Your name is Dirk Strider, and you're stuck on an island in the middle of nowhere. You're really starting to wonder now why on earth you decided to come visit Jake in the first place. It wasn't a big deal to come down here at all, your guardian having access to many a private airplane and all. But now that you're here and completely out of cellphone range you're not so sure it was such a good decision.
It's only been two days and the only thing that you're sick and tired of more than shitty movies is motherfucking adventures. You're not the kind of dude that does all of that rough-and-tumble horseshit. Oh, so you're feeling the need to go raid some festering tomb? Maybe you'd prefer to pluck some serendipitous flower off a distant mountain? Or explore the depths of one sprawling, labyrinthian cave after another? Duh. That's what robots are for. Obviously.
So today you did not accompany Jake on his morning requisite tour de force in the ruins. Today you're also really trying not to envision the hurt look on Jake's face when you turned down his invitation but it keeps being there, swimming behind your eyes whenever you stop being distracted for the tiniest instant. A bit of guilt has also somehow managed to squirm its way halfway up your esophagus, and it's still there, just wriggling around, making you feel like a terrible person and a worse guest.
Jake. Ugh. What a nightmare.
So when Jake comes back in through the door, you're about to apologize to him and say you'll go with him tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that, that today was only a minor setback in the entire two week adventuring, gun-toting extravaganza you are definitely and without a doubt looking forward to.
Oh sweet merciful jesus, is that mud?
You realize that it's a little more than just mud that is somehow all over Jake -- it is definitely muck, with plenty of plant debris squished into it and a fine coating of dust. Your expression must have asked the question that your mouth was patently unable to eject, because Jake shrugs and grins that devil-may-care grin of his and says, "I fell in a hole." You're sure that the full story far, far, far surpasses "I fell in a hole" by about three hundred million miles, and that it involves Jake hanging on a rope by his teeth or something equally as ridiculous that you never would have believed to be true before two days ago except now you've actually seen that kind of thing happen with your very own eyes.
You eye the muddy tracks leading inside from the doorway and wince. Before he can take another step you're ordering him to take his damn shoes off and before you really know what you're doing you're pulling his overshirt off him from behind and dropping it in a heap just inside the door and starting to pull his t-shirt off over his head.
"What are you doing?" Jake demands, squirming back into his shirt, and you jump back, trying to get as little of that disgusting muck on you as possible.
"Were you really intending to just waltz in here and then…continue on with the rest of your customary daily habits? Looking like that?"
Jake looked puzzled. There is a streak of mud across his face, all the way across, culminating in a mess of it on his cheek and forehead that continues up into his hair. It is starting to dry in places, and his hair is now sticking up in dirty clumps. You can't take your eyes off it, it's so horrifying. "Why ever not?"
"You are covered in mud. It's going to get on everything."
"So, what? It's only dirt."
This is simply more than you can take. As soon as you've made sure his shoes and socks are without a doubt staying put beside the door you're dragging him off to the nearest bathroom and turning on the tap.
"What are you doing?" he asks, looking a little suspicious, and you huff.
"I'm supervising your cleaning process. Because I," you pause, pulling once again at the hem of his mud-caked t-shirt and this time he lets you pull it over his head, "do not for a nanosecond," you pull off his glasses and set them in the sink, "trust you to do it correctly." He bats your hands away from his trousers and undoes his belt himself, flushing a little underneath all that dirt. You don't have time to think about that now. Oh dear god, that dirt.
Jake keeps his back to you as he climbs into the shower, and with satisfaction you watch the first dirty rivulets spiraling down the drain into dilution and eventual obliteration. Fuck yes. You grab a bottle of shampoo and squirt far more than is necessary out onto Jake's hair. The mud hasn't had the chance to dry too thoroughly, so it comes out fairly easily. Spatters of soapy mud hit the shower tile as you scrub Jake's hair for him, and you don't stop until you are sure there are no more three-dimensional gobs of mud adhered to his scalp. Then you make him rinse out the shampoo, and then you wash it all over again.
His face is next. You pull him back around to face you, and he, surprisingly, doesn't resist this. The water running down from his hair has already started to send streams of dirty water down his neck and chest; you go ahead and wet down a washcloth and start wiping at the side of his face. Most of it comes away without much trouble, so you rinse out the washcloth and start on the more difficult bits up at the soft hairs right next to his hairline. He has his eyes closed, and his eyelashes are surprisingly long and very dark. You haven't really seen him without glasses on before. You most definitely haven't seen him this close without them.
You rinse the washcloth out once again and start on his arms and hands. You can't help but compare your own: scrawny and pale, skinny girly fingers. His arms are tan and you can feel the muscle definition as you run the washcloth along his upper arms. His hands are much broader than yours, his nails blunter. They're intoxicatingly boyish and now that there isn't quite as much mud you realize exactly what you're doing and oh my god, what are you doing?!
There is a definite blush on his cheeks; his eyes are still closed, though they flutter open halfway when your scrubbing slows and ceases entirely. Now you're just left standing awkwardly close to him, one of your hands at his elbow and the other holding one of his. Your eyes catch and and it feels like an electric shock has gone through you, blazing a trail of heat down through your stomach straight to your groin. Uh oh. Oh no.
Jake moistens his lips, and you swallow awkwardly as that motion causes pleasure to throb between your legs. "Thank you, uh, old pal, for helping me, uh, get this…mud…off…" His voice is suddenly a bit husky and you can feel your face burning.
"No problem," you reply, voice coming out just as breathily as Jake's had. You start scrubbing determinedly at his forearms with the washcloth once again, taking his hands in yours, wiping them in turn, rinsing your washcloth, repeating the action. You notice a streak of dirt still on his neck, at his hairline, and you reach up to clean it off and Jake's hands are somehow on your waist and you're really not sure what to do about how fucking hard you are right now.
Jake is breathing quickly and the washcloth drops with a wet smack as you twine your arms around his neck, and his arms wrap tightly around your waist and oh, oh, he's hard too, oh god…your clothes are getting wet and you're most likely getting mud on them now but, impossibly, you don't care.
The two of you stand together for a few moments, each breath becoming more and more desperate, both trying to pretend that this was not happening, that you weren't still pining over Jake English and that at some point he hadn't actually started wanting you back, or anything. You're not sure who moves first, but your cocks slide together in a way that causes you to make an extremely embarrassing noise, and Jake is pushing you against the wall, hands still at your waist and driving you wild. Your hands twist in his wet hair, pulling him down, and his mouth meets yours, hungry and awkward and inexperienced, and oh, god, you want him so badly.
You want him so badly that you sink to your knees, dropping clumsy kisses all the way down his chest until you're eye to eye with his erection and you've never done this before but there's something about the idea of it that's always sent shivers dancing all over your skin and made your heart flutter in such a peculiar way. So you don't even care about the water sinking into your pantlegs, you don't even pause before putting your mouth on him. You just suck a little at first, your hand around the base of his cock, then you sink down on him completely.
The noise he makes is almost enough to make you lose it. He puts a trembling hand to the back of your head, and you let out a desperate moan at the perfect way that feels, rocking into your own hand and sucking harder, bobbing your head faster. Jake is letting out an incoherent stream of babble, mostly curses, the rest nonsense, and as you pull your mouth off him to lick and suck at the underside of his cock you risk a glance upward. Jake is flushed and panting, one arm outstretched and supporting himself on the shower wall, the other still at the back of your head, clumsily and feverishly petting your hair. You go down on him completely once again, and it doesn't take very long before Jake is tensing up and stammering out an inadequate "Oh, oh, fuck, I'm gonna…" He comes messily in your mouth, and that fact makes you come too, after thrusting only a few times against the pressure of your own hand.
You slump back against the shower wall, pants completely soaked now, not including the wet spot spreading across the front of your jeans. Jake is kneeling next to you, now, an unfamiliar look in his eyes. He runs his hands up your torso, and you shiver, his touch sending jolts of pleasure through your oversensitive skin. His hands rest for a moment at your throat, then slide up into your hair and he's kissing you again, unskilled but so fundamentally earnest, and you feel like such a loser, having it so bad for this kid, having it so bad for everything about him that's awkward and ridiculous and awful.
"Looks like I should probably get my best pal a fresh set of clothes," Jake says with that same intonation he always uses that makes it sound like he's reading from some 1930s adventure novel and somehow this makes you want him again already.
"Fuck it, I could use a shower," you say, stripping off your shirt.