Chapter Text
Your name is Dirk Strider, and your life has never been what anyone would call ordinary.
This is through no fault of your own.
Your baby pictures appeared in US Weekly before you even knew what a tabloid was, nor why someone would pay your guardian a million dollars for the exclusive. You were weaned on a steady diet of lazy take out and instant meals prepared by a man who had no business being successful but stumbled into auteurism with the grace of a drunken gazelle. Your fifth birthday gift was a book dedicated to your name by your fabulously wealthy aunt, which promptly sold a million copies. She neglected to send you one because the amount of violence and "sapphic experimentation" was too explicit for your age.
Around 13, you realized most kids weren't the wards of multi-millionaire self-made media emperors.
Around 15, you started to resent that, and began acting out in increasingly dramatic ways.
After sinking a yacht off the coast of California and getting off with an aloof snide remark, you gave up the whole acting out thing. What was the point if you didn't even get grounded?
So, by the time you graduated high school, you were a fucked up mess with a rich film director parent, but you weren't at immediate risk of going to prison or face down in a pool, and you counted that as a personal victory. It made for a pretty fucking incredible application essay. Secretly, you figured you could have written "My legal guardian is Dave Strider" on notebook paper and sent that along, and it would have worked just as well.
You got accepted everywhere you applied. If you were still fifteen, that'd piss you off.
It was a relief to move out of the fucking Hollywood Hills and up to Washington State. Kahn Domm University was happy to have you, and you were relieved to be had.
Now, it's a crisp autumn day and you closing in on your bachelor degree. You have changed your academic plans from roboticist to cinematographer to civil engineer (a dark time) to philosophy (even darker) to now, finally, artist. Settling on such a twee goddamn path in life was a struggle, but it's less of a struggle now that you have decided to be honest with yourself and go with it.
You like art. Your most prized possession is the fancy fucking drawing tablet you got for Christmas two years back. You're going to be an artist and live off your brother's disgustingly overstuffed coiffers, and you're at peace with it most of the time.
KDU has a decent art department and is less of a cash-grab diploma mill than certain institutes you can name. Spending your college years here will be fine. A little cold, but fine.
The amenities on campus are pretty decent, too. You have a favorite spot for when you need to sit and work your way through piles of reading, and a favorite place to grab some much-needed caffeine. You’ve begrudgingly grown to appreciate the landscape of tall pines and slate grey skies, even if they’ve left you fishbelly pale.
Community’s not bad, either. The art department pulls in its predictable array of people who spent their formative years being the weird kid, but people have been generally pretty cool. You’re not really a fan of the housing situation, though. The dorms are in desperate need of renovation, and you last winter with a roof that leaked worse and worse through the perpetual rainfall. There are apartments in the city (expensive, particularly for a student artist’s budget), and then, of course, the Greek life.
You never gave going Greek any thought at all until you were looking more seriously at finding some damn alternative to shared dorms with communal, down the hall showers and rattling windows. One fateful afternoon as you split your attention between homework and pesterchum, Roxy poked around the university website’s housing information to see if it was really as bad as you said.
The next thing you knew, your chat window was filling up with aggressive screenshots of a fraternity named Alpha Beta Omega.
At first it was just a hilarious joke. You and Roxy had perused the corners of the internet, finding porn of both the hilarious and unusual variety to discuss. Or for you to attempt to discuss while Roxy rolled her eyes over your attempts to analyze the phenomenon of people being really into dog dicks. Of course you both thought it was the fuckin’ funniest shit. These dumbass dudes had unknowingly named their frat after a fanfic kink. That deserved a laugh.
You’re not sure when you started considering the idea seriously. Somewhere between the joke of someone like you infiltrating the land of the straight dudebro and the leak in your roof deciding to drip onto your mattress, you started looking into it more seriously.
Which leads you to today.
Because apparently hazing is a thing that frats continue to do, despite how fucking idiotic it is. But, hell, you’ve come this far.
In fact, you’ve come all the way across campus to one of the back rooms of the theater department, an area known for having all sorts of bizarre relics of leftover props and costumes. Most of them still get dragged out from time to time for plays. Almost all of them, actually.
Except for the statue, maybe made of real, solid marble, too heavy to easily use. And also too fucking lewd.
All the other guys, currently standing behind you, are chuckling to themselves at the sight of it in a way not dissimilar to the way a preteen will immediately fall over himself laughing at the number 69. It makes you instinctively roll your eyes.
The statue stands about 8 feet tall, you approximate, some of which may be the podium it stands upon. It’s of a man with a wicked smirk standing in a pose you can only really describe as all at once relaxed, inherently flirtatious, and self-assured. His hand is held seemingly relaxed in front of him giving something vaguely akin to a “come hither” gesture, while the other is out at his side keeping back the fabric of a robe that covers absolutely jack shit. Because he is completely naked, and flashing you his insane 8-inch-long dick. Fully erect.
Vaguely, you think that the sculptor could not have been straight. The craftsmanship in some places--specifically the fabric of the robe--is a bit rough in your opinion, but the pose and the expression is so inherently homoerotic and evocative you’re finding yourself a bit turned on just looking at it. If only a guy this hot would ever look at you like that. Oh well.
You’re broken out of your thoughts by one of the frat boys behind you clearing his throat, ostensibly to get your attention.
“...So,” you begin, sighing. “Ha ha, it’s a statue with a big dick. You chucklefucks going to get to the point anytime soon? I’ve got shit to do.”
“Right, soooo,” says Tom. That’s not actually his name, but you don’t really have the willpower to spend any of your quickly depleting energy towards remembering it. He looks like a Tom. “You’re going to get on your knees...and suck it.”
Your eyebrows shoot up a bit as the other boys all lapse back into another fit of giggles. You shouldn’t be surprised, yet you are. “...Uh-huh. Presumably with you all watching?”
“What, so you can weasel your way out of it?” Tom tries to tease.
“Nah. Just didn’t expect you all to be exhibitionists.” You shoot back. “But whatever floats your boat, bro.”
That apparently does, somehow, manage to get under the skin of at least a few of the onlookers. Kind of sad, that wasn’t even that good. You take a second to crack your knuckles and fuck around with your knees in a pointless show of nonchalance and mosey on over to get a closer look at this cock.
You’re looking forward to seeing the wind go out of their sails when they realize you’re actually amazing at this. There’s always a silver lining.
Close up, the statue is even more impressive. Taller than you thought, with more detail in the musculature. The face is more handsome, the eyes more soulful. The individual strands of hair are lovingly chiseled, and you're a bit taken by the craftsmanship.
And the dick, that too.
It's a special kind of unbelievable fuckboy bullshit, you think. (You go to get down on your knees before realizing that with the stand this motherfucker is way too fucking tall for that, cool.) Never in your life have you met a guy who actually likes dicks who's as obsessed with them as straight dudes. (Maybe if you just kind of... Stand up? And hunch? No, wow, that's fucking awkward, shit.) To them, the usual dickweeds who pledge to fanfic gamma psi, this is probably honestly the most goddamn hilarious thing they can possibly imagine, and the most humiliating for a normal pledge.
"Losing your nerve?" one of the guys jeers, and there's actually a bit of real contempt in his voice. "I've heard you actually go for this kind of thing, Strider."
And it's that edge in his voice, that suggestion that you should be as embarrassed and ashamed and unwilling as any 'normal' guy would that makes you think - - oh, fuck this, assholes. Now you're going to get a show.
You grab the statue's outstretched hand. It's solid and huge, and using it to steady yourself, it's pretty easy to kind of lean and twist and get on eye level with what the fine marble man is packing.
Not bad. For, you know, a rock.
The sculptor was definitely not straight. No straight guy would have lovingly detailed the slit, or spent ages on each individual wiry pube, or evoked a retracted foreskin with such worship. Fuck, you're pretty sure that there's a sweetly rendered drop of glistening stony pre balanced on the end of the tip.
You lick it.
Cold, rough, unwelcoming. But hard and so well formed, it actually does kind of get you going. If you close your eyes, you can definitely imagine you're getting ready to go down on the world's best hung, most stoic vampire.
The rise of raucous laughter behind you kind of breaks the spell, though.
Your forehead creases in irritation, and you resist the urge to pull back and shoot them a glare over your shoulder. They want a piece of entertainment for the night, huh? Fine. You can oblige.
Using the statue’s hand to brace your weight, you lean in on the side opposite from the frat boys and slide your tongue up the length of the dick, making sure to angle yourself so that they can see your lips dragging against the marble schlong. Eyes slitting open, you watch as one or two of the ones near the back go red and fight back the urge to smirk in satisfaction. Yeah, surprise, motherfuckers; you know what the fuck you’re doing. Siddown and get schooled.
...And then there’s Tom. “Nice try, Strider,” he calls, lips pulled wide, “but you’re supposed to suck it.”
You raise an eyebrow and lean back. “Wow, your ex-girlfriends must have some stories. Ever heard of foreplay?” you shoot back.
A couple of guys snicker, going silent when Tom turns to glare at them, but you ignore them and turn your attention back to the statue’s dick. You wrap your other hand around the base, fingertips not quite meeting around the girth of it, and lean in to mouth over the head. You make a show out of it, of course, keeping it just sloppy enough to be good, and within a minute the wet sounds of your mouth and the other guys’ quiet breathing are the only noises in the room.
Ha. Gotcha. For just the briefest moment, your lips twitch up into a smirk, and then they spread wide over the head as you slide down.
Holy shit, it’s thick. Your brow creases in concentration as you stretch your jaw enough for the solid marble to push in, and even then it’s a strain. The craftsmanship on this thing is fucking incredible, though: You lick over the tip, and you can clearly feel the texture of the slit carved into the marble. The carved drop of pre is a nice touch when you run your tongue over it, and you spend a few seconds just rolling your tongue over and around the head.
Fuck, if you had a boyfriend with a dick like this, you’d spend a hell of a lot of time on your knees.
When you pull back, the marble shines under your saliva, adding a veneer of realism to the drop of precum carved against the tip. You lick your lips and barely notice how one of the guys’ breath hitches.
There is a fleeting thought that you would really enjoy this more without the audience. Which is a patently absurd concept; without the crowd around you, you would not decide to initiate your most dedicated artful fellatio on an old prop in a dusty storeroom, incredible dick or no. But as you lean back to take a breath, you can’t help but wonder if this wouldn’t rev your engines a little harder without the reminder of other people around.
Your mouth is wet, and you resist the urge to wipe some of it away. It’ll just make this harder. The stone is moving smoother now after some quality tongue action, but its still solid in a way even the most rock (ha) hard dick never is.
There is a crick in your neck. You tip your head back for just a moment.
The statue almost… It’s just the angle, you’re an art major, you know how this shit works. You know about the techniques that are used to give stationary objects a semblance of life. The statue isn’t looking down at you with a quiet, fond expression. But hey. That kind of illusion is an impressive trick.
Someone shifts from foot to foot behind you. You don’t think anyone has the balls to heckle you anymore. Even Tom seems to be silenced by the show.
So… should you just pull off and be done? Your point’s been made by now probably.
The stone hand under yours is warm. Your fingers twitch around the phantom of sensation.
Your kind of want it on your lips too. Holding on tighter, rebracing, you lean in and decide to see how far you can swallow this thing. Such artistry deserves its dues.
The slick stonework doesn’t relent under your lips. The facsimile is obvious, and yet you still take the courtesy and hide the edge of your teeth with your lips as you breathe out slowly and sink further down. The carefully sculpted glans brush against the back of your tongue, and you stop to gather yourself again. There is no way in hell you are going to gag. You fucking refuse.
With a delirious whirl, you think this statue has probably had its dick sucked by a hundred shithead pledges in the past few years. It’s unacceptable. It deserves something better.
What a weird fucking thought. You almost fuck up and gag around the jagged edges of the idea, how it chafes and doesn’t quite fit into your brain, like someone else thought it.
Christ, you need to just get this over with. It’s reached the point of diminishing returns, and not even the greatest dedication to taking bad jokes too far warrants this.
You place your other hand on the statue’s chest, right over the intricately shaped loops of coarse hair. Your fingertip slips into the dip of his navel, smooth and weirdly textured. The pad of your thumb finds a convincing line to trace, the mimicry of sinew and muscle perfect you could imagine it was moving with deep breaths.
Okay, you’re done now. Seriously.
Bracing yourself, you give the stone cock one last suck, pressing down as far as you can manage; your mouth fills almost completely, your tongue pinned down under slick smoothness. There is a vein to follow, and you grunt a little in effort as you move your tongue along it.
Then, you lean back, seeking to give your jaw some desperately needed relief.
The perfect curve of the cock head catches against your lips.
And a hand lands heavy and solid against the back of your skull.
For a moment, for one bleeding edge of a moment, you think it's one of the fuckboys watching the show, your future "brothers." That this is about to become less hilarious, a lot more dark.
So you start to panic.
And then.
And then there's something... else, instead. A different sort of feeling, with a different sort of shape entirely. It settles into your mind, soft and soapy and warm.
No panic.
Calm.
The vein under your tongue pulses. You taste the unmistakable salty tang of cock at the back of your throat. And the stone is... soft.
One of the guys gasps. Breathy, thick.
"What the fuck," says another. More a sigh than an exclamation.
The hand on the back of your skull pushes you forward, and you shudder and breathe roughly in through your nose as you're shoved down. There's no fucking doubt, something is happening. You move on instinct, swirling your tongue as you go down, covering your teeth, opening your throat. Purely without thinking, doing what comes naturally, you look up through wet eyelashes. Past thick, dark pubes. Past rich, mahogany skin.
And you meet a pair of green eyes like pools in a fucking magical ass fairy forest clearing.
"Boy howdy," a voice rumbles from the statue, deep and pleasant as stones down a mountainside, rich as coffee, and playful as a kitten. "Don't stop there, sweetling. What kind if dastardly fiend would leave a bloke in such a darned state?"
You think one of the frat guys faints.
Frankly, you don’t blame the guy. You feel a distant, bewildered pang, but it is swiftly subsumed into the the calm weight in your mind. The hand tightens in your hair, giving you a split second of warning.
Then the statue pulling out slowly and thrusting in again, letting you adjust to the movement. You let out a baffled whine, unable to make sense of this, especially with the warm fog surrounding your thoughts.
The statue makes a soothing noise and squeezes your hand even as it, he, holds your head at the perfect angle to fuck directly into your throat. Your jaw still aches, but the feeling recedes as he continues to make use of your mouth. There’s some noise, maybe one of the frat boys speaking, but your consciousness narrows down until it’s just a meaningless blur of input.
They don’t matter one whit. The only thing of importance here is being of service as best you can.
“And you’re just ducky at that, aren’t you,” the statue says, continuing to fuck right down into your throat with evenly paced thrusts. “I think that’s something you rather like about that idea. You’re going to hit all the sixes for me, aren’t you.”
He tugs on your hair, tilting your head back until you find an angle you can meet his eyes from. They’re just as astoundingly green on second sight. They’re borderline fucking enrapturing.
You can’t look away. You can barely blink. The only sound you can hear is ringing in your ears. Giving your all to sucking this dick feels like the most important task you’ve ever set yourself to in your entire life.
“Perfect,” the statue groans, somehow pushing even deeper down your throat. “That’s just aces, exactly like that — Dirk, yes. That’s a good name.” He’s still holding your hand, gently rubbing the back of your thumb, utterly incongruous with the face fucking of a lifetime he’s giving you.
Nothing in the world exists, you think dizzily, except for those eyes and this cock. There’s nothing else. You sink down and down under the comfortable warm weight in your mind, until you have nothing in your mind beyond the awareness of the steady rhythm of his hips.
And then you sink even deeper, eyes falling shut, and between one infinite stretch of a moment and the next, you slip into unconsciousness.