Title: A Roll of the Dice
Pairing: Edward and Jasper
To my darling geeky, WoW and D&D playing, slash-loving sister, SorceressCirce. I heart you. That is all.
Please note that this will be GEEKTASTIC. Particularly geeky terms are defined for you in the author's note at the end.
It is also SLASH. Slash terms will not be defined. Seriously, everybody should basically be familiar with those by now. Oh, and if you don't like it, don't read it.
Thanks for Bri for beta'ing and Bekah for pre-reading.
Stephanie Meyers owns Twilight. I own some polyhedral dice and my husband occasionally lets me borrow his Dungeon Master's Guide.
There is a gentle rocking, ticking sound with every flick of his wrist, the rasping sound of nails scraping softly over paper, the click of plastic on plastic. Reading the results, he chews on the end of his pencil, those soft rose lips that I want to chew on, a dreamy look on his face that he always gets when he's thinking. Pencil lead scratches paper again, figures and calculations, his close-cropped nails flicking absently at the dice on the table before moving to tuck a curl of dirty-blond hair behind his ear.
And he asks me to roll again.
I shake my own set of dice in my hand, my palm sweating and everything in my body keyed up just from looking at him. Amber and green polyhedrons spread out across the books laid out before me and I do the sums up in my head.
"Twenty-three," I mutter, knowing it's low.
"Miss," he replies with a grin.
Always a shoot and a miss. Always.
He moves on to the next character, getting their rolls, calculating the damage they have inflicted on imaginary enemies while I add up the damage to my heart every time he glances away from me. The damage to my soul every time I fail to tell him what he means to me.
I finger the edges of the dice repeatedly. Compulsively, really. From time to time I let the D20 roll out over the padded surface of the table, pretending that life has will saves and that if I just roll high enough then maybe somehow I'll be brave. But every time I roll to try to get up the conviction to kiss him, I always roll a one. A botch.
Because kissing my dungeon master - my best friend - my Jasper - would be the definition of a botch.
Frustrated, I push away from the table, needing air. The other boys at the table scarcely acknowledge the motion, too involved in calculating damage and planning future moves.
I remember how I used to be at our monthly games. How I too would obsess over the stats on my gear, the attacks I would use, the best place to put my points when I leveled up. Pushing my glasses up my nose and rubbing my hands over the stubble on my chin, I obsess about his body now, about the way his ass looks in his jeans when he gets up to stretch. About what it might be like to put my hands through the curls of sweet blond hair and nuzzle my nose there.
I grab a Mountain Dew from the fridge, and seeing that his glass is empty, I pick another one up for him. The cold sweat of the can is a relief against my forehead, an attempt to tame the flush on my face and the aggravating arousal that stirs in my jeans every time his tongue darts out between his lips. He licks his thumb so he can flip through the pages in the Dungeon Master's Guide, and watching him from behind the bar, I stifle a moan. My hand palms my cock through my pants, shifting it to a more comfortable position before I prepare myself to return to the table.
Chasing calm, I set the soda down beside him and try not to let the longing on my face show through when he smiles his thanks, a vision of dimples and piercing blue eyes making everything in me clench and my hard-on swell.
"Thanks, Ed," he whispers, and there's a fraction of a second when our fingertips are brushing against each other on the side of the can. I linger with my hand next to his for just a second too long, looking for something in those eyes, only it's still not there.
The die slips from between my fingers.
A two is better than a one. But it's still not enough.
We fall back into the comfortable rhythm of play, my eyes buried in my character sheet or in a book as often as not because it's just too intense to meet his gaze. The other players guide our actions and it's most of what I can do just to go along, asking a question here and there but not trusting my voice. I feel like there's a fog, too much time and not enough time until the close of the game.
Until he walks away from me once more.
The games were easier once - not just because I wasn't feeling these things I can't explain, but because the days we played weren't as important then. Jasper and I used to hang out all the time, the kinds of friends that could sling an arm around each other even when we weren't wrestling or fighting and no one batted an eye.
Until I became the one batting more than an eye, my chest pounding hard and blood in my cock, everything pulsing and my body pulling away because it wanted nothing more than to draw closer.
Now I'm lucky if I see him more than once in the weeks between gaming sessions.
Now I'm lucky if I get close enough to even breathe his scent.
I still can't put my finger on the exact moment he started pull away, or the moment when I decided to let him. Night after night, I rolled the single lonely die in my room alone, debating whether or not to call him and cursing the impenetrable silence on the other end of the line. The numbers came out low time and time again, my thumb stilling on the phone.
And after a few months, I didn't even bother to roll anymore.
Now we come together like strangers who know too much, awkward pauses and inexplicable blushes, so much history and so much distance and I want to bridge it. The die lands with the ever-present one facing upward, taunting me, telling me everything I ever wanted is out of reach.
I roll it one more time, still hoping for a sign, but it bounces weird, and I watch the green polyhedron sliding off the edge of the table. I lunge for it, my hand closing around air as it moves beyond my reach, when suddenly my head collides with something hard and warm.
"Fuck," I groan, the silent curse even louder in my head when I look up to see Jasper's blue eyes, his face so close and there's only him and I, a fuzz of static and the die still rolling. It pauses, settling deeper into the fibers of carpet, I glance to the floor, to gold numbers etched in green.
My eyes alight on the fucking nat twenty staring up at me, everything in my body stilling as the die disappears inside pale flesh, Jasper's hand closing around it. Not retreating by even an inch, he looks up at me with a lopsided grin as he holds the offending die out for me. I go to pluck it from his palm, his breath warm and minty on my face and he still hasn't moved and we're still so close, the fog of static like a hood and my lungs can't breathe.
"Nat twenty?" he says and I can almost feel those lips. "Too bad you couldn't save it for when it matters."
"Who says I didn't?" I croak, my fingertips caressing his palm only a little inappropriately as I enclose the die inside my hand.
Time stops and we still haven't moved, my green eyes and his blue ones both focused on our hands. His Adam's apple bobs, my throat thick and dry. He turns his hand under mine, and I wonder if I'm dreaming when he squeezes my fingers closed around the die, the warm flesh of his palm making my eyes grow wide.
There's a joke from above about something going on under the table, crude voices of teenaged boys and I want to block them all out, but the moment is broken. Jasper grins sheepishly and I find myself returning the expression, a certain sweetness to just this little interaction after so many months of careful indifference and forced silences. I am squeezing the die into the soft flesh of his palm now, our fingers brushing as they release.
We emerge, and I place the die on the table with the twenty facing up like a badge of victory, my mind and body still swimming in the fog of proximity after so much distance. There's warmth near my leg then, my breath catching in my throat, and I know that it's him. I keep my eyes buried in my lap, willing down an arousal that threatens to consume me just from the feel of his ankle near mine, our knees touching, hope rising.
And for the first time, I wonder if he's been pulling away for the same reasons I have been letting him.
The rest of the game passes in a blur of our legs grazing and our eyes looking everywhere but at each other. Every little thing sets me off, my throat almost choking around my Fritos when he asks us to roll for initiative and I wonder as I cough exactly how much more initiative I can take when I drop my die on purpose and let my hand brush his knee. He coughs too, a wracking surprised motion.
But he doesn't pull away.
By turns the monster is defeated, the heroine saved and before I know it our intrepid band of adventurers is reduced back to a a motley crew of eighteen-year-old dweebs, yawning and smelling of socks and chips and too much time in a basement with a mini-fridge. We begin to pack up, numbly in my case as Jasper's leg pulls away from mine, the haze of lust and comfort dissolving and my body wrung from so much anticipation and from being left with nothing as he turns to go.
My mother's voice calls from the stairs and I yell to her that we are almost done.
"Jasper, honey?" she calls, always overfamiliar from all the years he spent as a permanent fixture here, an honorary Cullen with full rights to the Play Station and to my heart.
Mom's face appears around the landing, her features soft. "Your dad called," she says. "He got called in to work, and he's not going to be able to pick you up."
"S'ok." He shrugs, still packing to go and I don't want him to. He's walked home enough times before. But there was a time in our lives before things got awkward when he would have stayed.
I pull the die from my pocket. It's not the one I usually roll with in-game.
It's the one I roll with in life.
I hold my breath, the cool blue plastic that is the color of his eyes bouncing three times before it stops.
Natural. Fucking. Twenty.
Jasper's wrist is in my hand before I know it, my eyes a plea and I'm glad everyone else around me is too busy to see.
Parched again in the wake of an ocean of blue eyes and longing, my mouth finds just one word.
He looks at me, searching for something and his wrist is still soft within my grip. I don't know what he sees when he is staring at me, but there's a part of me that wants to hide behind anything and everything because it seems like he can see me. All the pieces of me that no one is supposed to see.
All the pieces that want him to stay with me.
He hesitates and I am about to launch into an explanation, some bullshit about the hour and the darkness and how I want him to be safe. So safe. Here. With me.
Only there's nothing safe about our gaze.
Full rose lips part and close, "OK."
"OK?" I gasp, shocked.
"OK." His grin is wide, his wrist slipping within my grip until our hands are touching, his fingers in my palm and another gentle squeeze.
I drop his hand quickly when I hear a throat clearing behind me. The other guys are all packed up already, Player's Handbooks and dice and clipboards safely stowed inside of book bags, awkward glances and feet shuffling. Then one of them winks, eyes playful on my face and I wonder if I have ever really hidden anything.
I smile shyly and motion with my head toward the stairs. We climb them single file, hands clapping on backs in parting as I hold the door open with Jasper by my side. And I wonder if this is how it was always meant to be.
My mother's eyes are sparkling as she takes in Jasper standing at the door beside me, her hand mussing with his tangle of sexy blond curls and I wish it was as easy as that for me. She kisses his cheek, saying quietly, "I'm so glad you decided to stay. I was worried you and Edward might be fighting, we haven't seen you in so long."
The blush on his face is so fucking tempting, eyes hidden behind lashes a mile and a half long, and his scent is warm and musky and male, and it is killing me to not be able to trust myself to touch him.
"Nah," he answers, looking down at his feet. "I've just been … busy."
It's a lie and I know it, but I can't bring myself to care. Tonight he's here with me and even if I can't touch him, I'll ignore all the nights he hasn't been here before.
My mother is gone and it's just the two of us in the entryway, an uncomfortable quiet and a draft, and the skin on the back of my neck is cold. I put my hand there, a nervous gesture, but when I look up he's staring at me, those eyes open and warm and it's like no time has passed at all.
"I call top bunk." He grins and dashes for the stairs that lead up to my bedroom and it's too hot and I can't breathe as I run after him, my whole body pausing and freezing to see him standing in silhouette beside the beds before me.
Jasper Whitlock is in my room.
Refusing to let the awkwardness descend again, I stride past him, an accidental brush of an arm against an arm and a shiver in all the reaches of my body. Pulling open a drawer, I take out a t-shirt and pajama pants. His t-shirt and pajama pants. I'm suddenly glad I finally brought myself to wash them after weeks of sleeping with his scent wrapped around me, his shirt balled up close to my nose in those lonely nights when I wanted nothing more than to call him. To touch him. When I would have done anything in the world just to be near him.
He takes the clothes with a smile and heads to the bathroom to change. When the door closes, I start to undress, too, the cool night air positively stinging on my overstimulated, untouched skin. Safely covered again, I sit on the edge of my bed with my head in my hands, struggling to breathe and trying to fight back the erratic thumping of my heart and the ever-present stirring of my cock.
Jasper hasn't stayed over in ages, and the last time he did I scarcely slept. My embarrassment at the ways I coveted every moment, every sleeping breath, sat icily in my chest as I listened to him above me, obsessing over the turning of his body and the sliding of the sheets every time he shifted.
In the harsh light of morning, everything had finally become clear, all the feelings I couldn't explain and the need I couldn't satisfy. His easy smile, his face relaxed after a sound night's sleep was a stark contrast when compared with my own tortured eyes, my sleepless stare. He'd left early, sensing perhaps in my silence all the things I could not say.
He hadn't returned.
It was only days later when he started pulling away.
There's a light knocking on the door as he pulls it open, entering quietly. My eyes are clouded by the vision of soft plaid cotton draped over his thighs and hanging low off his hips as he stretches, the shirt moving with his shoulders to reveal a sliver of pale skin, a dusting of soft, blond hair. I peek up at him from between my fingers, unable to pull my hands away from my face.
He's staring at me strangely, his whole head cocked to the side and there's a question on his lips.
I want to bite those lips. To kiss him and fuck him and hold him and make him explain why he does this to me and why he won't talk to me. To love him and hate him and to do so freely instead of in all these missing moments and lonely wonderings.
I want him.
But I still don't think that I can have him.
Instead of climbing up the little ladder to the top bunk like I expect him to, considering how late it is, he plops himself in the chair beside my desk, his long hand rising up to scratch at his hair.
"You tired?" he asks and I shake my head, knowing full well that I have no chance of sleeping with his body above mine in every way except the way I wish that it could be. "Mario Kart?"
It's not exactly what I want to do, but it's normal and I'm desperate for some sort of normalcy now, considering how my pulse is racing, my arm in my lap just barely covering the way my body is responding just to being in the same room as him.
"Sure," I agree, standing to grab the remote for the TV and to load the game. I throw a controller at him without much thought for where it will land, but he's quick and catches it easily. The screen flickers to life and I turn my attention to it as if it is any sort of competition for the beautiful boy not three feet away from me. I scroll through the intro screens and select a map and a driver.
Jasper curses lightly beside me, and he's shifting, the whole left side of my body glowing. It strikes that I'm too aware of him, that it's unnatural to be able to feel his warmth in my bones.
And then I grimace. Because there is absolutely nothing natural about the way I feel about him.
"Fucking glare," he mutters, and suddenly he's closer to me. So much closer. I would offer to turn off the light so he could see the screen more clearly but I suddenly don't trust myself to be in the dark with him. I gulp, my erection positively painful now as he settles onto the bed beside me, just inches from my desperate body.
My eyes flicker over to him, to take in the perfect profile of his nose and his lips, and if he can sense me watching him he doesn't give any sign. His gaze is trained intently on the screen, and it's all I can do to tear my eyes from him, but tear them I do. My thumbs are numb on the controls, racing around an endless track on a loop that is as likely to lead to my destruction as to my goal. There are blue sparks like the electricity that dashes across my skin every time he gestures too widely, his elbow or his knee making contact with my body. And there's one desperate moment as I cross the line to begin the last lap of the course when I think I may launch myself at him, all the doubt and worry paling in the face of pure need.
Need for him.
He beats me handily, laughter in his chest and he's so fucking beautiful when he laughs. We race again and I lose again, frowning lightly as he whoops in victory, only I can't explain to him why I'm so distracted. Why I can't even win for losing.
"That was fun," he says, smiling and placing the controller down at his side. I nod mutely, pressing the button on the remote to turn off the TV. It seems inevitable that he should move now, that he should give my poor over-tensed body some relief from this torturous and perfect proximity, but he doesn't.
Worse, he flops down on his back. On my bed.
I didn't think it was possible, but my heart pounds harder, my pulse a raging living thing to see him spread out on his back beside me, that taunting slice of skin at his waist fucking calling to me, and I've been trying not to do this for so long now that I don't even know how to begin. I'm repressing and suppressing and I need to touch his skin.
He's oblivious to my torture apparently, groaning as he shifts and places my pillow beneath his head. I harden even further to realize my bed is going to smell like him, and now I know I may never sleep again. I watch the long line of his hand move up to push those sexy fucking curls out of his face, sliding down over his eyes and past the sharp, sweet edge of his jaw.
"Why don't we do this anymore, Ed?" he asks. He's the only one who can call me Ed, and I used to wonder why, but now I know.
I shrug as casually as I can, picking at an invisible piece of lint on my pajama pants and meeting anything except his eyes. I feel the bed move and feel his warmth and he's even closer to me and I can't breathe, knowing one false move will make this all fall away. I can already picture the disgust that I know will mar his beautiful face, the horror when he knows what I am.
And yet he's the one moving closer to me.
I whimper, unable to contain so much longing and I am almost about to fling myself across the room because I can't handle this anymore. But then his hand is on my hand, pulling it away from my face where I don't even realize that I have been covering my eyes, wincing against the pain in my chest and the pain in my groin and all this need I can't express.
My eyes widen when he takes my hand and grips it firmly, settling it under his on his chest, and his heart is pounding almost as hard as mine.
"I miss this," he whispers gruffly. "I miss you - hanging out with you."
There's pain again and even I can feel the lines of dejection on my face when he corrects himself. I want to hide but there's nothing left to hide behind, my hand held so tightly inside of his, and his chest is warm. So warm. I want to turn my hand inside his grasp and place my fingers on his ribs, to feel the way his muscles move inside his chest when he breathes.
"Me, too," I admit, my vision lost in the sight of our hands before me. I want to hope, to believe that there's something to this but I don't even know how to any more.
"What's that?" he asks, distracted, and I am surprised to see my other hand curled instinctively around that ice blue die again, rolling it between my fingers and wondering about the odds of my ever reaching a point in my life where I won't feel wanting and alone.
Staring at the die and the dancing light on the numbers embedded in its surface, I try to calm my breathing.
"Don't you ever wish life was like D&D?" I ask, avoiding the question. "If everything could be decided by rolling the dice? A clear-cut number for every problem. A will save every time you were about to do something mortifyingly stupid? A formula for figuring out what it's in your best interests to do?"
There's silence for a moment. Too much silence and it's almost uncomfortable, but he's still so close, my hand almost burning from his touch, and this isn't normal. It isn't normal to want somebody this way, and it isn't normal for him to be touching me this way.
"Go ahead, Ed," he whispers huskily, and his eyes are on the die I'm still rolling between my fingers and my thumb. "Go ahead and roll and see what the numbers tell you to do."
His eyes dart up and I'm lost, drowning in warm and blue and the fucking air between us is permeated by him and everything is new.
He wants me to roll.
I swallow hard and nod, my eyes never leaving his as I shake my wrist with the lone blue die enclosed.
And I roll.
I can't even look because I know what I'm rolling for and I'm starting to wonder if he does, too.
"It's a ten," he breathes.
"Fuck," I mutter, my eyes closing.
"Tens can go either way," I explain, still wincing against the sight of his body and his face and his skin against the sheets of my bed.
"Only," he whispers lowly, and I can feel him shifting, his body still drawing closer to me and his breath is on my face, everything in me tensing. He hesitates before continuing. "Only you forgot about your modifiers, Ed."
"What modifiers?" My eyes fly open and he's just inches away, sitting beside me, our hands now clasped on the bed between our hips as he leans in even closer, the warmth of his breath fogging my glases. But then his fingers are on my cheek and I must be dreaming, his hand reaching and pulling the thick black frames away. I stare at him through blurry eyes, the soft pale fall of his cheek growing larger, my breath even less steady as there are warm lips pressed to my cheek, and there's something inside of me that's melting.
"+2 for the glasses," he whispers in my ear.
"Close your eyes," he instructs me and I comply. I'm still not breathing as a fluttery pressure sweeps across my eyelids, his voice deep and warm as he continues. "+2 for those amazing green eyes."
There's a kissing motion on my jaw, those soft, full lips parting and the wet warmth of his breath as he kisses softly to my chin, my exhale finally escaping in a long, low moan. "+3 for only shaving every four days."
Just as I'm about to hyperventilate from too much feeling, so much sensation it's completely overwhelming, my brain unable to believe that this is really happening, he pulls back. There's a crushing emptiness at the loss of contact between his mouth and my skin, and I'm suddenly terrified that he's fucking with me.
"Edward," he whispers, and the voice is still so close as I squeeze his hand and open my eyes.
I stare into endless pools of blue, my ears roaring as he breathes one last number through those beautiful lips.
"And +20 for being the fuck-hot guy who carries around a D20 and knows what modifiers and will saves even mean."
I don't understand, my mouth opening and closing idiotically around what seems like an impossibility.
"Jasper," I begin, but there's no finishing the thought because his mouth is on me, those lips I've wanted to kiss and bite and bruise pressing firmly against my lips, his breath in my lungs, wet and lust and spit tingling everywhere. My heart is breaking and putting itself back together again all at once and it's everything I've ever wanted, his body next to mine, his hand in mine, his fucking mouth on mine. I freeze for all of three seconds before I'm kissing him back desperately, feeling like a pussy because it's all I can do not to cry, it feels so good and I've wanted it for so long.
I whimper his name with every other breath, our bodies falling into a tangled heap on the bed. My fingers draw themselves up instinctively to the hair I've been dreaming of touching, another long groan of want and desire rising in my chest to feel that softness in my hands, those beautiful curls parting gently as I sweep them out of his eyes. His hand settles on my chest, right over my heart and I wonder if he can tell that it's ready to burst, ready to escape my chest and leave my body empty and perfect and melting from the sheer perfection of his kiss.
When it's finally too much, too much panting and need and pleasure and not enough enough air, I pull away, holding his head and his hair shakily in my hand as I close my eyes and whisper, "Why?"
There's a sound of pain beside me, his body freezing, and I look up at him quickly to see panic in his eyes. I let my fingertips scratch against his scalp soothingly as I lift myself up to place a soft kiss at the corner of his mouth, on his cheek and on the ridge of bone below his eye.
"Why did you stop talking to me, Jasper?"
He's still frozen, but at least he's breathing now. "You really don't know?"
I shake my head and stare into wide and frightened eyes. Only beneath the fear there's hope.
"The last time I slept over," he begins quietly, his hand brushing over my cheek, down my neck and again to my heart. There's hesitation in his halting, pausing voice, and as he's thinking, I can't resist kissing him, still needing to know that this is real. My lips brush softly over his, moving the way I've always dreamed of them doing as a perfect warmth creeps from my mouth to my toes, to my fingertips buried deep in endless blond curls. "That last time - I - I dreamed of you. I thought I had it under control, all the things I felt about you. But I didn't. I still dreamed about you. You and me," he gulps.
I think I know what he means but I still need to hear it, so I still and pull just so slightly away, resting my forehead against his because I can't stop touching him now that I've started.
"You were - I - we - " He closes his eyes and stops and there's so much that neither of us can say. "I came in my fucking pants just dreaming about you," he whispers and my cock is so hard I think I might come, too.
He dreamed of me.
He came from thinking about me.
I can't stop myself from attacking him, my body lunging for him, tackling him and rolling him onto his back. There's a thrashing of mouths, teeth hitting repeatedly and his lips parting for me. I taste him for the first time, moaning wantonly as my hand drifts down to his side, holding his body so close to me. Our chests are in perfect contact, so much warmth radiating onto my skin even through our shirts, and I need to feel him.
Not caring about anything, I shift my body until I'm lying half on top of him, his mouth vibrating with his wincing hiss as my hard-on presses into his hip, his cock so fucking hard on my thigh and it's almost too much.
"Fuck, Edward," he breathes, grasping me to him all the more tightly, and I feel him palm my ass, his other hand on my shoulder as our mouths wrestle. His tongue is hot and wet and he tastes like blood and sex and I'm a harshly vibrating line of need now. Need for his touch and his body and his presence in my life again.
I've missed him so fucking much.
It's with a choked sob that I release him, kissing a desperate, wet line across his jaw and down his neck, sucking at the warm flesh there and biting into the tendon that disappears behind his ear.
"I fucking needed you," I whisper, and it's true. And even though I'm still clothed, I feel naked, my body on top of the body I've been wanting now for so long.
"You - fuck," he groans as I close my mouth around the lobe of his ear, tonguing the shell and grazing his flesh with my teeth as my cock digs deeper into the crest of his hip through our pants. "You looked so disgusted," he breathes. "The next morning. I thought you knew."
I shake my head furiously, biting down on his neck again and not even caring if I leave marks as I suck hard at the flesh where his shoulder meets his spine, pulling roughly at the cotton of his shirt. "I didn't know. I didn't know," I repeat endlessly, because, God, I wish I had. I wish I'd known and that I could have been the one milking his cock, closing my mouth around it and tasting him in long hot spurts down my throat. Wish it could have been like that instead of him coming shamefully in his sleep in his pants.
Possessed with so much need, I shift again, his hands pulling at me until I'm settled between his legs, and I almost explode on contact when I feel his hard-on against mine. We capture our dicks between our bodies as I buck my hips into him for real for the first time, a rush of pure adrenaline and pleasure and I want to scream.
"I wasn't disgusted. Not with you," I pant through my moans, tracing a fast line back up to his mouth and kissing him again, hot and wet, his stubble digging roughly into my chin. "I was mad at myself because I couldn't sleep because I wanted you so bad."
His answering moan is a strangled cry, pure relief and I feel him relax against this building pressure and pleasure even as his body is tensing. But this time not with shame.
We kiss desperately, passionately, all that lost time pressing around us thickly like our bodies against the creaking mattress, before his mouth pulls away, his hands guiding my head to the crook of his neck as he sucks his way across my flesh to my ear.
"I dreamed of fucking you, Edward. So many fucking times. Right here. In this bed."
My chest releases a barely contained scream, my hips thrusting harder against his dick as my hand grips his side too tightly, a bolt of sheer electricity splitting my brain as I imagine his body in mine.
"Fuck, yes," I moan. "Fuck yes." I push against him again and again, his grip on my ass even firmer as he pulls me against him, and there's too much clothing between us.
I push my hands roughly up his side, bunching the fabric of his shirt and feeling the muscle and the light trail of hair on his stomach as I sweep the hem up to his collarbone, bringing my mouth to the pale flesh of his ribs, biting down on his nipple as he groans. His hands disappear from my body as he sits up suddenly, almost knocking me off of him as he tears his shirt off of his body, and he's so fucking beautiful.
With my hips still pinning his, I reach for my own shirt, fisting the fabric and lifting it in one smooth motion over my head before falling onto him again.
The warmth of skin on skin is a revelation to me. After thinking I would never feel anything of him, feeling him like this is almost too much again, all of my senses on overdrive and the lust and arousal pooling deep in my belly begins to rise roughly to the point of pain.
Jasper's hands are all over me, the hot pressure of his hands sinking halfway through my skin as they pull desperately at my ribs and my chest and my sides. Tugging roughly, he pushes his hips up into me again and I can feel his cock against mine growing impossibly harder and I can't think, I need him so badly.
With a quick twist, he pushes me over until I am lying on my back, his body on top of mine and it's so close to so many of my fantasies it almost takes my breath away.
"Yes," I pant, feeling his weight pressing onto me. "Yes, Jasper."
"You feel so good under me," he moans, and I can almost picture it. I can almost imagine him fucking me, and I want it. So badly. I want to give him my body in a way I've never given it to anybody before.
I know full well it's not going happen though, my body too keyed up to last for more than another few quick thrusts against his hips, and the shock of all of this is still pressing too hard against me, making it impossible to think.
I gasp in pleasure as he pushes roughly into me three more times, the friction between our bodies unbearable and perfect and I know I need to let go. I pull his head back toward mine, capture his mouth with my lips and kiss him frantically, desperately, as the need builds inside me to the point where I can't control it.
"I want to watch you come, Edward," he groans, and it's all I need. I close my eyes tightly, my body tensing, nails digging hard into his neck and his hip as I pull him roughly forward and against me one last time. And then it's all pleasure, thickly exploding points of light and my body pulsing, my lungs gasping as I come in a hot, hard stream, the product of my lust and my need seeping into fabric and rubbing roughly into my skin and I don't care.
"Yes, fuck," he groans above me and I open my eyes just in time to see his face tense, his whole body falling apart as he holds himself over me. His mouth falls open as his eyes close and I can feel his cock pulsing against mine, his body spilling between us as his mouth closes silently over and over again around my name.
When he's done, he collapses, our bodies spent. His nose buries itself in my hair and I feel so sated and perfect and calm for the first time with him in years.
Soundlessly, mindlessly, I run my hands through his hair, feeling his breathing calm as he softly kisses my neck.
After a long, long time, he finally pulls himself up, shifting off me and to the side to rest with his head propped on his arm so we can see each other.
And if it's possible, he's even more beautiful for the flush on his face and the way his lips are swollen from my kiss.
I lean in and press my lips to his just one more time, something soft and sweet instead of so much desperation, and there's hope there. Hope that there's more to this. That maybe there will be more panting, grasping, thrusting in our future.
And more talking.
A lot more talking than there has been between us over the past few months.
His hand draped casually across my naked side is so comfortable, so easy, that it's a shock to realize how we've danced around each other, uncertainty eclipsing desire and affection and need. I reach down and tangle my fingers with his, watching in awe, because it's everything I've been wanting for so long, and he's not shying away from it. Rather, his hand clasps mine just as tightly as I do his, our fingers and thumbs brushing, and I'm almost overcome.
Never, in all this time, have I ever dreamed that I would really get to hold him this way.
He clears his throat lightly, and I look up, realizing I've been staring at our hands for far longer than is probably appropriate, but I can't bring myself to feel embarrassed about it. When our eyes meet, I can't quite tell, but I feel like the same emotions of awe and just barely contained happiness are lighting his eyes, the rims of the them slightly wet.
It's only as I shift to bring our bodies closer, needing to remind myself again that this connection is real, that I am reminded of just how real our touches have been. I feel my face rise up into a grimace as the sticky mess in my pants presses against my softening cock, the liquid cooling, and I sigh, knowing it's better to deal with it now. My lips meet his forehead tenderly before I release him from my grasp, rising.
I dig around in my dresser until I find two pairs of clean boxers, throwing one at him and taking the other with me to the bathroom. I dampen a washcloth and hand it to him before retreating back into the bathroom to clean myself up, feeling it's only right to give him some privacy, even though the very idea of stealing a glimpse of him naked makes me start to get hard again.
I take my time cleaning, throwing the sticky mess of my boxers and pajama pants into the hamper along with the washcloth. After stalling as much as I comfortably can, I return to my room, feeling sheepish and uncertain as to how to approach my best friend who has suddenly become so much more.
Seeing him perched on the edge of my bed, naked but for a pair of my boxers, I'm shocked to find that the desperate urge to kiss him and touch him hasn't abated at all. I'm still mad for him, still drawn to every beautiful edge of his body and every fascinating twist and turn of his mind.
Sensing my approach, he grins up at me, and my heart pangs. He rises to meet me, and deciding not to be awkward, I step in, so close that I can smell him again, and I fold him into my arms, burying my face in those sweet broad shoulders, drinking him in and basking. A half a second later, his body relaxes in my grip, his arms rising to pull me even closer, our naked chests pressed tightly together.
Eventually, he pulls away and my heart stutters as he stares at me, some complex emotion I can't quite decipher passing across the surface of clear blue eyes. Our lips meet in a slow, wet kiss, and then he winks and steps away.
My stomach sinks just a little when he moves to the ladder, his lithe, strong body climbing the rungs easily as he launches himself into the top bunk.
He must sense my dejection as I turn to my own lonely bunk, unsure what we are to each other now but completely convinced of what I want us to be, because he calls out sharply.
I jerk up in response to the nickname I suddenly realize he hasn't used since we began to touch each other, and his eyes are smiling.
"Your bed's just really small, OK, and we're growing boys, y'know?" The free, wide grin on his face reassures me, and he beckons me closer. Leaning over the railing, he places a hand on each side of my head and kisses me softly. "Not everything has to mean something."
A smile steals across my face without my permission then, and I smirk. "You're sure the DM isn't trying to leave me clues here?"
"If he is," he whispers against my lips, "it's by kissing the shit out of you. Not by deciding to spread out in an uncomfortable as fuck bunk bed."
"OK," I assent, laughing, as I touch his hand and move to turn off the light, settling down in my bed.
In the dark, I hear him shifting, his body above mine, and for once it doesn't fill me with unsatisfied longing. If anything, it just makes the memory of his body above mine in exactly the way I have always wanted it to glow brighter. Stronger.
I let the memories wash over me, my body responding slightly but not in a way that demands immediate attention. Eager to distract myself, I let my gaze dart around the room, alighting at last on the little blue die. It's sitting on top of my night stand, even though I don't remember putting it there, with the ten still facing up.
Above me, I hear his uneven breathing and I know that he's awake, too.
"Hey, Jasper?" I ask quietly, checking just to be sure, as I reach out to grab the die, rolling it between my fingers in the same comforting motion I have used to calm myself so many times before.
"So how high was the DC check on that last roll anyway?"
His answering laugh is sweet and warm and it soothes me the way so little else possibly could.
"It was pretty fucking low, Ed," he admits. "Considering your, um, modifiers, you pretty much just had to roll anything except a 1 and you were in there."
I hear his meaning, my whole chest glowing. He wanted me.
He wants me.
Now all I have to do is not botch.
As silently as I can, I let the die roll out again onto the surface of the little table, squinting in the dark without my glasses on to make out the number as it slows and stops.
A ten again.
"Hey, Jasper?" I ask again.
"Wanna sleep over again next weekend?"
"Yeah, Ed. Yeah, I do."
I settle down into the bed then, burying my nose in the pillow that smells like my best friend, overflowing with happiness that I finally took a chance and rolled the dice.
Index of Geeky D&D terms:
D20: A twenty-sided die.
Will Save: A player makes a "saving throw" to see whether or not his character will be able to avoid damage due to an attack. A will save would be used to avoid damage based on the character's mental toughness.
Dungeon Master or DM: The player in a Dungeons & Dragons game who is telling the story and guiding the adventure.
"Nat" or Natural Twenty: The highest you can roll on a twenty-sided die. The fact that it is "natural" means that it was achieved without any modifiers or pluses to enhance the score. Usually counts as a critical hit and does extra damage or affords an unusual level of success at whatever task is being attempted.
Modifiers: Points added on top of the die roll based on abilities or bonuses earned from gear or items used in conjunction with the action.