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David’s father told him quite bluntly when he was eight or so that ‘love’ was a myth that would devil him all his life. His mother told him it was important to look out for himself, because everyone else was busy minding their own. By adulthood, David had come to think of love as a sort of poetic mechanic.
After all, people always told him they loved him even when they hardly knew him. Fans, opponents, people who profited off his efforts. Women he’d dated for less than a month.
David is not, and never has been, a particularly charismatic bloke. He’s coarse and it’s hard to find ways to soften him. He can be obstinate, rarely follows directions and never listens to rules. Most of the time, he’s selfish, petty and desperately seeking something to make him feel properly alive. People love him until they know him, and after that they don’t like him much at all.
Fine by him. David doesn’t much need that kind of clingy affection, or the demands of his time that come with it, and if ever he starts to miss it, well. It’s not hard to find a girl who’ll hook up with a well-off bloke.
He’s not friendless, but even his closest friendships are easy to cut himself off from if he needs to. Life is better that way, freer.
Here, in this nightmare world, things are a bit different, and not for the better. His past struggles pale beside the shit that happens here. Here, the Entity supplies very little but pain and loss, and moment of hope is at risk of being snuffed out. They die over and over again, and it only gets worse; they watch each other die, again and again and again, waiting for it to stick, and terrified that it will.
At first, David had assumed that the endless losses wouldn’t matter to him. He hadn’t known any of these people, so he figured that while their deaths might be horrifying, eventually he’d grow numb to them. And if he was numb to their pain, he wouldn’t get sucked in; if he had no friends and thought of it all like a game, then he could figure out a way to cope, if not escape.
He didn’t plan on Dwight dying to save him. He didn’t plan on his own inability to watch other people get hurt when he could shield them from harm. He didn’t expect Nea’s dry humor or Adam’s calm, scholarly recitations. He didn’t plan for the others to be people to him, whole and complicated and worth saving when they were in danger, and worth caring about as they gathered round the campfire in the dark.
David has never even had friends before, not like these people. People who stand by him, look out for him and risk their lives to help him out in a bind.
He’s never had somebody like Dwight: willing to take charge of him without giving up on him, no matter how badly he fucks things up. Dwight listens to him and treats him like everyone else, not a washed-up retired rugby star. To Dwight, David’s just a man, a comrade, someone worth fighting to keep alive.
Maybe that’s why he can’t get Dwight out of his head. A man who takes charge and knows how to make smart moves and tough decisions, but still manages to think of the rest of them as valuable equals, rather than disposable underlings, is one in a million. David’s never met a leader like him -- hell, he never thought the sort of people who became bosses could be anything like that.
Dwight’s been on David’s mind since his first trial. It’s not just the sacrifice Dwight made, or even the relentless way the little rat had dogged his heels at the start. Those things were important, they factored into David’s overall fixation, but it went beyond the actions themselves.
Part of it is his intent. Dwight hadn’t stuck to David’s heels and relentlessly tried to dissuade him from making an ass of himself to prove a point or as some kind of bloody display of dominance. He didn’t even do it just to try keeping David safe; he did it because David’s plan had endangered the whole group. Dwight was running damage control and he let himself die not to prove a horrifying point, but because Dwight always chooses to suffer if it will spare others.
Even when the ‘others’ in question are complete tossers.
It doesn’t hurt that Dwight’s surprisingly attractive. David’s fucked a lot of men who are built like himself: big geezers with hard bodies who fuck to leave bruises. He’s been with the odd bloke with a softer touch: a lingering, gentle sort of man that was always a bit scary to David.
Whatever the style, David has rarely fucked the same man twice, trying his best to avoid making his personal life into a front page scandal.
He’s probably gone out with far more women with Dwight’s build than men. It’s out of necessity: part of the illusion he’s built of himself as the tough, straight man, who’s fit for public consumption both on the pitch and off. He doesn’t pick them because he’s aroused by them, but because they’re funny, or clever, or they attract the right amount of male attention. He eats pussy like a champ and just pops a couple blue chews whenever the girl of the week starts to question his recurring claim of whiskey dick.
Dwight is a whole head shorter than him and scrawny, with delicate hands and a shy smile. He’s got strong legs and a nice ass; he’s cute in a way that David’s never let himself look for before. Even better, he meets David head on when they banter and flirts back with the same playful snark. And he doesn’t pretend not to be interested or make like he’s offended that some rough bloke is flirting with him.
Dwight’s nothing like any of the men David’s ever been with. He’s pretty sure he won’t need any help to get hard around this guy.
To David’s frustration, the one and only time they tried to throw caution to the wind and just go for it, they were halfway into undressing when they got thrown into a trial. It hadn’t exactly helped. Worse, Dwight’s suddenly shy of trying again, quietly voicing this fear that they might have rushed into something that neither of them actually want.
Bullshit, David thinks. More likely, the rubbish that killer with the claws had been saying had gotten under Dwight’s skin. Made him more afraid of getting hurt, and David figures that makes sense, but it still seems like a goddamn stupid way to live.
How much longer is David going to have to make do with his left hand and the few scant memories of Dwight’s rock hard cock grinding against his own through the layers of their clothes? It’s cruel, is what it is, especially with Dwight so damn close to hand and making the same longing eyes back at him.
Since that disastrous first attempt, they haven’t shared much more than a few lingering kisses, their hands occasionally slipping under each other’s clothes but never taking them off. One memorable night, when they’d been alone together in the relative seclusion they could find near the campfire, David had pushed down his jeans and curled his hand around his cock while they kissed, stroking himself off while Dwight’s teeth did a number on his mouth. When Dwight finally caught on, he’d reached for his own hardon, their kisses becoming frantic, messy things, Dwight cumming with a bitten-back whimper while he shivered on David’s lap.
It’d been days ago, that, and David has gotten off about ten times now just to the memory of those needy sounds. Not a strictly terrible situation, but monotonous and dreary when they could have more -- when it’s so clear that Dwight wants it as much as David does.
So now David has a bit of a plan.
He’s been paying attention to the trials a bit more, specifically how long it takes for the people taken to come back to the safety of their campfire space. There’s no sense of time in a place where night never ends, but it feels like the trials last a good twenty minutes at least. There’s also a lull between trials, and they rarely happen back to back -- never two at once.
The plan’s simple as. Next time both of them are left behind when a trial starts, David will walk Dwight away from the rest of the group. It’s not as if the rest of the survivors don’t already know there’s something going on between the two of them, and there’s a bit of an unspoken rule that nobody interrupts any wee bit of fun you manage to scrape for yourself in purgatory.
Nea, for one, has already begged them to just fuck already. Likely that’s the prevailing opinion; there’s nothing more uncomfortable in a group than obvious sexual tension between two members who just won’t have done with it.
Dwight’s problem is that he thinks too damn much. Maybe that’s what makes him a good leader -- that ability to think forward and anticipate the results of an action without having to actually do the action -- but it means he’s shit at taking the leap. Dwight’s got self-control in spades, and a yard of guts to be sure, but he thinks so much it turns his self-control into a damn prison.
Sex isn’t supposed to be part of some grand scheme. David’s always found the best sex comes with a spot of risk, spontaneous like. It’s not a chore or a job to be planned out and scheduled, and, given all the fallout from their initial attempt, Dwight’s probably psyched himself out by now about not being careful enough.
So David’s got to do something, or they’re going to end up mooning after each other for the rest of eternity in here. It’s not too long after he decides on his course of action that he gets an opportunity. The Fog takes Ace, Laurie, Claudette and Bill, and the rest of them are left to wait in the warm circle of the campfire. Everyone’s got something they do to pass the time and it’s not too rare for a couple or even a small group to head off away from the fire -- they usually operate on the buddy system principle whether or not they’re fucking, nobody wanting to find themselves alone if the Entity decides to pull some bullshit.
So while Jake whistles shrilly and Nea calls something filthy after them, there’s no attempt to stop them when David takes Dwight by the wrist and leads him off into the trees. Dwight puts in some token resistance, but it’s softened by the little laugh he utters as he drops the socks he’s patching, and, by the time David’s got him alone and backed up against a nice thick tree, Dwight’s uncertainty is already halfway to dissolving.
David kisses him gently at first, this sincere affection and sweetness that’s soon overtaken by the hunger he knows they’re both feeling. When Dwight arches up against him and grabs his shoulders, David takes the opportunity to slide his hands up the back of Dwight’s shirt. His skin is hot and smoothly stretched over bone and lean muscle; he feels good in David’s hands, almost delicate but sturdy and gorgeous.
After a few starved, eager kisses, David pulls away, amused at how his height allows him to break a kiss just by lifting his head. He runs his hands down Dwight’s back to grip his hips, his thumbs teasing just under the waistband. “I wanna make this work, boss,” he says roughly. “I wanna give it another go. What about you?”
In the dark, Dwight’s blush is just a ruddy smudge over his cheeks, his lips wine dark from kissing and his eyes wide behind the lenses of his glasses. He looks ravenous, only the faintest remnants of the concern from earlier stopping him from making David continue. Before he can bring too much of that brilliant brain back online, David presses one hand between them, groaning soft as he squeezes the bulge of Dwight’s cock.
Maybe he’s laying on a bit thick, but goddamn if it doesn’t do the trick: Dwight’s teeth close on his lip and his eyes close as he utters a muffled moan, and then nods.
That’s more like it.
David kisses him again, like a reward, if he wasn’t just desperate for the contact. His fingers work Dwight’s belt and fly, years of practice helping with the slight tremor that’s started up in them. When he kisses his way from Dwight’s mouth to his throat, Dwight groans openly; better, his grip tightens on David’s shoulders as the kisses carve a path down his chest, like he knows what David’s planning to give and is just as eager to get it.
On his knees, David nuzzles his face against Dwight’s crotch and feels his brain drop out his skull at the way Dwight pushes that bulge against his cheek. His fingers hang uselessly onto Dwight’s waistband as David loses himself in the scent and the heat. All the planning and the careful conceptualising of twenty minutes vanishes from his awareness until a rough pinch to his ear brings him rocketing back. Dwight’s arousal is beyond plain now, it’s utterly unmasked -- it must hurt, trapped so tightly -- his voice rough when he pleads with David to get on with it.
Feeling like his own cock might burst out of his trousers if he doesn’t, David obeys immediately, yanking down Dwight’s jeans and pants in one go. Dwight’s thighs are strong, like a runner’s, and prickled with coarse stubble, he discovers when he rubs his own stubbled cheek against them. His cock is cut, which surprises David for a moment, but just makes him more hungry to find out the difference.
He’s always loved sucking cock, always relished the way his lips have to stretch tight around something so thick and how hot and firm it feels in his mouth as he sucks. He’s got pretty good at it too, if he doesn’t say so himself, and it hasn’t been so long that he’s forgotten his tricks. He bobs his head, swallowing Dwight down eagerly and then pulling back with his lips pressed tight, feeling Dwight squirm and get even fuller.
Fingers appear, curling against the fuzz on the back of David’s skull and digging in when he pulls back to lavish attention on the soft, weeping head. It feels plush in his mouth, and Dwight makes the loveliest noises when David suckles there, flicking his tongue against the slit and worrying it like a dog as Dwight starts to leak into his mouth.
“Don’t fuck around, David, c’mon, please,” Dwight whimpers, and David lingers just a moment longer to luxuriate in the feeling of his own cock flexing at the sound.
When he pulls off completely, lips wet, Dwight grumbles a curse. One eye opens in a slit to look down at David, his hands still holding hard to the back of David’s head. It’s hot: that look of needy consternation on Dwight’s face.
“Set the pace for me, boss,” David says roughly, and immediately gets his lips on Dwight again.
The rasp of Dwight’s very American “ Shithead...” is a thing of beauty, but best of all is the way that Dwight interlocks his fingers and presses his shoulders back against the tree as he starts to work his hips. David’s had plenty of experience with quick BJs -- rapid, desperate exchanges in a grimy cubicle or an alley -- and he thinks now Dwight must have too, even though they were probably at opposite ends of those exchanges.
Certainly Dwight knows exactly how to take what he wants without going too hard. He holds David still rather than dragging him past his comfort zone, thrusting in steady, careful motions that tease David’s throat at first and then push deeper, starting to gasp as David gags then keeps on sucking.
It’s so fucking good. David’s been dreaming of this for so goddamn long, and the surprise experience makes it better somehow. He’s never had to wait so long for something like this; sex has always been as fast as a fight, jumped into when the mood struck and then done with, the other bloke rarely seen again.
They’re not even properly fucking and yet David’s positive this is the best fuck of his life. He can barely breathe: everything’s thick with the smell of Dwight’s skin, the sweat and dirt and living heat of him, and David’s magnificently hard.
Fumbling his way into his own trousers, David wets his palm in the drool running down his chin and seizes his cock. In his head, when he’d jacked off to this idea, they’d taken longer, given David enough time to figure out exactly how to turn Dwight’s brain off. But tonight, that’s just impossible.
Right now, he’s given himself up to this; at Dwight’s mercy, trapped by the grip of those hands, and the taste and the smell and the thickness of his cock. He’s needed this for a long time: the unimaginable breathy moans coming out of Dwight’s mouth, the senseless desperation behind his thrusts.
All he can do is swallow messily around Dwight, basking in the feeling of surrendering to the man carving himself space in the heat of his throat. He gags again and again, knowing his voice is going to be burnt gravel for days and that everyone will be able to guess why. The thought makes him moan thickly, lungs aching for air as he strokes himself harder.
He knows Dwight is getting close when he tries to stop moving, breathless pleas chopping into his moans. Trying to be considerate, David supposes, trying not to be selfish. David has no such reservations. He reaches for Dwight with his free hand and grabs onto one hip, keeping him buried even when he tries to arch and wriggle away. There’s something gorgeous in the way that Dwight swears bloody murder when he realizes that David doesn’t intend to let him pull away -- David feels so intensely close to cumming in that moment it’s almost agonizing.
If Dwight had some real issue requiring them to stop, or some problem with cumming in David’s mouth, he’d say it. He’d give an order and David, always keen to obey his boss (or, at least, keen to obey this boss) would stop. Between the two of them, David’s just the hard muscle; Dwight’s the mind, and David’s happy to let him lead.
So it’s not the control that sends David over the edge in the end. It’s the way Dwight tosses aside whatever prim sense of propriety or manners he was trying to hold onto. It’s the way Dwight’s fingers scrabble at his scalp, one hand clenching the longer hair on top. It’s the rigid way Dwight demands David stays in place, now that he’s sure that David doesn’t want to be let go.
David cums all over the ground between them and the tree, while Dwight fucks his throat harder than ever. It’s total bliss, a mental place that even the hell of the Entity can’t dim. Peace, really, of being exactly where he wants to be.
It doesn’t take Dwight much longer. A few more deep thrusts, a broken, desperate noise, and then he pulls David so close he buries his nose in Dwight’s pubes. There’s no air, no escape, nothing but the taste of Dwight’s cock, the smell of him and the feel of him hitching deeper yet as he cums in in two deep, powerful pulses.
It’s only a few moments. Time stolen just for them, for this thing they’ve been dancing around for weeks. But it feels good; satisfying, without a sense of conclusion. This can happen again, this doesn’t have to be the usual desperate end to David’s simmering sexual tension.
As Dwight eases back against the tree, David follows, cleaning him up with sucking kisses and wet swipes of his tongue until Dwight whimpers for mercy. David considers the mess on his left hand and decides to tuck Dwight away one handed, carefully jerking up his fly but leaving the button and belt open.
When he looks up and catches Dwight’s eye, Dwight’s blushing, incapable of holding his gaze without turning a shade darker.
It’s cute, David thinks. Cuter still when Dwight slides down onto the ground with David, opening his arms and gangly legs to allow them to share space and kiss hungrily. He seems surprised to find David’s trousers open, his dick soft now but wet; his hand flinches away for an instant before curling around David’s cock anyway, huffing another swear into David’s mouth as he gropes him.
Dwight spends a good long moment trying to lick the taste of himself out of David’s mouth, kissing him with a persistence that borders on an exciting sort of aggression that he wouldn’t have expected from the man. Somewhere in the middle of it, David lets Dwight guide him onto his back, lying down in the leaf litter with Dwight curled possessively on top of him. When Dwight gives into the fact that David won’t get hard again so quickly, he sits straddling David’s waist and pulls David’s left hand up to lick the cum from his fingers.
His mouth is warm and soft and David’s not so cum-drunk that he doesn’t know that’s exactly what Dwight means for him to realise. But the reality is that, no matter how good it would be, or how badly he might want to feel that mouth around his cock, David’s going to have to wait til their next moment alone to try it.
Maybe it’s not a bad thing, sometimes, having to wait.
As it is, they’re still close enough to the campfire to hear the uptick in volume following the return of their campmates from the trial. The smart thing to do right now would be to get themselves cleaned up and head back.
David’s, historically, not the best at being smart.
Maybe, he thinks, that"s something he does actually share with Dwight.
Because when he pulls on Dwight’s collar, Dwight curls back down, and when he gets both of his hands full of Dwight’s ass and squeezes tight, Dwight grins and rolls his hips into the grip.
This is not a place for love, not a place for affection or caring or lust.
This is a place of death, of suffering and of pain. This is a place where joy of any kind is liable to make you hurt.
And this is the place where David has, at last, begun to question everything his life has taught him about love. Where he might have found a reason to give it a try, after all. Because this is the place with Dwight.