causes an obscene squelch when he bottoms out. Jean stops trying to breathe through his nose and settles for panting.
Pleasure lights up his nervous system. He becomes very aware of exactly how each cell connects and the way they conduct electricity. So much warmer than he was a few minutes ago, blush pounds atop his cheekbones. Occasional twitches make his thighs spasm, back arching off the bed.
Jean pictures Jeremy’s smile and how soft his lips always look. How would Jeremy react to them being bitten? Would he moan? High or low-pitched? Could Jean lick the sting away and kiss it better?
Mapping every place Jeremy likes to be touched would be a dream come true.
Jean untangles his fingers from his hair and moves them down to rub his chest, rough cotton on sensitive nipple. A shock shoots straight up his spine, new and addicting.
He wonders if Jeremy also enjoys having his chest played with. His pecs are large enough to be a handful, and Jean wants to know if there’s enough to spill out of his fingers.
“Jeremy—“ he croaks on accident.
But that accident feels so fucking good.
The purr rolling off his tongue, the sound of his own voice moaning his partner’s name like he has always wanted to—shivers wrack Jean’s body while fire swirls in his groin.
Jean stretches out and rolls onto his front. Toy shoved between his navel and the mattress, he holds it steady and ruts.
“Fuck, Jeremy,” Jean gasps. “Jeremy. Jeremy.”
Would Jeremy ever allow Jean to fuck him? It’s difficult to tell what role Jeremy plays during sex, and Jean refuses to think too deeply about him with other people, but Jean will take whatever he can get. Jeremy—beautiful, sweet, trustworthy Jeremy—would make it good no matter what; Jean has no doubts about that.
He pulls his shirt up above his collarbones, nipples dragging on the blankets. “Please…”
Jean buries himself as deep as possible in the fleshlight and grinds his hips. It’s a different form of stimulation, like TV static instead of lightening but just as lovely. Pleasure pools low in his stomach. His balls tense.
Jeremy’s thighs are muscled and strong, and probably look incredible when wrapped around another person. Jean wants them wrapped around his head. Soft skin and blond leg hair, tanned and toned and squishy.
“Please, Jeremy. It feels so good. I—I want it. Please, fuck, please,” Jean groans into his pillows. Something so illicit, so forbidden, makes his head swim. The release of getting to voice his lust is almost as orgasmic as the toy hugging his cock. Every admittance is a weight lifted off his shoulders.
Jean feels it building; pressure in his muscles and water in his skull. He hasn’t done this enough to be able to tell when he’s about to cum, but it’s imminent.
Each thrust melts his brain further. Subsequent moans shift into whines, and Jean didn’t know he could make that sound while feeling pleasure.
“Jeremy—“ his inhale hitches, and the waves finally wash over him.
Warm euphoria encompasses Jean as he cums, spilling deep into the toy.
It’s difficult to hear for a moment, and his eyes shoot far back into his head. Without his permission, his body spasms, hips rolling against the fleshlight until cum drips out the hole and onto his bedding.
Jean flops onto his back in an attempt to catch his breath. Gingerly, he pulls the toy off his throbbing cock, soaked in lube and spend. “Fuck.”
Now he understands how people get addicted to masturbation.
Jean feels sleepy and relaxed. Some unknown tension is absent now, evaporated away and drawn out with his sweat. Everything is sticky and messy, but it’s oddly satisfying—there’s comfort in the grossness of it.
Jean wipes the moisture from his forehead using his shirt hem and doesn’t bother to straighten it when it stays rucked up above his stomach.
He sets the fleshlight on his nightstand, arms weak.
…Well…
Maybe he can go for one more round.
———
Jean steps out of his bedroom an hour later with a hoarse voice and a toy filled with the remains of three orgasms.
Holding his fleshlight like an active bomb so as not to spill anything, he makes his way down the hall to the bathroom. Sweat stains the chest of his shirt, his pants are untied and loose around his hips, face ablaze with knees so weak he may fall over.
He reaches the door at the end of the hallway, right where it breaks out into the living room.
Jeremy is sitting on the couch, staring at the television.
The television is not on.
Jean flings the toy behind his back. He makes a valiant attempt at shuffling into the bathroom, but Jeremy turns and looks at him.
“Ah…Hello,” Jean croaks, voice utterly busted from moaning to himself.
“…Hey,” Jeremy replies. “I, uh, just got back. A few minutes ago.”
The red on his face indicates he’s lying. Jean may throw up.
“Oh,” Jean says dumbly.
“Yeah,” his partner murmurs, just as stupid. “I’ll just be…right here. Watching TV.”
“You may need to turn it on in order to do that.” No one ever accused Jean of being intelligent—he’d rather make a sarcastic comment than leave them both in peace.
Jeremy’s face ignites an even deeper color. “Yeah. I’ll do that.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
Jean grips his toy so hard the plastic creaks. He side-steps into the bathroom, slamming the door shut and locking it.
On the other side, he can hear Jeremy muffle a scream into one of their throw pillows.