Work Text:
Your name is DIRK STRIDER, and the fickle bitch that is life just stepped on your hand in stiletto heels again.
You generally consider yourself a reserved and cool individual, decked in only the most ironic of MLP shirts and ninja-style katanas. Roxy never stops bemoaning your ‘soulless monotone’ and you’ve been described as having the ‘emotional depth of a plain toaster strudel.’ Everything you like, even sincerely, is twisted up in thick ribbons of irony and apathy. You’re more stone than a fucking quarry, and it’s by design.
Except, like any sleek machine, you have hidden override buttons, chinks in the armour, so to speak. In your case, it’s the things you can’t pretend not to like, the things that dissolve your cool like teeth in battery acid - most prominently, Jake English, fighting, and having control ripped from your hands like a stolen medal.
What can you say? Freud wouldn’t even have a field day with you, it’s so fucking cliche, but unfortunately a beautiful man kicking your ass will never not be sexy as hell.
You’re still a Strider though, so you can keep that shit under control - unless, for some reason, all three coincide. Then you’re screwed.
“Reckon you’re done, chum?” Jake asks brightly, words muffled as he wriggles from his sweat-soaked shirt. His eyes are green as jade and just as solid, a tiny troublesome gleam present behind that thick veneer of boyish goodwill.
You swallow slowly, watch a drop of sweat trail down the curve of his bare abdomen.
[You’re screwed.]
“No. Are you?” You say, and he grins like someone who didn’t just get pinned in under a minute.
“Not on your life, Strider! On three?”
You take a deep breath and tamp down the surge of tingling adrenaline coursing through you at the mention of a fight. You’re dangerously close to a chub just looking at the smooth lines of his torso, the gleam of moisture over bronze skin and the muscle and-
“Depends,” you reply flatly. “Are you gonna put your shirt back on?”
Jake fans himself, grinning. “Not much point in it. What, is my manful physique intimidating you?”
Oh, you wish.
“No, but you’re sweaty and I have standards.”
“C’mon, loosen up, Strider. Take your own shirt off, even, let’s do this like the Greeks.”
Heat prickles up the back of your neck and you silently curse your decision to wear tight trousers. “What, buck-ass nude? Jesus, bro, buy me a drink first.”
Jake stretches, and it’s a physical pain to rip your eyes from his fucking arms. There's no way this'll end well.
“Fine,” he decides, still glinting at you ominously. “On three, then?”
You nod, stomping down your anxieties as you settle back into fighting mode. Jake’s good, but you’re more experienced; on the other hand, your skill is swords and speed, and wrestling is definitely more his area.
Also, he has the advantage right now, in that you’re so fucking rattled by his shirtlessness, the warm sculpted beauty of him, that you’re fumbling immediately.
You’re tied by this point, one-one, so there’s a certain tension in the air. Best of three is still up for grabs, and both of you like to pretend you’re not competitive maniacs. You're really fucking regretting letting him win that first time, because you're genuinely concerned about your chances now.
Jake makes the first move, loping towards you with a playful grin on his face. You dodge thoughtlessly, hook your ankle around his knees in a trip, but he just fucking clasps it and pulls upwards, and you hit the dirt like a goddamn amateur. Shit. He’s getting better.
You roll up onto your feet again before he can pin you, but there’s a scrape down your arm and his grin is turning wolfish. You shiver, drag your eyes away from his mouth just in time to block his next move. Sloppy. Sloppy as fuck, what a dipshit.
It’s not a huge surprise when a minute later, Jake gets you on the ground easily: he manages to grab one of your wrists when you go in for a grapple, twists it behind your back, and sweeps you over his ankle onto your stomach. Surprising, no. Humiliating, yes.
Dangerous?
He follows you to the ground, kicking one of your legs back out when you manage to get it under you again, holding your wrist behind you with one hand and pressing your shoulders flat to the ground with the other. The aching burn of his fingers digging into bone is enough to make your knees weak, which means by the time you’ve mustered enough focus to try and buck him off, the jackass’s sat his weight firmly on your lower back and you’re helpless.
He’s hot and sweaty and panting slightly as he leans over you, twisting your elbow back to an almost painful extent, and you can feel his exhilarated chuckle against the back of your neck.
Yeah, this is dangerous.
Internally, you can almost hear Hal calling you every name in the book for being so stupid, letting someone get the drop on you so fast. Weak, pathetic, probably a homophobic slur in there, too. Classic thirteen year old Strider shit.
How do you think bro'd feel about you flopping down to make him touch you? Like a greasy-palmed Little League coach getting off on backpats? The fact that you know he's wrong doesn't make you feel like less of a creep.
“Well, Str-“ Jake starts, just as you flail out a leg to try and shift his weight off. It’s hopeless, anyway - he’s sat just right - and he doesn’t even struggle to pin you flat again, wrenching your captive arm punishingly enough for your pained yelp to echo across the ground.
He’s not going on easy on you, today. Heat pools in your stomach.
“None of that, Strider. I reckon I’ve got you fair and square,” your opponent announces cheerfully, and you try to look bored. “Can’t see you getting out of this one.”
“Give me time,” you toss back automatically, but he’s got a point - your arm is immobilised, your weight pinned perfectly, and his broad, calloused hand is warm on the back of your neck, holding you down. No escape you can think of, right now.
Fuck, bad thought.
Jake laughs with infuriating, dazzling self-confidence, a full-body rumble that you can feel pressed against you. “Come on, chap. Don’t be a sore loser, Strider, yield or not?”
“Not,” you say, as per tradition, and twitch when he leans closer to take in your face. His whole sweaty, shirtless chest is brushing your back, and you’re hard as a fucking diamond from all of it, and- Jesus.
You’re so screwed.
Jake chortles again, fingers flexing casually on the back of your neck as he presses your cheek into the dirt. You glare, try to look as disapproving as possible; his grin curls higher at the edges and you look away before you dissolve into sheer arousal.
“Something bothering you, Strider?”
“Bro, we don’t all enjoy shoving our faces into the ground.”
He hums like a little shit. “Mm. You are getting really rather grimy, old chap… it’d probably be dashed unchivalrous of me to leave you in the dirt.”
You roll your eyes. “But?”
“…but, I seem to recall a certain someone composing an entire ‘rap groove’ to the tune of my humiliating defeat, so I’m not feeling particularly chivalrous today.”
You’re way too close to literally eating dirt, you can taste it when you speak. Ugh. “Stooping to my level, huh?”
“Indubitably.” Jake chirps, and twists your arm back again when you struggle.
You take a second to evaluate the specific coordinates of your exact position up shit’s creek. Forget a chub, you’re rock-hard and burning up enough to feel vaguely tingly wherever the air is hitting you, and the deceptively unthreatening jackass you know as Jake English is holding you down in place, completely restricting your ability to struggle - not to mention wrenching you just tight enough that if you move too suddenly, you’ll probably tear a ligament.
Fuck, this was supposed to be useful. Now you’re hornier and Jake’s had time to scheme.
Scheming Jake is the most dangerous Jake. Scheming Jake is beautiful and clueless until he somehow gets one over you, and Scheming Jake is Perpetually Beloved by your dick.
“Dude-“ you say, trying not to let the rising panic in your chest show.
The rules of your wrestles are fairly lax, you should probably mention. No formalities, dirty tricks are allowed, the only rule is that the tap out is sacred. As long as you’re not tapping out, though… Jake’s got free rein.
Argh.
One might note that, surprisingly manipulative though he may occasionally be, English still wouldn’t actually hurt or upset you intentionally. But you’re not worried he’s going to start mashing dirt in your hair, you’re worried that-
Your arm is abruptly released, pinned forward with your other wrist by a capable hand before you can even process the situation. His weight shuffles back an inch or two as something delicately brushes your shirt hem.
Your breath hitches, guilty as sin.
-Jake’s going to escalate this. Of course he is. He’s not going to hurt you, he’s just going to playfully torture you until you give in and admit defeat. You don’t doubt you’ll break your cool - coming in your pants like a virgin probably counts - but you can’t give in. It’s not even just a pride thing anymore, it’s, firstly, the issue of tight trousers v human anatomy, and secondly, that if you give up immediately, Jake will never stop asking you why. You never just give up.
The only solution is to nobly endure until you can reasonably surrender, you reason. This does absolutely jack shit to quell the sudden swoop of your heart when the fucking asshole just shoves his hand directly up your shirt.
“Woah, what the fuck, English?” Your voice did not just crack. He’s so warm, oh god, what the shit is he doing? “If you were cruising for a good mangrope, you could’ve just said.”
Jake laughs directly onto your neck again, raising the hairs. “No, no, chum,” he assures you, even as the burning heat of his hand travels up your side. “No offence to your perceived gropabibilty, of course, but I think you’ll find my intentions are rather more devious than that!”
You open your mouth to no-homo him some more, then slam it shut as his stupid evil fingers find that spot on your ribs that-
“Agh-“
-knocks the air out of you.
“Ticklish, eh, Strider?” Jake probes, in tones of absolute triumphant glee.
You keep your mouth shut firmly. You’re a goddamn Strider, and you’re not going to break into hysterical laughter because someone prodded you in a specific area. English, however, has clearly scented blood.
“Come on, pal…” he wheedles, bracing his forearm over your neck so he can whisper straight in your ear. “I think we can both agree you’re in a bit of a bind, Dirk. Don’t make me use deadly action…”
You squirm, caught between panic and immobilising lust - it’s so fucking stupid, you and him both know he’s exaggerating for comic effect, but there’s a very vocal part of you right now that wants to stick your ass up and tell him go ahead.
Instead, you shake your head firmly, jaw clamped tight.
“Alright,” Jake sighs, faux-reluctant. “I suppose you’re asking for it…”
Fuck yeah you are. God, grinding your painfully-hard dick straight into the dirt is starting to chafe like a bitch.
You don’t have time to formulate an escape plan once you wade through the horny haze coating your thought processes, because Jake’s apparently declared war and he’s going all out.
By which you mean, he’s holding you down with the positioning of his weight alone, and both his hands are scrabbling around at your sides, figuring out inventive new ways to make you spasm harder. Insult to injury, your hands are free now, you just don’t have a saint’s chance in hell of recovering them when you’re doing the beached jellyfish under the world’s most oblivious jackass.
After a confusingly arousing assault on your bodily integrity, Jake interrupts your gasps for air with a lofty question, “do you yield, old chap?”
“No.”
He flashes his teeth when he grins, and you swallow hard. “Alright!”
Tickling, you decide, is a cruel and inhumane act that should never be permitted. Specifically when it’s a hot guy dancing ever closer to certain sensitive areas as he sits on your back and laughs at you.
Speaking of which…
“I’m willing to keep going, you know,” Jake says. “Until the very end!”
“Oh no, how will I survi-ve another ten mih- minute attack of lukewarm t-tickling. Have merc-“
The situation goes from bad to the unthinkable very fast. One second, you’re partway through what is promising to be a very longwinded mockery of Jake’s actions, the next his fingers are slipping upwards and scratching, rough and fucking orgasmic, over your nipple.
Your words warp into the most mortifying noise you have ever, and presumably will ever, hear. You sound like a masochist getting hit with a car, and the sensation isn’t far off, either.
Jake stiffens. You wish you were being hit with a car.
“Huh,” he says, and you brace for- fuck, who even knows. Then your mouth falls open in automatic shock, because he’s leaning in and oh fuck, this time it’s definitely not an accident.
Extremely deliberately, Jake fucking English spreads his wide rough hands over your chest and squeezes. The sound of your voice indicates the car has just gone into reverse on the masochist, and you again pray for said car to come and run you over.
“What are you- mnghh fuck-“ you try to speak, Jake fucking pinches your nipple, and you drop the ball like it’s a weirdly racist AI rapper your record signed without looking into. It feels good, though, it’s just rough enough to be thrilling, and it’s Jake English, and you’ve never been so turned on or so humiliated in your life.
“…Oh ho, the plot thickens!” Jake muses. Once again, you try to interject, only to find yourself strangling out another pathetic moan as he twists your flesh experimentally, sending shocks of pleasure-pain skittering through you. “An unexpected development, it seems.”
“Ja-ake, what the f-fuck-“
He waits for you to be mid-sentence before he cuts you off with another hideous wave of aching pleasure. You let out a noise shamefully close to a whimper - at the very least in the same postcode - and slap yourself back down to the ground in an attempt to hide your face.
“Dirk?”
“Ah- fuck-“
Jake looks down at you, eyes glittering like exotic beetles, and catches his lip between his teeth. Amusement rings through his tone like the bell on a cat. “Is something the matter, chum?”
You manage to whip your scrambled brain into forming some kind of sentence about how he’s currently playing your chest like some kind of critically acclaimed nipple virtuoso, and then realise there’s no way you can do that without opening yourself up to questioning about the way you’re breathless and gasping like a stranded fish at a little bit of possibly-ironic groping. Not to mention the world’s most humiliating porno track spilling unstoppably from your traitorous vocal cords - apparently when Jake English is touching you, your mouth opens and it Does Not Close.
You shut your eyes and rest your head against the warm dirt, flailing desperately for a shred of cool. Your hands are free and Jake isn’t even putting all that much force into restraining you right now; there’s nothing stopping you from walking far, far away from this smoking crater of a situation and setting up as a monk elsewhere. Except for the way you’re so turned on, you’re basically as mobile as gelatin. Jake English is bad-touching you in the bikini area, and you want to die, but you also want it to never stop. Ever.
“Strider?” Jake prompts, kind of indulgently. Oh fuck, you bet you’re the colour of puréed cherry right now. Your stupid melanin-deficient skin goes more scarlet than the letter A when you’re wound up like this. “You really aren’t on your best form today, you know?”
It’s more of a stroke this time, and a witty insult turns to a pathetic keen on your lips. You manage to brace an elbow under you before English shooshes you, chuckling, and leans you down again. “None of that, none of that.”
“But-“
“Not until you tap out or say you’re done,” Jake tells you, and your whole body bursts into flame. There’s an underlying challenge in his words, something that makes you suddenly sure this is more than playful teasing.
“I’m- fuck, I’m not-“ you force out, wishing your voice didn’t go to shit every time he touched you.
“Haven’t had enough?” He teases.
You grit your teeth, very aware of the implication in his words. You should think this through, because you swear you can feel something terrifyingly hard pressing against your thigh, and you haven’t planned this at all.
Logic aside, though, your brain is screaming that English is very much feeling you up and implying he’s going to do more if you don’t stop him. You haven’t jerked off to the thought religiously for years just to give up now.
You twist your head to glare at him. “Not yieldi- fuck- I’m not, not doing that-“
“If you’re sure,” he says amiably, all pearly whites and surprisingly skilful hands as you writhe like a fucking worm. “Do feel free to stop me if I really cross the line, though, Strider.”
You weren’t expecting your wrestling tap-out to become a fucking safe word, but you also weren’t expecting that Jake’d swoop down and chomp directly on the junction of your neck and shoulder.
“Agh!”
That’s blood, that’s actual blood, staining Jake’s teeth red as he laves his tongue across your skin.
Your dick is going to explode.
“What the fuck, man?” You try to sound reproving, all virtuous in this shit, but the effect is kinda spoiled by the way you’re fucking humping the dirt at this point. He’s fully groping you now, he’s not even trying to justify it, and it feels like being burnt alive. “Oh god oh fuck-“
“You’re very sensitive,” Jake comments, like he’s not blowing your mind. “I could probably just stay here and talk, and that’d do the job nicely.”
“I-“
“Have you soiling your own trousers for a few pretty words, I reckon.”
You turn your face to side and glare up at him, gasping. “You… are such a… fuck, fuck-“
Finally pausing his disturbingly effective ministrations on your chest, English smiles at you like every gogdamn star in the sky, and you’re dazed enough that you forget to offer token resistance when he snakes a hand under your hips. Not that you really want to. It’s sheer pride at this point, and you have a feeling he knows it.
“May I?”
“Yeah?” You mumble, because you’re a fucking idiot and you can’t say no to him, another thing he knows too well.
He also apparently knows he can get away with unzipping your fly and pulling your fucking trousers down, with your underwear - thanks, English, you’ve always wanted to be bare-ass naked in a fucking jungle.
Actually. Younger Dirk had some pretty grimy fantasies unsettlingly similar to this. Not the point, though.
“Still holding out?”
“Fuck y-yeah, try me.”
Jake palms your ass and you melt, trying to dissolve into the dirt below you. The full force of his scrutiny over your shoulder, his fucking eyes, is simultaneously intoxicating and terrifying. You feel like you’re staring straight at the sun and-
“Hey!“ then you are, because he takes advantage of your horny panic to swipe your glasses off your face. “What the hell, Eng-“
He sends you that endearing, boyish grin, only it hits significantly different when he’s teasing a finger over your asshole. “I said you could tap out whenever, chum.”
“I wasn’t- since when is, is this part of-“ you gasp and bury your face in your arms when his fingertip slowly, delicately starts to push inside you. “Oh.”
“I’ll stop whenever you like,” English tells you, hushed and intimate. “I just sort of get the impression you’d rather I didn’t.”
The feeling of your insides fucking stretching for him - you haven’t tried anything like this in years, and even then it was only one traumatic puberty experience that ended with blood - is a pulsing heat that overpowers the rest of your brain. “Shitfuck.”
“If you’d rather I stop-“
You dig your nails into the ground and curse the way you just tensed up, on his fucking digit, because now he knows- “…Don’t. Fuck.”
You can hear a grin in his words. “Don’t what? Don’t keep going? Well, if you’d-“
God, fuck Jake English, behind the pretty mouth and gorgeous legs lies a heart of pure evil, you hate him and his stupid prick face.
[If he stops now, you’ll fucking die.]
You grit your teeth and swallow your pride. “Don’t stop fucking touching me, you tool.”
“Capital!” He says, and pulls away anyway. You prepare to crumple into a tiny ball of devastated manpain, but then there’s this fucking slick wet noise and you quiver.
His finger glides in easier this time, and you brace against the ground to pray for mercy. “Did you… just fucking- spit? On your hand?”
“Yep.” English scrapes his fingers down your back and you shiver pleasantly. “You know, I’m not a complete dope. I hardly think you’d rather it dry.”
“Spit isn’t an effective, ungh, lube-“
“Better than nothing,” he says brightly. “That’s assuming you’d like me to-“
“…pocket.” You mutter, in a mortified whisper.
“Hm?”
“Fucking pocket, English, jeans, right side.”
Jake makes a dubious noise but goes burrowing through your pocket anyway, eyebrows raising when he finds the small container. “What-“
“‘S fucking coconut oil,” you snap, face aflame. He sends you a shit-eating grin.
“Why on Earth are you carting this about?”
You can tell he’s insinuating shit, maybe even implying you were planning to come on to him, but the actual answer may be more embarrassing. You cover your face. “It’s a goddamn moisturiser, okay? I put it on my hands.”
He blinks and laughs, genuinely amused. “You do? Strider, that’s bally well adorable. I hadn’t pegged you as the type to care about that sort of thing!”
“I’m not.”
“Right on,” he agrees, blatantly disbelieving.
“It’s good for machines,” you lie, and then he’s clicking his tongue, guiding your hips back up in the air. “It’s-“
“Fear not, Dirk, I find your love of soft hands quite charming,” Jake promises, and you glare.
“You don’t have to phrase it like- ah-“ fucking English and his suspiciously timed movements, sliding his finger back into you just as you’re working up to a good rant.
“You know I like your verbal treatises, pal, but we’re going to have to multitask,” he says, like you’re just about to proofread one of his shitty screenplays, and then you’re panting helplessly into the air as he spreads two fingers inside you. “There we go, plum. Easy as.”
“Mnngh.”
“Too much?”
You clutch at the dirt, trying to control your breathing - you’re a fucking Strider, you’re cooler than this - and failing entirely. “Fuck.”
“Let me know when I find it, there’s a chap.”
You grunt vague assent, brace the back of your neck with your hands like you’re in fucking recovery position. “Since when did you- agh- know about - the p-particulars of assfucking, English?”
Jake hums, tongue between his teeth as he focuses, and crooks his fingers experimentally. You wobble. “Ah, you know. One of those things a fellow reads up on.”
“Did you, f-fucking plan this?” You demand. If the answer is yes, you’re going to fucking wreck English’s shit for planning out a scenario where you’re head-down, ass-up in a fucking jungle. With coconut oil in places it was not intended for.
He stops to smile at you, patting your shoulder indulgently. “What? No, no, I just- I wanted to know for personal use, really. You have to be well informed of the risks of that malarkey when you live alone on an island in the middle of Christ-fucking nowhere.”
“Oh.” You wheeze. “Well. Fuck. You, uh, you’re- fucking grand master at sticking shit up your ass, apparently, ‘cause I-“
He snorts. “Plus, my plan was all about the tender moviegroping, Strider! No offence, but I really didn’t foresee you jumping at the chance to do the old dance in the dirt.”
(His plan?)
Your face heats. “That’s- that’s on you.”
“For assuming you have higher standards, chap?” Jake sends you an irresistible smile. “I suppose you’re not wrong.”
“Yeah, case in po-point-“ Oh shit that’s good. Curse English, the way he’s messing with your words cannot be tolerated. You lean up on your arm to try and swat him for his timing again. “Cut it out-“
Not breaking his rhythm, Jake grabs the back of your neck and pushes you firmly down to the ground again. “Hold still, pet.”
Umph. Speechless, you press your wrist to your mouth and tremble on the spot, shameful floods of sticky arousal welling up in you. He just fucking- oh, shit.
“There’s the puppy-“ Jake muses, just as your whole core goes hot and liquid and your knees jellify. “Status report, pal?”
“Mnghfuck.”
“Oh?”
“You’re good at this,” you mumble bitterly. “Shit. Ignore that. This is so fucking uncool of me, Jesus, I’m-“
“Doing absolutely splendid, sugarlump,” Jake interrupts, and you groan again. “Are you quite alright?”
“You just called me fuck- fucking sugarlump,” you point out, grinding helplessly into him. “I can’t believe I let you, ah, put your fingers in my ass, what the fuck.”
“I thought you liked ponies,” he says slyly, and your dick twitches. He’s such an asshole, and you’re so regrettably into it. “I don’t suppose your generous toleration of my advances might stretch to my prick, would it?”
You bite back a noise as you process that statement, and then you’re nodding, pulling at your own hair as you rock against his fingers. “Yeah, okay.”
“Excellent.” Jake declares. “To be perfectly honest, Strider, I’m mostly just winging it at this point. You’ll tell me if it hurts?”
“Trust me, you’ll know.”
He chuckles, reaching over to run his fingers through your hair. “Sorry, chap, not to ruin your stylish grooming, just-“
You open your mouth to tell him to get around to it before a nearby woodland fawn calls the deer police for public indecency, and then your teeth click shut as he presses the blunt head of his dick up against you.
“You’re sure?-“
“Yes.”
“Roger that,” he says, and then he’s pushing in, a slippery glide that still doesn’t feel slippery enough, and your whole body is shaking like he’s compromised your structural integrity. It takes time to work his way inside you fully, and he’s quiet with concentration.
You’re loud enough to make up for the both of you. You start moaning the second he’s in, and you’re only picking up volume as you go. In your defence, this is way harder than it looks in porn - you feel like there’s a fucking steel rod up your ass, you have no idea how people used to do this regularly - and for once in your life, you’re not focused on strategy. You head is empty, your palms are clammy, and you sound like a goddamn wounded muscle beast.
By the time Jake’s fully seated inside you - holy fuck, Jesus Christ - his dick’s nudging at a spot up there that makes your brain go fuzzy with static. “Mnngh-“
“Fuck, Dirk,” Jake says baldly, and you clench up all over. The sensation of doing so is so weird it makes you even tenser, and you can feel his cock fucking throb inside you, alien and strange. “Look at that.”
You try and find the words. “…or not…”
“No, really.” He smooths his hand up the minimal curve of your hip. “You’re a fucking vision, love.”
His words sting some fucked-up part of your brain. You turn your face back onto your hands, stomp the pathetic trickle down. “Yeah, sure, just- just fucking move, alright?”
“Are you hurt?”
You send him an impatient glance, suddenly unpleasantly aware of just how vulnerable you are, trapped under his stare like a butterfly under glass. “Nope.”
Jake rubs your side, hesitant. “You sound upset.”
“Jesus, English, could we can the poetry and just get to railing?” You snip, prickly with tension. “I don’t need you to flatter me, man.”
“I’m not!” He retorts, a familiar determined note entering his voice, and you sigh. Great going, Strider, you’ve made it a Thing. “I’m just trying to convey to you, chum, that you’re a blasted delight to the eyes. Is that not allowed?”
“Goddammit,” you mutter, distracted by the throbbing weight of him inside you, the itchy pleasure that lingers just out of reach. “What, do they teach you to do that in assfucking 101, too?”
Jake waits out the silence for a moment, and then pulls out, a bizarre drag of a sensation that has you twitching with stimulation. Your whole body feels cold - you’ve fucked up again, you’ve ruined shit as is the Strider special, he doesn’t want you anymore and this time you have no one to blame but yourself-
You will deny the squeak you make to the day you die, but suddenly English’s hands are on your hips and he’s rolling you over.
You hiss as you go, abruptly a thousand times more vulnerable with your exposed torso and embarrassingly hard dick out on display, but Jake catches your eyes and you go silent. He looks, uh- you don’t know. Maybe you’d call it a smoulder, in that his eyes are burning darkly out of his face.
“Dirk,” he says tightly.
You flinch and fix your eyes on his left ear - he can’t hurt you if you don’t let him, emotions are for pussies, etc. He makes a frustrated noise and cups your face, unspeakably tender in the weirdest way. “Oh, lord- Just stay with me, chap.”
“I’m literally pinned beneath you,” you try to snap. It comes out breathless and whispery, delicate as a fucking flower. “Where do you think I’d go?”
“I’m usually the one weaselling off, aren’t I?” Jake concedes ruefully. “But I’ve got to admit, it’s- it’s rather fucking pleasant, having you like this.”
Your heart jumps into your mouth - that sounded dangerously close to a genuine personal statement, from Jake fucking English of all people. If you could look away from his low-lidded eyes, you’re reasonably sure there has to be at least one flying pig behind him.
“What does that mean?” Shit, you sound like a greasy teenager, all shaky voice-cracks and hormones.
He just looks down at you, your legs still sprawled helplessly on either side of his knees, and strokes his thumb over your hip again. “…like this, I suppose.”
“You mean half naked and bitchy with an awkward boner?”
English has the audacity to look at you like you’re the crazy one. “No, love. And for the record, I’d be pretty damn concerned if you weren’t, ah, as invested in this as I. Boner-wise.”
Love. There’s that term again. He doesn’t- he doesn’t call you that very often. It doesn’t mean shit, just that he’s feeling sentimental. It’s enough, though: the sheer knowledge that Jake is watching you with eyes gone liquid with affection is always going to be more than enough.
“Well. Congrats,” you say stiltedly, trying to ignore the way his battered shorts are tugged down his hips, smooth cinnamon-brown skin against grey cargo. He only took them down enough to slip his dick out, which, woah-
“Dirk?”
You cough, ears burning, and tip your eyes away from his crotch. Fuck, this is why you wear sunglasses. “Right!”
“So your answer to my question about whether you’d like to continue or stop is… right?” Jake asks, all wide-eyes and polite confusion. The impact is slightly ruined by the way his eyebrows have quirked, a tell-tale giveaway. He’s fucking with you, the asshole. He knows.
You swallow so hard it hurts. “Sorry, dude.”
“No, it’s…” English hesitates a second, then crawls forward to sit right back into the v of your thighs. “Um. I suppose it’s only natural to be curious, chum. I, ah, I haven’t seen… yours is- well, the first, other than mine.”
“Mhmm.” You creak, eyes fixed on the dark hair trailing down his abdomen.
“It’s quite fascinating, isn’t it?” He ponders, and then reaches out and just fucking strokes your exposed boner. You quiver all over, the barely-restrained dam of uncontrollable horniness breaking, and make another wounded-animal noise. Jake’s hand snaps back like a startled bird. “Oh!”
You clap a hand over your mouth, so fucking stimulated you feel like your particles are vibrating. The last time you felt this intense, you’d accidentally taken three times the dose of adhd meds you found in Bro’s room. The buzz is kind of dampened, though, by another crawling burst of shame. “Fuck. Sorry. Ignore me.”
“No, I just- Judas at a bloody jive, I’m bungling this, aren’t I? I should’ve asked first-“
“Dude,” you say, slightly desperately. “You can touch my dick.”
Jake English visibly brightens, and you wonder if you hit your head during wrestling and induced a horny hallucination. “Really? Swell. Let me just, ah…” be hovers awkwardly, then replaces his fingers on your skin.
“Nnrgh.”
“Not good?”
You open your mouth just wide enough to grit out “don’t stop,” then shut that shit back down before you tell him you love him or something. He just- he’s being so careful with it, so fucking clumsy in the sweetest way, all his confidence from earlier gone, and it’s fucking endearing. Forget scheming Jake, nervously charming Jake owns your stupid heart.
“You know, you’re, um. It’s quite pretty,” he says, once he’s figured out a rhythm that shatters your brain into scrambled eggs. You goggle.
“Whuh?”
“Your cock,” he clarifies, like that’s the confusing part.
“Pretty?” You strangle out.
“Well, it is!”
“‘S a, a fucking dick, Strider. They’re not- they’re not pretty.”
Jake flicks his wrist, this perfect scrape of friction and oh god, oh fuck, he’s getting his confidence back. “I don’t see why not! There must be something to generate all the palaver throughout history. Plus, I think yours is.”
You briefly pause in clawing your nails into the dirt to peer at your own dick. It’s flushed and very pale against Jake’s hand, enveloped snugly, and you can really just see the tip between movements. It’s not anything special.
Jake’s hand, though…
You twitch and he grins, relaxing slightly. “There we go! Anyway, look at- well, fuck, just look at you, plum. Yours is prettier than mine, at least.”
Curiosity finally overcoming your self-preservation instinct, you let your eyes fall on his erection.
Damn.
“…how did that fit in my ass.”
Jake stops. “Pardon?”
“How the fuck,” you emphasise, leaning forward to point between his legs, “did that fit in my fucking ass?”
He squints like he’s expecting a truck question. “Ah, lube? Good manly gusto and vim?”
“Jesus,” you say. He’s just. He’s bigger than you, not like you’re insecure, more… you’ve never had a thing for that. You’ve never been interested in the receiving end, if that makes sense. There’s absolutely no fucking precedent for the way your whole body just clenched, empty and wanting.
Jake sends you a curious look, hands moving to your thighs. “What’s cogitating in that clever noggin, eh?”
“Dude,” you start, mouth dry. “One-time offer to, uh, to ride the Strider express. You want?”
“What do you mean by that?”
You take a deep breath. “You put your junk in my ass again and we cha cha, what do you think?”
“I’m just asking, bro!” He responds with customary Jake English shock at the implication he’s being obtuse. He’s only moving closer though. “Are you sure?”
“If the answer’s no-“
“It’s not, Strider, don’t be such a morb-monger. I just thought you maybe didn’t like it?”
Taken aback, you blink at him. Since this whole - god only knows how you’d classify this shit, actually - situation started, the only things you’ve done are lose control of your limbs through sheer touch-starved bliss and make obscene whimpering noises. “What?”
“You know, I did sort of, ah, spring it on you? And I know you’re more than capable of saying no, but you didn’t seem to, um, be having a good time?”
“I was.” You say blankly.
“Well. You seemed a tad vexed,” Jake elaborates. “I thought maybe you weren’t all that comfy.”
You take a second to process that, then mentally slam your face into the nearest hard surface. This whole fucking time, you’ve been losing your shit trying not to dissolve into a pathetic needy puddle of loser, and Jake’s been assuming the opposite. Why is it that every time you try to act natural, you end up convincing everyone you know that you’re a quietly contemptuous asshole instead?
“…Strider?”
“I want your dick in me,” you tell him, as bluntly as possible. “English, I want you to fuck me so hard I taste my own tears for weeks.”
“Well.” Jake goes suddenly, conspicuously red. “That sounds dagblastedly unpleasant, Strider. The tears thing, that is.”
On one hand, you’re the most hideously anxious person you know, and you’re pretty much begging the love of your life to please, please dick you down. On the other, you’re not sure how much longer your brain can sustain this much blood flow to your dick before it just drops off.
Slowly, you let yourself shift backwards, spreading your legs just a little wider. It’s an invitation. You feel like a fucking scarlet woman.
Your plan works, for once.
“Well. You are, just- just an absolute picture, Dirk,” Jake informs you, sliding in close. God, he’s warm. And he’s staring you right in the eyes. Shit. You should’ve just flipped over and stuck your ass back up, there’s no way you’ll last with his face right there. “Jammy as a tapioca pudding, and such.”
“I, ah-“ you bite down furiously on your lip when he lines himself up with you again, suppressing a weird croak at the feeling of him pushing inside - it’s painful and achy but inexplicably satisfying in a raw animal way. “I don’t know what you’re talking ab, about-“
“Shh-shh, one sec, there’s a sweetheart,” he mutters, reaching forward to steady you just as he hits that fucking spot inside that sends you tumbling. “There we go.”
“Yep.”
“How’s that?” Jake asks, looking down at you anxiously. If you thought this was hard before, when you couldn’t see him, it’s a thousand times more dangerous when he’s cosseting you like this. Like more than a friend he’s fucking, like more than you’re worth as a person.
His mouth is chapped. Oh, god, what if he kisses you?
“It’s fine.”
What if he doesn’t?
“Fine?”
What if you kiss him?
“Your girthy manrod is, ah, is currently rammed up right next to my prostate, E-English, I’m not feeling very, very eloquent-“
Jake snorts and accidentally thrusts against an area so sensitive it fucking breaks your stability. One second you’re falling backwards like a dumbass, the next Jake English has snagged you and is pulling you on top of him.
Oh, that’s a whole new feeling. Holy shit.
“I thought you might like to be top pillow,” he says. “Reckon you can handle the heat, chum?”
You don’t even try to mock his corniness, you just collapse forward and hide in his shoulder. This angle is something else, warped and strange and completely consuming you with burning pleasure.
“‘M’not yielding,” you mumble, like either of you still care.
Jake takes firm grip of your hips, pulling you down against him, and your barely-regained sanity gymnastically flips all the way off the balance beam and out the window. He chuckles nervously when your arms fly up and around him, and then you’re clutching at him like the last piece of driftwood left of the Titanic in an icy sea. You can’t stop panting, huge gulpy inhales as the air squeezes out of you.
“Dirk?”
“I’m not going to last,” you say breathlessly. “Make the most of i-it-“
Jake apparently takes your advice, because you don’t even finish your sentence before he’s digging his fingers back into your skin and fucking grabbing, lifting - and then he’s fucking you for real, English is slamming into you like an oblivious houseguest into a glass door, and it’s glorious.
It’s something like a minute of rough pounding before you lose it, stars and dizziness and complete collapse; you shudder your way through orgasm while he keeps going, sensitive fuck ow, fuck yeah-
“I can pull-“
“Don’t,” you cut in, black spots still throbbing in your vision. “Oh, fuck, keep going-“
“It doesn’t hurt?” He prods, and God, look at him. He’s flushed from his hairline all the way down, sweat trickling along his torso, and you give in. You nod quickly, crush even closer, and then you kiss Jake English right on his pretty rosebud mouth at last.
Some small part of was still kind of expecting him to deck you. Most of you assumed it’d be an awkward clammy thing you’d both try to forget.
Exactly 0% of you anticipated Jake finally letting out a groan of his own, almost as discomposed as you are, and fully tackling you backwards.
Your back hits the ground with a light thud; he licks the roof of your mouth, presses you down, grinds into you like a wild animal. It’s so raw and sensitive that it hurts, the kind of hurt you want to keep forever, and he’s kissing you like the last scene of a shitty romance film.
“Dirk, you’re absolutely fucking lovely,” he gasps, straight into your neck, and you just about manage to cling on for your life. A moment later, he’s stifling a groan into your neck as he finishes, and oh, uh, that’s another incredibly bizarre feeling to add to the list. Your insides are… slicker than usual. You’re caught somewhere between disgust and overwhelming satisfaction.
(Satisfaction wins. For now).
Jake flops on you. “…golly.”
You peer up, careful not to dislodge his head from your shoulder. “I, uh, I think you can graduate to big boy swears, now, bro.”
“My torment at your hands is everlasting,” he mumbles, rolling off with a peaceable smile. He doesn’t go far, though, just loops an arm around you and wedges you firmly into his shoulder.
“Fuck yeah it is,” you retort. “I’m- I’m fucking sticky. I feel like a discarded sock, tossed from my brethren to rot in squalor under a teenage boy’s bed-“
“I offered to pull out!”
You roll your eyes and rest your head back on his shoulder, revelling for a moment in the temporary intimacy. Just a fuck, no reason to suspect anything more, he’s an affectionate guy-
“Dirk?”
“Yeah?”
“Does this mean you’ll be my boyfriend?” English asks hopefully.
You choke on your own tongue.