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It took some coaxing to get Jake off his island. 'Some coaxing' involving years of wheedling, half-serious offers of housing and food, and eventual insistence that that Jake didn't get his no doubt toned and tanned ass off Skull Island and visit for a few days he was going to airdrop himself onto the island. And then sedate, tag, and re-home Jake in the Houston zoo, or start up a freakshow with him as the main draw.
Coaxing also consisted of dropping heavy as lead hints that if it boiled down to it, Dirk wasn't above having Brobot forcibly remove Jake from the island. Jake finally relented, words as polite and whimsical as ever as he accepted at last. As it turned out, the whimsical gig was a thing that stuck to his spoken speech as well.
Hell, everything about him was whimsical. From his shorts, tattered and patched and unsure of whether or not they were going for knee-length or thigh-length, to the way he cocked his head at unfamiliar noises. And in the city, that was every noise.
He had a way of smiling, not wrong but─ but different. His teeth leaned against each other like the pickets of an old fence, not quite straight or white. His lips were always curving, had that edge of childish excitement that came with the discovery of new. Personal bubbles were completely foreign to him, and his own expanded and shrank from the size of the Superdome to the point Dirk was fairly sure Jake was hellbent on becoming Siamese twins.
Not that he minded the Siamese twins bit.
Jake was warm to the touch, like a stone in the desert, still heated even as the sun dropped and the sky purpled. His skin was painted by pale pink scars, the odd, fading bruises here and there. His right index finger slanted off to the side, and his left pinkie nail appeared to have a permanent dent. He laughed when Dirk thumbed the dent, said it tickled and was from, "Too much adventuring."
Dirk liked his laugh. Rough and throaty, if a little loud. It was unhindered and happy, a noise that made the hair on the back of Dirk's neck stand up and sent him spacing until Jake touched him, the pads of his fingers gently pressing beneath his collarbone, like he thought Dirk could be tipped like a cow.
"You alright there, Strider? Got that look in your eyes like you're off on an adventure of your own."
And Dirk would smile and nod before Jake launched off into another course of clipped babbling.
Being raised by the internet hadn't done Jake too many favors. While well-versed in most movies, able to wax fantastic about CGI and 3D and the trailers, he didn't understand how crosswalks or stoplights worked. Well, he did, but only in the movie sense.
In the movies Jake watched, no one waited for the little man to appear. They bolted in front of traffic and hoped for the best. Jake followed their example, spurring Dirk's heart so hard in the process he was ready to order a Life Alert for himself.
Off the streets, Jake was better. He'd curl up in a sunspot in the apartment, laze around as Dirk tinkered with robots. He was content to lie on the floor, sunning himself as he watched entertainment news or documentaries with soothing voices. Some shows were off limits, though.
Anything with Steve Irwin was one, Wild West Tech another, and Deadliest Warrior was blocked every which way 'til Sunday. Dirk had learned the hard way what those shows did the Jake. One minute he was watching Jake watching two grown, sweaty men duking it out. Actually─ no. He'd been watching Jake's ass, because the dude was wriggling it like it was an angler fish's light and Dirk was the unsuspecting as fuck guppy about to go for it.
The fact that he'd taken to wearing the pair of short-shorts with "JUICY" slapped over the back around the house under the guise of casual wear, and very much not in an ironic way, didn't help. Dirk idly composed confessions in his head as he watched Jake's ass. Should be play it cool, spit it out like it was as run of the mill as the weather, or pull out the stops and go the dozen rose and a nice dinner route?
Or he could just be a ballsy Strider and tell Jake straight up, "Hey, sometimes I dream about you and it gives me boners. You even give me boners when I'm awake. I'm alright with both these things, and if you were too, it'd be off the chain. The shizznit, even."
That was when Jake got him, caught him in the side unaware and left him sprawling on the floor. There were hands on Dirk's wrist before his eyes could focus, Jake settled on his stomach, his weight heavy and comfortable and fuck those were nails. Yep. That's what those were, digging into his skin all la di da.
When Dirk looked up at Jake, he saw it. It was that thing in his eyes, the wild edge and the riled up wideness of them, pupils blown and gaze intense. This was scrums 2.0, fisticuffs with flare. Jake wasn't joking around with this wrestling match.
It had ended with a broken coffee table, nuts and bolts scattered like caltrops across the carpet, and matching shiners for the two of them. Jake apologized in the bathroom, sitting on the toilet lid as Dirk rooted in the medicine cabinet for gauze. Jake's blithe expression didn't change when the blood that trickled from his nose fell to his tongue as he spoke, teeth pink-stained when Dirk looked back to him.
"Don't know what got into me," Jake said. "One moment I'm watching those Spetnaz men─ and truly, truly they are magnificent fighters. I do believe I could learn a thing or two from them─ and the next I had it in my mind a good bout of wrestling was just the thing I needed."
"Mind giving a man some warning next time? And stop squirming, dude," Dirk said, one hand cupping the side of Jake's face─ he could do that now, without Jake questioning or flinching and God it felt good─ while the other dabbed wadded up tissue above Jake's lip.
"Sounds like a fine idea if ever there was one," Jake said. "Consider it done, old bean."
Jake kept this word for the first few days, announced when he was in the mood and made an invitation. More often than not Dirk would indulge him, let Jake burn some of that extra energy with a round of grappling. It changed, though. Evolved like a sentient thing, twisted and molded and became something new.
In the place of bared teeth, soft smiles stepped in. There was still that spark in Jake's eye, but it was muted, far off in the background and obscured now by a certain fondness. Where once his nails would dig into Dirk's flesh, half moon crescents their goodbye kiss, calloused fingertips instead skimmed skin.
Dirk responded in turn, mimicked Jake's movements and in the process learned the scars he'd seen, from the raw and red to the old and silvered. He found what spots were most sensitive, and grew to recognize the way Jake's breath would give that two-beat hitch before he went slack, his sign that he was done.
But sometimes, that breath never came. Sometimes, they ended it as a tangle of limbs, twisted and fitted into something that worked, with knees hiked over hips and arms around shoulders. Jake would yawn against Dirk, warm breath eliciting goose bumps he seemed none the wiser to, and nod off with the ease of a cat.
After a few─ what were they, weeks? Dirk wasn't sure. Days passed, comfortable and a little too quickly, but he didn't keep track of them. There was no set time for Jake's visit, anyway. Time continued forward, sunrise turned to sunset, and that was it. Steak and squash and pumpkin bread joined the cupboards, along with toffee candies Jake enjoyed chomping on.
And it was after those weeks, where Jake calmed and unwound, no longer set on edge when the wail of nighttime sirens sounded, or taking to pacing when the air was full of electricity before a lightning storm, that Dirk made a mistake.
He'd been sitting on the couch, Sawtooth sitting on the floor between his knees and powered down, hat removed and the latch on the back of his metal head popped open. Some of his wires had frayed, copper exposed and dangerous, and Dirk had wanted to clean it up before it got any worse. His focus was broken only by the sound of pistons firing in the kitchen─ or as he dubbed it in these situations, the waiting room.
As sweet as Squarewave was, he had a habit of getting in the way, like an eager dog tripping him up as he walked. And fuck if that dude wasn't soldered at the hip to Sawtooth when he was home. It was cute, sure, sometimes cute to the point of being suspicious, like when he heard those little zaps in the room over and the tinny ping of fingers on chassis and yeah, they thought they were clever, but like a parent hearing two teens smooching behind closed doors, he knew what was up. And being the cool parent, had even slipped them a copy of McAffe one Christmas without a word.
Jake on the other hand was mindlessly watching television, blissfully unaware of wires and robotic romances. He was curled on his side, toes wriggling and making the occasional noise. He asked Dirk if he could change the channel, and Dirk gave a grunt of permission, eyes fixed on hands fixed on circuity as Jake fiddled with the remote.
"Well if this isn't the quaintest thing I've found yet. Do you mind, Dirk?" Jake asked.
"Knock yourself out, dude. I'm not your babysitter."
Dirk tuned out as he continued to fiddle with wires. Jesus. They were blue, all of them blue. This was too much blue. Overwhelming, almost. Even Jake couldn't handle this much blue. It was like a scene from on of his action flicks, the camera panned in on a pair of hands debating connecting red to blue or yellow to green. Except it was all blue and nothing would blue up if he bungled it. Ideally.
The white noise that was Jake's rambling was the music that set Dirk's mental drama. Jake was like that, always talking to himself, a low mumble like the purring engine of an idle car. It was something he'd carried over from island life, Dirk figured. When you didn't have anyone to listen to, you talked to yourself. It was equal parts sweet and sad, blended and left to chill in Dirk's mind.
In hindsight, he realized that the contractions between Jake's words, the rise in their pitch and their insistence on toeing the line between 'inside voice' and 'hollering hootenanny' was not a sign of Jake's growing irritation with the characters on screen, but repeated invitations to Dirk. For fisticuffs.
Invitations he blew off. Invitations he wasn't aware of until Sawtooth's head was spinning across the floor with a metal clang and there was a great big what the fuck emblazoned on his brain where all the blue had been a split second earlier. There were hands on his collarbone then, shoving down and hard and forcing him onto his back, which arched on contact with the sofa cushions.
Dirk jammed the butt of his palm beneath Jake's chin, forcing it upwards and away from himself. Boy could bite when he got rowdy, and with teeth like those, Dirk wasn't hot on getting himself a love nip and a half. He held his hand like that, catching two breaths and body stiffening as his mind raced.
Jake was on top of him, hands still on his collarbones, keeping him down as Dirk kept his face away. There was a knee pressed against his rip, settled on the bone, a dull ache that flamed into a stabbing pain when he moved beneath it. Jake's other knee wasn't much better, nestled in all unkosher as fuck when it came to the space between that kneecap and his junk.
Kid was lucky Dirk had a case of Jungle Boy Fever so bad or he'd be showing him what-for.
Actually, fuck that. He was showing him what-for and then some. He was going to serve up Jake's daily dose for the next week and a half.
Dirk sent Jake over the side of the couch with a good shove, palm sliding from the underside of his chin to the softness beneath it, earning him a choking gasp as Jake capsized. He wasn't going easy, though, and as he fell his hands grasped Dirk's shirt, fisting fabric and pulling him overboard.
The ensuing scuffle was not the stuff of movie magic. It was no choreographed performance, a bit of action eye candy with well-practiced rolls and dodged blows. Instead was a scuffle, amateur grappling at they both struggled for dominance on the floor.
When Jake rolled Dirk into the side of the coffee table, he got an unapologetic knee to the stomach in return. A potted plant became a casualty, already dead and dry and crackling as it hit the floor. The remote bit the dust next, crushed beneath Jake as Dirk got him into his back. The victory of Dirk's position was short lived when Jake took to beating a seriously unphat beat on his back, his vision giving a tiny shake with each blow.
When he found himself in a headlock, Dirk fastened his hands to Jake's forearms, pulling and tugging and grunting. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of the screen, and fuck that stupid, short-short-wearing jungle boy. Fuck him right in the solar plexus─ which Dirk's elbow was currently gunning for─ because the chances that what he was seeing on the screen were Thai cage fighting were nothing short of fresh from the tree bananas. It was that severe.
Jake's hold slackened, eased as he sucked in a deep breath, and Dirk took his chance. He slid his head from under Jake's arm, quick as a snake and just as quick to strike as Jake registered what had happened. In an instant Dirk had Jake on his stomach, and his stomach was on Jake's back.
Hell, his everything was on Jake, his body fitted and heavy as Jake thrashed beneath him. Dirk had one elbow rested across his shoulder blades, the other settled on the floor so Jake's head wouldn't make first, face-numbing contact with the floor when he'd been flipped.
It was Dirk's turn to catch his breath then, body still resting on Jake's, taking a quiet moment to reflect how he felt like a cowboy, what with Jake pulling a bucking bronc routine beneath him. Jake had nowhere to go, stuck between Dirk and the floor, but it didn't stop him from trying.
Dirk felt each movement, each tensed and seized muscle, the stiffness in Jake's shoulders as he readied himself for another round of escape tactics. Dirk's heart beat out a lightning-quick tattoo, adrenaline biting at his nerves. What came next? Did he let Jake go, try and talk some sense into him? Or did he ride it out like a wicked wave?
As Jake arched his back against the floor, his hips rising up to meet Dirk's─ and Jesus, this was taking a turn for the cheesy porno, but without the pizza delivery man or the plumber─ he made his decision.
He was riding this out for sure.
Jake's struggling ebbed and flowed, eased before it came back with double the energy of before. His whimsical curses and demands were empty, growled low in his throat and useless. Dirk remained atop him, the thump thump thump of his heart steadily slowing along with his breath. He lowered his head, let it fall where his arm had once been, cheek warming against the back of Jake's jacket.
Jake smelled of sweat, of a hard fought battle that ended in defeat. He smelled like underbrush and stray rays of sun. He smelled straight up poetic as shit, and Dirk dug it so severe he was going to end up in China someday.
It wasn't like he made a habit of huffing Jake or anything. Smelling people wasn't something he thought much of until Jake came to stay. Boy had a way of taking a whiff of everything, from the food to the floor to the air, as though testing for adventure in it all.
And speak of the devil, there Jake went, lifting his head to sniff at Dirk's arm. Cute little dude, that's what he was. Even if he was still getting a sicknasty Strider talking to about how he was going to be relegated to watching The Joy of Painting for the neck week for his discretions.
But then there was a jolt of pain in Dirk's arm and that fucker─ those were teeth. His gnarly-ass chompers going for the gold to get Dirk off him.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Dirk asked between clenched teeth.
"Winning," Jake said, or at least, that's how Dirk perceived it. Jake was a little hard to understand with a mouthful of premium Strider flesh.
"That's how you want to play, is it, jungle boy? Two can play at that game."
And before Jake could respond with a no doubt flamboyant insult, Dirk lowered his head and bit.
He hadn't meant to go for Jake's neck, for that soft spot on the nape. But there weren't any other options. It was that, or a mouthful of jacket, and that would hardly be teaching Jake a lesson. And it worked. With Dirk's teeth fastened─ just enough to leave a mark─ and the salty taste of Jake's sweat on his tongue, Jake stilled beneath him.
Clamping down further got Jake to release his wrist, the bitten spot throbbing with a dull pain and covered in warm saliva. Dirk didn't let up though, even when Jake made that noise in the back of throat, wavering and soft. It was a whimper if ever there'd been one, but it wasn't pained.
It was born of pleasure. Hot as the fucking surface of the sun kind of pleasure.
This was getting Jake hot and bothered. This was getting his animal instinct on, teeth on the scruff of his neck and biting. Shit, that was kind of kinky. The kind of kinky Dirk could definitely appreciate. Here he'd gone for the neck without a thought, spur of the second decision.
Sure, that was what the mommy animals always did with their cubs and kittens. Got them on the neck and carried them around, shut their little baby fussing right up. With Jake being the wild boy, he'd probably seen it a hundred times, had some kind of learned reaction to it.
He hadn't taken into account the other act that followed that kind of action. It was nearly enough to turn Dirk red. Toeing the line, traipsing the border. Except he'd seen a lot of shit, clicked a lot of 'related videos,' ventured into 'that section' of Youtube that consisted of people getting their balls wailed on and cats fucking and yeah.
This probably looked like cats fucking.
And Jake definitely knew that.
Dirk loosened his hold on Jake's neck just long enough to say, "You dig this don't you, jungle boy?"
Jake sputtered, made the noise of an offended bird.
"I don't believe I have the faintest─"
The rest of Jake's words cut off in a shivering gasp and Dirk bit down on his neck again, creating a new set of indentations on his skin. Ones he quickly ran over with his tongue, breath skimming Jake's neck in the process and earning him another noise. A mewl, this time. An honest to God fucking mewl that did nothing but get him another set of marks.
Dirk was five minutes into ravaging the back of Jake's neck before he noticed all the fight had left Jake. It was gone, disappearified, out to lunch. He was limp as a rag doll, boneless and quiet except for the soft, delightful noises he made from time the time, the ones almost entirely breath with a pinch of whine thrown in. The noises grew when Dirk moved his hips against Jake's, gave one long, steady roll.
Jake lifted his ass in turn, met Dirk's movements without missing a beat.
Well. That was in invitation. One with the date and place written in gold, curling script. Dirk RSVPed in the form of a nip, sliding his arm from beneath Jake's head as he pulled back, and Jake keened when Dirk's teeth left his neck. He tried to rise with Dirk, got his hands beneath his chest and pushed himself onto his hands and knees, but Dirk stopped him there.
With his knees beginning to ache, Dirk settled his hands on Jake's back. He rucked up his shirt, giving a half-smile when, yes, his assumption was right. Jake was tan all over, his skin a warm olive tone that begged to be touched. Dirk wasn't about to refuse its call.
Dirk traced a finger up along Jake's spine, motor oil-stained fingers and close-cut nails skipping from vertebra to vertebra. His roughened palms pressed on Jake's shoulder blades, easy easy easy until he was upping the pressure and Jake was getting the message, sliding from his hands to his elbows and then to the floor while still on his knees.
And god damn if Dirk wasn't thinking this was the finest bit of presentation yet, a choice piece served up for the taking and he was getting the first slice. Those noises of his were weakening though, faltering and softer then before. Jake's eyebrows furrowed, gaze flicking around as he tried to rise again.
"The frig is that noise, Strider?" he asked.
Dirk heard it then, the clank and scrape of not-quite-fitted parts, the whir of old fans that needed to be cleaned. He rolled his shoulders and took a deep breath, held it one, two, three and exhaled through his nose, turned his head just enough to catch sight of metal standing in the doorframe.
"Did I say the operation was over?" Dirk asked.
"YO DOG, IT WAS TAKIN SO LONG, JUST WANTED TO MAKE SURE THAT NOTHIN WENT WRONG."
At the revelation of an interloper, Jake bolted upright, nearly staggering as he went red in the face, his hands pulling his shirt down and smoothing out the wrinkles. He sputtered out a garbled line about trying out new wrestling holds and skittered sideways like a spooked horse.
"Okay, Cockblock 3000, you've done your damage. Now get back in that room, I think I can manage," Dirk said, swiping Sawtooth's head before he sat back on the couch.
Sawtooth's wiring wasn't the only thing that was blue now. And while Squarewave retreated with a clank and a clunk, Dirk kept his eye on Jake. He was at the television again, changing the channel by hands now that the remote was a cremated mess of plastic. He settled on the soothing sound of Antiques Roadshow, before padding back over to the couch, dropping to the floor with thud like a pet at the fireside seat of its owner. Dirk gave him an affectionate nudge with his foot, and with the image of an old stuffed rabbit reflecting in his glasses, he smiled.
While Jake murmured to himself about the next heirloom to be shown, Dirk watched his neck. It was still bitten and red, spotted with yellow and purple as it bruised, the imprints of Dirk's bite still visible. They were like little markers, guides, a instructional manual of where to bite again, pictures included.
When the day was over and Sawtooth fixed, the television airing nothing but infomercials and Jake no doubt up for another round of wrestling, Dirk would be there. Ready and waiting, with Jake's neck a paint by the numbers piece he couldn't fail.