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You knew it was a bad idea to let him go off on his own.
You're currently busting your ass through these fucking jungle trees of his just to find his sorry frame probably all fucked up and broken and the thought just makes you run harder.
You've been living on his island for about a month now, having figured out through an intensely dangerous course that you'd really not have to recall at the moment how to get over to him, three hundred years behind you. You'd stumbled into his room an exhausted, bruised mess leaning heavily against his door frame and for once in your life had found yourself at a loss for words. You, the infamous rambler, a known sarcastic linguist, the master wordsmith, had been struck dumb at the sight of your best fucking friend staring right back at you with the widest eyes you swear you'd ever seen. They might've even rivaled your own, although shaded, at that moment in time.
You can still remember the rib-crushing embrace he'd wrapped you in only seconds later, the laugh that'd floated past your ear in his utter relief. You'd found your fingers digging into his shirt, clinging to him like no one's business with your shades having been removed who the fuck knows when and your face buried in his neck. You hadn't been able to contain the smile that seared across your face, nothing but elation in reaction to your first human contact ever. You hadn't realized you'd been starved of it for your entire life, and afterward he's had to deal with your infectuous clinging. You're pretty sure he's more than happy to oblige.
You can feel it all pump through you, all those memories coursing through your veins like wildfire as they spur you faster toward your target. There's no way in hell you're losing him; you'll die before that happens. It was the odd tone of his messages that'd alerted you to his less-than-desirable predicament. He'd been loath to admit just how screwed over he was, he still is, you recall with a pang of guilt, but he'd eventually admitted he was wounded and unable to get himself back home. Your home.
Fuck these trees. Fuck their branches and trunks and leaves and vines and roots and fuck everything in the way of you getting to him because your blade is drawn and you're slashing at everything in sight in a hurried blaze to try and speed up your search and you're not really sure when you started calling for him but your voice is starting to get hoarse and you know you shouldn't have let him go off on his own because he always goes out too far and he's clumsy and doesn't pay attention and you're starting to drive yourself paranoid with all the thoughts burning though your mind but everything suddenly freezes when you swear you hear a weak calling of your name not too far off. Jake. "Jake!" you cry out as you speed toward his general direction and you can finally hear him calling back and you almost start crying and laughing in relief when you practically stumble over him because he was fucking hiding in the shrubs from whatever the fuck you don't really care about anymore because he's here and okay enough to weakly give you that crooked smile know he reserves just for you and your hands are all over him but you're too relieved to care what this must look like because you're searching for the wounds he failed to specify and you freeze when your hand lands in deep red, warm fluid soaking through his shirt. Oh fuck. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck that looks deep. You draw in a sharp breath at the sight, eyes trailing over the wide gash in his side. He winces visibly as you gingerly probe at it, a breathless curse hissing through his lips, and you're already uncaptchalouging your first aid kit before he can protest any further. He breathes out that whatever nicked him is most likely long gone, and you admit that's a good thing while you pull out your necssary supplies. You pause your hovering hands to look up at him, seeing him visibly swallow the lump in his throat. "It's going to hurt a bleeding fuck of a lot isn't it?" he asks, immediately regretting how he shifts because it forces just a bit more blood out. He's already pale enough, but he offers a weak chuckle. "C-come on, Strider, don't start getting soft on me now... I can take it." He reaches out and gently takes one of your shaking hands, closing his eyes to rest his head back.
"Give me all you've got. I won't break...I swear on that."
"I know you won't," you choke out, willing your free hand to continue it's task of cleaning and dabbing at the wound. His nails bite into your hand as the peroxide starts to bubble on the freshly opened flesh, and he's letting out a string of creative slurs you're sure he's picked up from a multitude of his movies.
You sigh in relief as it becomes clear that it's not near as deep as you thought, although he'll still definitely require stitches. His face pales even further despite how impossible the task seems at the sight of the needle you draw. Fuck where'd your lighter go? You grin a bit as you finally find it and light it under the thin stick of metal to sterilize it.You've done this more times tthan you can possibly count; he's lucky he's in good hands. Your grin widens just slightly as he vocalizes that same remark, but he goes silent as you wordlessly offer your hand to him again. He takes it all the same. You try to ignore the way he now clings to you as the needle bites into his raw skin, how it feels just like when you'd done the same that first time you met. Meaningless words of comfort drip from your lips that are suddenly at his temple and at his cheeks and nose and what the hell are you doing this is serious Dirk. It physically pains you to pull away tokeeptrack of the stitches you're still managing to produce neatly, but he looks grateful through his pained expression. Sixteen stitches. Sixteen fucking stitches and you're finally done.
You both let go the pent-up breaths you weren't aware you were holding in as the thread is snipped and you manage to glance back up at his face. Thankfully there's no other marks near as bad as the one you finished mending, the rest small scratches all over him, probably from the foliage he ran through, and you're probably marred just the same, you realize. He's mumbling something you can't decode so you lean in but suddenly his rough, scratched hands are cupping your cheeks and what the fuck is he doing oh god--
He now lays limply on his bed, eyes following you while you fiddle with the few possessions Roxy had managed to appearify for you, his now-damaged skulltop at your side. You can fix it, of course. It's just a cracked shell, nothing you haven't dealt with before. You've kept him bed-ridden for almost a week now, and you know he's starting to get restless. That's why you jump when there's arms around you that didn't used to be there before, a chin resting on your shoulder, a warm chest pressed against your back. Your heart jumps as he leans his cheek against yours, and his arms tighten around your torso. You swallow back the lump in your throat and his small chuckle ticklespast your ear which sends a small shudder up your spine. Your breathe his name as a word of warning, a question hanging in the air, but he ignores it, nuzzling his mop of chestnut hair against your neck. "I never got to thank you, you know..."
"It was nothing." Your chest tightens at his words but he continues to press on, the slightest twinge of embarrassment in his voice.
"I want to make it up to you."
You immediately shake your head, trying to untangle your limbs in your flustered alarm, but he snatches up your wrist and gives you the most pitiful look you've ever seen and oh god your resolve is melting but it's wrong to take advantage of this situation and you're sure you'll never forgive yourself if you do a--
Everything comes to an abrupt halt as he gently, timidly presses his lips to yours for the second time in the entirety of either of your short lives, and you're still nowhere near closer to knowing what to do. Well sure, you've read things, but this is entirely different and it feels so nice but he's pulling away with a small smile tilting up the corners of his lips and he gently whispers, "You're expected to kiss back, you know. That's how this whole thing works."
And you do. You do, you do, you do and he responds in kind as your slender fingers weave their way through his hair. You just barely manage to keep the cap on the swell of emotions and contained urges and wants and needs that are boiling right under your surface but everything goes to hell as he clumsily bites down on your bottom lip. He doesn't protest as you press his sitting frame against the wall, your lips desperately crushed against his as you clamber up into his lap, your thighs straddling his own. You're kissing the breath out of him and you couldn't be more pleased right now because he's kissing back just as needily with his fingers digging into your scalp. He lets out a small whine when you pry apart his lips and the sound sends shockwaves down your frame. It takes an embarrassingly short amount of time for your jeans to become increasingly uncomfortable as you ravage each other, his lips and teeth and tongue at your throat coaxing out whimpers and keens you never imagined you were able to make but you'll be damned if you want to stop the way your temperature rises against his.
You shift in his lap to get closer when out of nowhere a surge of arousal burns through your groin and you know he felt the same with the horribly intense look he gives you that sends another warm jolt to your nether regions. He grinds up against you and you freeze with your fingers locked onto his shoulders, a heated gasp catching in your throat but he continues and you practically melt against him as you rut back, your foreheads meeting as the two of you pant erratically, his hands at your hips which continue to dig and rub against his own. "F-fuck, Jake."
His nails simply dig in harder as you weakly moan his name, your own dripping off his lips and the sound is more beautiful than you could have ever imagined. The overwhelming mix of every pleasured sensation is steadily stoking that familiar fire in your gut, and you find yourself jerking clumsily against him, biting down on his shoulder as you reach your breaking point, elicting a delicious cry from his lips. You ignore the awkward mess now in your shorts as he continues to buck up into your spread hips before he spills as well, a choked howl music to your ears and you slump against him, heart drumming in your chest. Your spent cock still throbs in your boxers but you're too content to do anything but lay against your best friend in a lazy, euphoric haze that washes over the two of you.
You knew it was a great idea to see him all on your own.