Fandom: Original
Title: "Man in the Mirror"
Characters: Dylan and Jake
Description: And now, he was worrying about making someone happy. About making someone feel loved. And his butthole.
Word Count: 1826
Rating: R
A/N: Written for the Sex is Not the Enemy Ficathon.

In hindsight it seemed dumb now. He took a bite of his cream of wheat with chopped mango, then stole a look at Jake and blushed.

"What?" Jake asked.

Dylan didn't know how to answer.

This time yesterday, Dylan had been lying in bed, his ankles somewhere over his head, with a mirror down there as he stared at his butthole. He'd never really cared about it before, never thought of it as anything but a crapper, but yesterday it had started to become something to worry about.

Was it too wrinkly? Too dark? Too hairy?

Too tight?

He'd lubed his finger up with KY Jelly he'd stolen from CVS (horrifyingly cliché—he knows) and slowly stuck it in there. He felt around. It was warm. It was soft. And… it felt better than he'd thought it would: soothing (like nail biting) and maybe a little wrong. Which only made it feel that much better.

Still, it didn't feel anything like when he would jerk off; it felt more like a push and less like a pull. As his hand slipped around his dick, while his eyes stared determinedly as some girl, or bear, or twinky twins grinded themselves into noisy, dirty, hairless ecstasy, he could feel his own blood rushing. The feeling would come up slowly—in his arms first—a tingle. It would build, his lips quavering, before it raced down his spine—a chill… and then the heat. His hand would keep time, up, down, up, down, up, down, faster, faster, faster. His cock, harder and harder. And then his eyes would go white, and there was no TV, there was no sound, no anything but the feeling of skin on skin and hot raging blood…

And jizz.

It spilled from his body on his body—from his cock, from the tips of his fingers, from every hair on his body. Pure pleasure—like every good thing you ever had in your life if they could dance on your body and laugh in your veins.

And that had been enough.

Until he'd met Jake. And now, he was worrying about making someone happy. About making someone feel loved. About maybe not being alone for once his damn life.

About his butthole.

It had only been a week, but Jake was horny. He'd been dropping hints. Double entendres, dirty jokes, descriptions about his bedroom. But then, yesterday, he'd popped the question.

"Dylan," he'd asked (because his name was Dylan) yesterday morning on the phone. The question had come out of the blue. Or after a discussion on an episode of Nip and Tuck. So not so much out of the blue. "Top or bottom?"

Dylan paused. The truth is… he was neither. He was a gay virgin. Actually, he was just a virgin. He'd known he was gay since… forever, and had never messed with girls. He wasn't in the closet per se. But he was no Jack McFarland either. Sure, he'd played some grab ass in a college locker room shower or two, and jerked off that guy at the gym. Still, at 21, it just hadn't happened for him, not yet. But 'yet' was coming fast. It was coming NOW. And that was when Dylan realized that he would have to cut the crap: stop fooling Jake and sure as hell stop fooling himself.

Starting tomorrow.

"Bottom," he'd answered impulsively. And… why?

"Huh," Jake answered calmly. Dammit, he'd chastised himself. He's probably a bottom too.

"What're you?" Dylan asked.

"Versatile." He said it so confidently, so casually. He knew. He'd done both before: stuck it, got stucken (Is that a word?) and knew, had an opinion, was a type.

"OK," Dylan answered, and hoped the protracted sigh that followed didn't give him away. There was a long pause.

"Anyway, I gotta go to work." Jake said finally. "See you tonight?"

Dylan nodded.

"Or maybe not," Jake backpedaled.

"No, no, oh, right, yes, I mean yes, I was nodding—duh, you can't see that—the answer is yes. See you tonight."

"OK," Jake answered, and there was a smile in his voice.

And then it was like the day fast forwarded to them on the bed, staring at each other.

They'd been watching TV—Parenthood of all shows—and had fallen into each other. Dylan was shocked at how natural it all felt: no clubs, no Jack Daniel's, no E. No loud music, or porn, or middle school, dick-measuring dirty jokes… or maybe there were a few of those. But mostly just them sitting there, barely watching TV, with Dylan's head against Jake's shoulder and Jake's left hand tangled in Dylan's hair while his right sat tangled in Dylan's fingers, tenderly draped across his lap. Jake and Dylan.


Sexless boyfriends.

The credits came and went and somewhere between the first Dodge commercial and the evening news, Jake's lips fell tenderly along the side of Dylan's temples. A calm came over him—Dylan—that felt like… like… like a sigh of relief and, like…

Their lips met. Just barely touching, hovering there, unsure. Jake pulled away and stared at Dylan blankly, saying nothing. He hurriedly grabbed the remote and killed the TV, and then, pausing, gave him another look, a look that said "go," and "yes," and "now." Dylan answered with lips against lips, and tongue on tongue and hands, pulling (ahh, the pulling) on hard bodies. Jake was the first to break the suction, and his ravenous lips made their way down, down, down—down Dylan's cheek, down his neck… down his arm. Dylan took the man in his arms, in his hands—groping the writhing muscles moistening with the first beads of sweat. Jake continued his carnal journey, kissing, licking, biting Dylan's shoulders before resting on a—chills—a nipple. The pleading of Jake's tongue against his chest was the key in the ignition, and Dylan reached for the other man's belt, ripping it from its loops. The two men rose to their knees and started pulling off wifebeaters, and pants, and socks even—all the while keeping contact with sloppy, careless kissing. Dylan reached through Jake's boxers impatiently; he could do this, he wanted to. Taking the other man's prick in hand, he pulled up and down, slowly at first before gaining speed, watching Jake closely as the man was arrested, assaulted, frozen with pleasure.

"Dylan," he moaned, pausing for a moment before burying his hand in Dylan's neck and wrapping his arms around to his back, pulling Dylan's cheeks open.

A faint panic ran through him—panic mixed with resolve. This was it. This was the moment he had always heard about. From the other guys—the guys in bars and gyms, the tops and the bottoms, the twinks and the bears. They all had stories of lube, and asses, and cum… and pain. This was the scene he had seen so many times in porn. Cherry popping daddies, they called it. Some man's massive meat ramming mercilessly into a tight asshole. There was only one way to break in an ass and a car, they said—to take it for a ride. But he could do this, he chanted to himself between pumps of his fist. He had to learn sometime, right?

And before he could answer, Jake was behind him, his gifted, fearless tongue exploring that tiny hole back there. Dylan fell to all… threes, his right hand taking up where Jake had left off. It might have felt good, to have Jake rimming him, if the fear of the unknown weren't creeping up around him. He could hear a popping noise and then cold, wet liquid being rubbed against his hole. Any minute, any second, it could be coming. Instinctively he turned to the man behind him.

And there Jake was on his haunches, dick hard, eyes sleepy and a hand on either side of Dylan's waist. And he doesn't remember how, but in the next moment, Dylan was up against the headboard and there were several feet between them. Jake sat on the edge of the bed panting.

"What happened?" he asked, breathless and confused.

"Nothing," Dylan lied, equally spent and gasping for air. His hard dick sat upright between them, taunting him. "I should have…" He looked at Jake's body—a symphony of manly prowess—a fucking monument to form and function and body-numbing, blistering sex.

"You should have what?"

Dylan shook his head, looking away. "I should have had a drink first."

Jake looked… frustrated, and Dylan had never felt so small in his life. What was his problem? He wanted to grab his clothes and run, except… he was in his own house.

When Jake looked back up, though, his face was… perfection.

He slowly crawled towards Dylan and, placing a hand on each of the man's knees, unabashedly wrapped his lips around the tip of his cock.

Dylan backed up hesitantly. "You don't—"

"Shut up," he said and, and descended upon the rock hard organ with steady determination. Dylan could feel himself slipping back into the euphoria that, just moments ago, he thought he had lost for the night. He reached under Jake's body, fumbling for his dick, but Jake pushed his hand away. Dylan tried to protest, but instead shuddered in anticipation as he felt his body rising to an inevitable crescendo. As his hips writhed under Jake's bobbing head, he wound his fingers through his hair, silently chiding him to go faster, to go harder. Jake got the message, not forgetting to serve his own cock that was beginning to bulge with engorged veins pulsating beneath the surface of its skin.

And then… fucking damn.

He'd heard that it was different. Different when it was with someone else. But this… this felt like his cock had burst and heart had exploded and every muscle in his body had seized with passion. This felt like he may never move again.

It was only a minute later before Jake came—moaning and thrusting—all over Dylan's stomach. But he didn't care. It was, really, the least he could do.

Which is more or less why he was blushing right now.

"What?" Jake asked again, laughing a little this time, as he loaded plates into the dishwasher. The bastard had even made him breakfast.

Dylan wanted to ask him why he hadn't just fucked him last night. Everything had been leading to it, his own lies included. Really, Dylan really wanted to ask why he hadn't just left. Left him there, horny and stupid and scared.

Why had he cared?

"You're beautiful," Dylan finally answered.

Jake paused from rinsing for a second, giving Dylan a bashful smile before resuming. "You are too," he said.

And in that moment Dylan had never felt so free. He'd never felt so true. And he'd never felt so beautiful.

He thought about just how scared he'd been. And how much he wasn't now.