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When he used to make jokes about people boasting about going all night long, there had been a little whisper in the back of Jake's head that told him, teasing and coiling, a stroke of heat down his spine, that he'd like to try that, like to be put on his knees or on his front and be ridden hard into the sheets until everything else became meaningless. It had been a teenage fantasy, a pipe dream for any boy who used to time his own hand, striving for just that minute longer. And when he'd grown old and had sex, learned the tricks to stave off, to keep himself from getting achy too quickly, Jake had been content with his average of a couple hours. No one left his bed unsatisfied, at least.
But then he lost The Bet.
Now Jake is shivering, shaking really, as he twists his fingers in the sheets at the top of his bed where his pillows used to be. He'd lost feeling in his legs, knees to toes, roughly an hour ago, usual sensations replaced by a steady buzz of static. There's a wet patch beneath his soft, spent cock, blessedly keeping the friction minimal but getting chilly the longer Bradley keeps him on his front. And Bradley, bastard that he is, doesn't show signs of stopping his lazy thrusts into Jake's body.
It's a silver lining, probably, that Bradley had saved actually fucking Jake for last, but that doesn't negate the nearly five hours they've been rolling around on his progressively messier bed. Jake also doesn't have the brain power for that kind of concession either, the strokes of Bradley's cock keeping his eyes from fluttering entirely shut but not doing much to help his brain cells bash together. He's been reduced to a constant stream of groans, pliant from lack of strength and little else.
The thing is, Jake hadn't really thought Bradley was serious when they'd made The Bet. He'd laughed when Bradley had stated his terms ( "I want to fuck you til sun up." ) It had sounded like a cheesy line, like he'd never left that pre-twenties stage of sex-based hubris. And then Jake had lost.
He's not laughing anymore. He's not doing much but take it, weakly nodding when Bradley, draped across Jake's sweat-soaked back, grunts to ensure he's still awake and okay. Jake is because as much as he's exhausted, he's not actually in any pain. Bradley had planned when he'd won and taken Jake's wellbeing into consideration as if second nature. He'd also been kind enough not to start peeling Jake out of his clothes until around one in the morning after they'd spent a day napping, not doing anything too straining.
It had started with Bradley between Jake's thighs, a mouth around his cock, swallowing languidly, taking Jake to the edge of orgasm in a slow, slow crawl that left his scalp tingling when he'd finally gasped and gone over. Then it had been Bradley kissing him from the base of his throat to the arch of his foot, dedicated to not missing a patch of skin between, his own dick full and hot like a brand against Jake's hip while he'd been brought steadily around to hard again. And only after what had to have been hours, after a second orgasm, Bradley went for Jake's hole. That, too, like everything else, had been done with a thoroughness that dragged on. When Jake had come a third time, on his front, dick pressed to the rumpled sheets and face against the mattress as he writhed feebly, he hadn't even known until Bradley nosed up the slope of his spine.
"Breathe," he'd whispered against the shell of Jake's ear, and that was when Jake had realized he was locked up, holding his breath as his cock pulsed against his belly.
Jake's dick had given up the ghost well before Bradley finally got in him, and he wonders, turning his face toward the window to catch a lungful of fresh air and to see, just beyond the blinds, how the inky sky has begun to go light, how Bradley's hasn't.
"Hmmm?" Bradley asks, his hands running smoothly up and down the length of Jake's back.
It takes a moment, but Jake realizes he must have tried saying something out loud and attempts again, throat dry.
"How're you still hard? " With the metaphorical cotton in his ears, Jake's not quite sure how coherent he is. From how Bradley snorts, it's obviously not enough, but still, he seems to get it.
The jackass presses his fingers into the meat of Jake's shoulders in faux massage. "Had someone else to take care of now, didn't I?"
Jake wishes he had the energy to snap, but regardless of how he's been turned into a boneless, senseless heap that will be demanding and bitchy once it's over, he's still got his pride. He'd lost The Bet fair and square, and he's taking his defeat with as much grace as someone in his position can.
Bradley coos softly from above him and shifts until he's blanketing Jake again, his thrusts increasing slowly in speed. Jake whines low in the back of his throat but allows himself to be shushed, one of Bradley's hands sliding into his hair to scratch and soothe.
"That's it," Bradley sighs, kissing Jake's temple. "Now open those eyes, Jake."
It's hard to do; a sleepless night has laced his eyelids with cement, but Bradley's soft coaxing makes it a little easier. That, and the tell-tale staccato of his hips, the way Jake can feel Bradley's pulse climbing higher, his body growing somehow hotter, lets Jake know they're almost there. So, Jake manages, and what he sees is almost enough to bring relieved tears to his eyes.
The first tendrils of light are creeping over the window sill. Sun up.
With the finish line in sight, Jake is seized by the tiniest sliver of strength. He reaches back with a limp hand, the ripple of static under his skin making his grit his teeth, as he gets his fingers in Bradley's curls, tugging at him in a silent urge to hurry up, which, much to Bradley's credit, the other man listens to.
Jake loses track as Bradley drives forward into him, but there's no mistaking the rush of warmth as Bradley finally reaches his own release.
It's a testament to Bradley's own strength that he doesn't just collapse onto Jake when he's done groaning softly through his climax, but Jake will be impressed and appreciative when his vision isn't filling with black spots, and he can feel his toes again.
"Clean me up," is the last thing he manages, half garbled, before sleep swoops up to claim him on the tail-end of Bradley laughing gently with a whispered, "Sure, Princess."
The next time Jake thinks about underestimating Bradley Bradshaw... he won't.