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Your name is Jake English, and you really like action movies. Well, you really like movies in general, but you won't admit to liking certain kinds (romcoms for example, golly how embarrassing). Your favorite moment in movies is when the protagonist suddenly finds themselves in that moment of deep revelation, where they take a step back and look at their lives and wonder, “How did I get here?” You always wondered what it would be like to be in that sort of situation. How exciting would that be, right? Here you find yourself in a dangerous, intense, thrilling situation, and you're not even sure what events led you there!
Suddenly, however, you're finding yourself not so very curious. In fact, you wish you had never been curious. Right now, you're feeling closer to absolute mortification; you'd really like to practice your ostrich imitation, or just sink into the floor, or appear-ify yourself to anywhere but here.
“Here” is pinned onto the floor of your bedroom underneath your exceptionally muscular best friend, Dirk Strider.
You and he were just having a friendly wrestling match, a simple training strife. So how did this happen, exactly? Most of your wrestling matches eventually ended with him pinning you to the floor in one way or another, but somehow this session had gotten a little...intense.
=> Jake: Be the other guy.
You are now the other guy. Or rather, you're Dirk Strider, the one pinning your best friend to the floor in what had been a friendly wrestling match. You say “had been” because it was just a friendly wrestling match, and the pinning was part of it, but you sort of froze, and you think he might have, too. Now you're stuck in this really weird, awkward position with one of your knees planted firmly between his and your left hand gripping his left wrist while your right is twisting his right into the small of his back, pressing him face-first into the floorboards.
All of this made slightly more awkward by the fact that you were leaning maybe a little too close, and he was breathing a little too hard, and neither one of you had made an effort to move or speak. In fact, you realize a little too late that it's probably an extremely uncomfortable position for your friend to be stuck in, so you let up, releasing his hands and scooting backward to sit back on your heels. It's like someone flipped a switch, because all of a sudden Jake is in motion again, sitting up and rubbing at his face. He doesn't look at you while he fixes his glasses, and you sit there stupidly, arms hanging at your sides, waiting for him or you to speak.
“Look, English,” you start to say, but suddenly there's something very hard and fist-shaped connecting with your face. You're knocked back, catching yourself with your elbow on the floor, and you sit up again, holding your cheek with a tiny bit of shock. Jake is sitting across from you, less than two feet away, holding his obviously bruised fist and seething with rage. You're not exactly sure what caused this reaction, so you just sit there staring at him, waiting for an explanation or a second blow. He doesn't speak, though, and you're both staring at each other, just staring. You're really trying to understand what's going on here, but for the life of you, you can't even begin to explain it to yourself. You briefly consider consulting AR, but your glasses were cast aside at the beginning of your little tussle, not to mention the bastard would probably be too smug about being asked for help.
After another long, strained minute of silence, you try again. “Jake?”
This time he out-right tackles you, grabbing at your collar and pulling you toward him while his other hand pushes at your face and the bruise forming on your cheek. You gather your wits enough to fight back, pushing at his chest with your knees, hands trying to shove his away. He's gnashing his teeth against his lower lip in his rage, his glasses askew and hair even more messy than before. You're distracted by a breathy noise he makes, and in the second you stop fighting back, he gets the upper hand and shoves you down onto the floor, hard. Your head snaps back and hits the wood boards, making you wince openly for a minute, spots exploding across your eyes. Your vision swims for a minute, and you register that his hands are pushing at your shoulders, your thighs locked between his knees, and he's breathing hard again. You blink once, twice, trying to see clearly, and flex your fingers. He gives your hands a side-long glance, seems to realize that he's left them available for you to use, then seems to decide against pinning them down.
You don't know what possesses you, but you reach up slowly, very slowly, and grab his glasses with both hands. He simply looks at you, catching his breath, and lets you remove them. You toss them carefully to the side, and you hear them slide across the floor in the direction of your bed.
Something shifts in his eyes and you see he's ready to fight again, but you're not. Maybe it's teenage hormones, or maybe you've simply lost control of your life, but you lean up and try to kiss him. It's a disaster, really, because your foreheads connect first, and you both reel back a bit, him releasing one of your shoulders to rub at his head, you wincing again and laying your head back down against the floor. When you open your eyes again, he's looking at you with no small amount of irritation, teeth worrying at that lower lip again, and you lean up to try again. This time you angle your head differently, avoiding bashing your heads together, but when you try to connect your mouth to his, your teeth clack and he lets out this little squeak.
Frustrated, you reach up and take hold of his head with both of your hands and pull him down to you, pressing your lips against his firmly. His mouth is pliant and unresponsive against yours, so you let go and lay your head back, looking up at him. His lips are rosy from the sudden attention, and he's looking at you very blankly. You realize you've fucked up big time, and you try to duck out from under him while he's distracted, but he holds fast.
“What,” he starts to say, then stops, swallows, and purses his lips. He chews the inside of his cheek for a second, then tries again, “What,” but he can't seem to get the words right and just stops.
You look up at him and shrug, feeling defeated for possibly the first time in your amateur teenage floor-wrestling career. His hands are planted on either side of your head, now, and he drums his fingers against the hard wood like this is helping him think, and maybe it is.
“Jake,” you start, but he shakes his head hard, silencing you. You frown, sigh, and close your eyes. Don't worry, you think. I've got all day.
=> Dirk: Be Jake.
You've gone back to being Jake, and you don't know what you're doing, but you're kissing your best friend and you think you like it.
You're still really confused as to how you got into this situation, but at this point you really don't care. You're kissing your best friend and he's kissing back, and even though it's sort of wet and weird and sloppy, it's sort of enjoyable.
You admitted to yourself a while ago that if the opportunity ever arose, you'd give your best friend a chance in the romantic sense. Who are you to limit yourself to persons of the undeniably attractive female persuasion? You've never felt particularly attracted to any men before, but you know that you're a teenager with bizarre raging hormones that aren't always honest with you, and in turn, you aren't always honest with yourself. Your best friend is an attractive guy, to be certain, and he's, well, your best friend! You've always been there for each other, through thick and thin, and isn't that what relationships are supposed to be about? So in a way, you were already dating without knowing it!
This train of thought isn't helping your current situation, you realize, and you quickly pull the emergency brake, both on your mind and your actions. You jerk back from the kiss with astonishing speed, staring down at the blond under you with no small amount of mixed emotions. His face is bright red and he looks like he's just finished running a marathon, and he's staring at you like a deer caught in headlights. You never thought you'd see Strider blush, but there's got to be a first for everything, right?
Like your first kiss, you remind yourself, which you just had with your best friend, and which was astonishingly not terrible.
You're brought back to reality by Dirk suddenly laughing, a short, clipped laugh in an exhale of breath. You almost think for a second that you're hallucinating it, but with the puff of breath ghosting across your cheek, it must be a pretty vivid hallucination. When you look down at him, really focus, he's staring up at you with those incredible, impossible orange eyes, expression displaying something that you're not sure how to read; you've never seen your best friend so open – so vulnerable – before.
You wonder, suddenly, if you should move. If you're making him uncomfortable hovering over him like this, but when you start to shift, he looks almost panicked and grabs for your wrists, holding them in place.
“Strider,” you say, and realize suddenly how dry your mouth is despite your overly-wet kissing just a moment ago. You try to lick your lips to wet them, but it barely helps. “We should- I mean.”
“Shut up,” he cuts you off, and you snap your mouth shut quickly and firmly, looking at him for more direction. He opens his mouth to speak again, pauses, and you realize he's shaking. Barely, but he is. He reaches up with trembling hands and grips either side of your face, fingers brushing clumsily against your cheeks, nose, lips, eyebrows, ears, and when they reach the sides of your neck below your ears, you let out the most undignified, unmanly giggle ever. He stops, looks at you frozen in horror as you try to duck your head into your shoulders to shield your neck from more contact, but the damage is already done. His fingers brush across your skin again and you let out another squeak, shuddering all the way down to your toes, and he seems to like this, because suddenly a smirk splits his face and he's trying other spots on your body, wherever he can reach – under your arms, your sides, the backs of your knees – to elicit more reactions. You had never told him that you're incredibly ticklish. It was never something that had come up in conversation, and you had wanted to save yourself the embarrassment of the revelation anyway, but now the cat's out of the bag, you guess.
He continues his tickling assault for a moment, stopping with his hands resting gently on your sides, and when you pry your eyes open to look at him, suppressing the last of your giggles, he's not smiling. He's giving you the most intense look you've ever been on the receiving end of, and you're absolutely terrified of it for reasons you can't explain, even to yourself. All you know is you want him to stop (and also to never, ever stop) and so you lean down and kiss him again.
This time when he kisses you back, his fingers close around the fabric on your sides, and he tugs ever-so-gently at your shirt, bringing your body a fraction closer to his as you try to navigate lips and teeth. You're struggling with this whole kissing thing, but he seems to know what he's doing, because he's introducing tongue into the equation, and you're totally lost, but when he curls his tongue around yours and flicks the tip of it across your upper lip, you practically melt. You decide that maybe it'll be better if you leave the kissing business up to him, and you let him lead the next wave of sloppy makeouts.
=> Jake: Be Dirk.
Oh, you're Dirk, all right, and you're making out with your best friend on your bedroom floor. You're sort of clutching to him for dear life, to be honest, because a part of you firmly believes that this cannot possibly be a thing that is actually happening. However, the part of you that says, “We're doing this, we're making it happen,” is strongly overpowering your doubt. You sort of tug at his shirt lamely, not really sure what you're doing, but feeling like just gripping the fabric isn't enough. When you nibble gently on his lower lip, he makes the best noise, the strangest mixture of a squeak and a whine that makes your stomach twist in the most deliciously uncomfortable way. You want him to make that noise – and every possible variation of it – for ever and ever. But he's pulling away, and you're gripping his sides tighter suddenly, constantly paranoid that he's going to suddenly change his mind.
“Maybe we should get off of the floor,” is all he says, looking down at you with flushed cheeks (and nose, and lips, and the tips of his ears are bright red, how fucking cute is that?), and you simply reply with, “Nah,” before pulling him down and pressing your lips to his cheeks, his jaw, his neck – every inch of skin you can reach.
He squirms on top of you, making little breathy noises as you kiss and bite at his neck, reddening the skin and ravishing it with your mouth. You bite, run over the mark with your tongue, then kiss and suck at it, leaving an angry red hickey just to the side of his adam's apple. He's gripping your shoulders, sitting on your thighs and just breathing, gasping, squirming, and you've never been more turned on in your horny, hormone-filled teenage life.
Your hands have moved from his sides down to his hips, and then they're moving again, down to his belt and you've already got it undone by the time your mouth meets his again. This time he's kissing back with more vigor, determined to figure out the proper ratio of teeth and tongue, and his hands aren't on your shoulders anymore. They're pushing the bottom of your shirt up, and up, and his fingers are tracing the slight muscles in your chest and brushing across your nipples, and you bite down a little harder on his bottom lip and he keens and digs his short, blunt nails into your skin.
You're fighting with the button and zipper on his shorts when he breaks the kiss and decides to help you, shoving your hands out of the way and getting the fasteners out of the way before he leans back down and resumes the kiss. You're grateful for the help and reach into his shorts, playing with the top hem of his boxer-briefs, and he's shuddering and gasping against your mouth as your hand dips lower and caresses his erection through the cotton undergarment. His hands have gone still against your chest again, and you smirk as you stroke him again, more firmly this time, and he outright moans into your mouth, shaking and sort of half-grinding into the touch.
He opens his eyes and looks down at you, face red and mouth open, breathing hard onto your face, and you can't even force yourself to smirk up at him. Your fingers touch the waistband of his boxer-briefs again, a question, and he sort of nods, so you dip your fingers inside and wrap them around his erection. His eyes slide closed and he's squirming again, trying to buck into your hand, breathing and gasping and moaning.
“Dirk,” he gasps, bites his lip. You stroke him, once, slowly, and suddenly he's moaning almost incoherently, “Oh god, Dirk, oh dear god, oh please.”
You bite your lip, pull him the rest of the way out of his shorts and underwear, and start a rhythm of long, even strokes. He gasps and grabs at your shirt, your chest, your stomach, and then he's reaching for the button of your jeans and you let him fumble with it while you jerk him off.
He gets the button undone and the zipper down, and then he's reaching into your pants and your boxers. Your head tips back, hits and sort of bounces off of the floor, and you let out a breathy moan as he cautiously, tentatively touches the head of your erection.
“Jake,” you're trying to keep your composure, but with the way he's trying to grind into your hand and the way he's looking down at you with his bottom lip trapped between his teeth, he's making this really hard on you. He touches you again, then pulls you out of your boxers and just looks for a minute, really looks, and wraps his hand around your dick carefully – almost reverently – and strokes. You gasp, try to arch into it but he's still sitting on your thighs so your hips only move a fraction of an inch. This makes him smile this weird, dorky half-smile, though, and he does it again and then you're both jerking each other off and it's amazing.
You're laying on the floor gasping and clutching at his hip, your other hand stroking him firmly but not slowly, and he's sitting on top of you, barely keeping himself balanced as he tweaks one of your nipples, then the other. He keeps playing with them, drawing little circles around them with his fingertips while he strokes you slowly. You've had about as much of this as you can take, and you release your hold on his erection, on his hip, and pull him down for a kiss. He stops what he's doing with both of his hands, kisses you back enthusiastically, and when the kiss breaks he reaches for your dick again. You swat his hand away, taking hold of his thighs with both of your hands and you pull him further up on your body, closer to your hips, and he complies and scoots up so he's straddling you.
You're finally able to push out a smirk, and his reaction is nothing short of arousal-muddled confusion. You wrap your hand around his cock again, stroke it once, twice, then you open your hand and grab your own erection along with his. He gasps, groans, bucks his length against yours, and you stroke them together, thumbing across the head of his dick and smearing your precum together. He practically growls, bucking into your grip, and you grin and stroke the both of you together again, bucking in time with your strokes, rubbing your erections together and groaning.
You let your head fall back against the floor again and you form a steady pace again, stroking firmly but more quickly this time, and his hands are back on your chest and he's moaning and and whining and bucking on top of you. You can tell he's getting more impatient, more desperate, and you pick up the pace of your stroking as he bucks faster and harder against you, pressing your dicks as close together as he can, grinding on you.
“Dirk, please. Please, please, please,” he's gasping, almost hysteric as you stroke and he grinds, and he's practically sobbing. “Dirk, oh god, Dirk, oh please, oh god, yes, yes, yes.”
You grit your teeth and close your eyes and you're shuddering, shaking, stroking yourself and him, moving your dick against his, and you don't realize it but you're talking nonsense, too. “Jake, fuck, you're so hot, I love you, I love you, oh fuck, Jake, oh yes.”
He leans down and presses his mouth to yours, silencing you both, and the frantic thrusting and grinding and stroking gains pace and loses rhythm, and suddenly Jake's gone rigid on top of you and he's chanting against your mouth, “Oh Dirk, oh god, oh yes,” and he's coming in your hand and on your stomach and you join him, messing up your stomach further, covering your hand and both of your dicks.
You gasp, shudder, and slowly stop stroking as Jake groans and leans his head down to rest in the crook of your neck. You're both breathing impossibly hard, and you slowly pull your sticky hand out from between the two of you, letting it fall to the floor limply. He's laying on top of you, and you're both trying to catch your breath, and your stomach (and now his, he's leaning too close, his shirt is going to be disgusting, you'll have to wash it before he goes home) and hand are covered in semen, and you're absolutely spent, but you've never felt better in your life.
It seems like you're laying like that for hours, but it's only a couple of minutes, and after he's caught his breath he slowly sits up and looks down at you, face still pink and lips swollen and red, hickeys covering his neck. You look up at him with your lips pressed tight, and you're not sure what you're expecting, but suddenly he's grinning and laughing softly, and so you laugh, too, and it's really not that funny but you can't help it.
“I think maybe I should visit you more often,” he says between giggles, and you nod, smiling breathlessly again.
“I think maybe we should wrestle more often,” you say, and he thwaps you weakly on the arm, but he's grinning, so you assume he agrees.
“Let's get cleaned up before your brother gets home,” and he's climbing off of you, knees red from pressing against the floor and legs shaking. You look down at your messed stomach, peel your shirt off with your clean hand, and use it to wipe away as much of the semen as you can. You clean your hands and stomach off, then sit up, stiff and sore, and he's looking at your from the doorway, shirt already off, and he's laughing.
“I told you we should move to the bed.”
You throw your dirty shirt at him, and he ducks out of the way, laughing.
“Hey,” he says as you climb to your feet, feeling stiff and sticky and utterly satisfied. “Your shower is big enough for two, right?”