Jake is sprawled on the couch in nothing but his grey Boohoo Man tracksuit and white Nike crew socks, arms folded behind his head, legs kicked wide so the fabric pulls tight across his thighs and the waistband sits low enough to show the V-line he spent the summer carving. The flat is his castle tonight: roommate banned, PS5 controller glowing red on the coffee table, fairy lights strung around the guitar case in the corner. He’s riding the high of a mid-week hat-trick against Arsenal U21, phone blowing up with tags and thirsty DMs, ego swollen bigger than his quads. It’s past midnight and his stomach is growling louder than the notifications, so he fires off a Deliveroo order: double cheeseburger, large fries, chocolate milkshake, extra sauce. Tips £2 because he’s feeling generous.
Twenty-eight minutes later the intercom buzzes.
Jake doesn’t bother putting shoes on. He pads to the door in his socks, swings it open with that lazy smirk he gives fans, ready to flex for whoever’s holding the bag. The guy on the doorstep is skinny, acne scars, faded Deliveroo jacket two sizes too big, helmet tucked under one arm. Jake recognises the face half a second too late: Darren, the old tenant his dad evicted last year when they bought the lease. Jake had laughed in his face that day, told him “place smells better already.”
Darren’s eyes flick over the tracksuit, the bare feet, the cocky stance blocking the doorway like Jake’s doing him a favour by accepting his own food. He hands the bag over without a word. Jake snatches it, mutters “safe” and starts closing the door. That’s when Darren’s foot slides forward, cheap trainer wedging the door open. Jake frowns, pushes harder. Darren just leans his shoulder in, casual, and the door swings wide because Jake’s standing flat-footed, weight on the back foot, one hand full of food.
Before Jake can square up, Darren’s already inside, door kicked shut behind him, deadbolt clicking. Jake drops the bag, burger box hitting the floor and bursting open, sauce splattering his white socks. “The fuck you doing in my flat, delivery boy?” The sentence cuts off when Darren flicks the small canister from his jacket pocket (CS spray riders carry for dogs) and gives Jake a half-second burst straight to the eyes. It’s not enough to blind him permanently, just enough to make the world explode into stinging tears and force his hands up instinctively to rub his face.
That half-second is all Darren needs.
He drives forward low, shoulder into Jake’s gut, lifting the bigger lad off his feet and slamming him back-first onto the couch. The air whooshes out of Jake in a shocked bark, legs kicking, but Darren’s already scrambling up his body, knees pinning the thick arms with his shins, full weight on Jake’s chest. Jake bucks hard, bridges, tries to throw him, but the spray has his eyes streaming and the angle is wrong; every time he arches Darren just rides it and settles heavier. Thirty seconds of frantic struggling and Jake’s burning lungs force him to gasp for air, giving Darren time to yank the hoodie sleeves down Jake’s arms, twist the fabric, and knot them tight behind his back using the jacket’s own zipper as an anchor. The shiny material bites into Jake’s wrists, shoulders wrenched awkward, chest forced forward.
Jake’s voice is hoarse from the spray burn. “Get the fuck off me, I’ll end you—” Darren slaps him open-hand across the face, once, sharp, then again on the other cheek until Jake’s head stops snapping side to side and just hangs, tears mixing with snot. The room smells like burger grease and CS residue. Darren slides the track pants down slow, fabric catching on Jake’s quads before pooling at his ankles, leaving him in just the white briefs stretched tight. Darren palms the bulge once, mocking, then rips the briefs sideways so the elastic snaps and the cock and balls flop free. Jake’s thighs try to close, but the pants around his ankles keep him hobbled.
Darren flips him face-down on the couch, knee in the small of his back, full weight pressing Jake’s cheek into the cushion that still smells like his own cologne from earlier. Jake kicks, socks scraping fabric, muffled growls turning into strained grunts as Darren peels the briefs the rest of the way off and shoves them into Jake’s mouth like a gag. The taste of his own sweat and pre-cum fills his tongue. Darren’s fingers, still gloved from the bike ride, scoop cold milkshake from the spilled cup on the floor and smear it between Jake’s cheeks, sticky and freezing. Jake’s whole body jerks at the temperature shock, a muffled roar vibrating around the cotton in his mouth.
First finger pushes in slick with chocolate shake and spit. Jake’s back arches hard, shoulders straining against the knotted jacket, thighs flexing uselessly. Second finger joins, scissoring, stretching, forcing the tight ring to give while Jake’s breath punches out in sharp, angry huffs through his nose. Darren adds a third, crooking deliberately until Jake’s hips twitch involuntary and a humiliated whine leaks out around the gag. Only then does Darren pull his cock out, average but rigid, slaps it against Jake’s ass a few times, then lines up and drives in to the root.
The stretch is immediate, burning, cramping. Jake’s scream is muffled into the cushion, body locking rigid, toes curling inside the dirty socks. Darren sets a steady, punishing rhythm, hips slapping against ass, every thrust shoving Jake’s trapped cock against the couch fabric, friction building whether he wants it or not. Sweat soaks the grey tracksuit still bunched around Jake’s elbows, the room filling with wet skin sounds and Jake’s choked, rhythmic grunts—“huh—huh—huh—” that climb higher as the angle shifts and something inside him lights up against his will.
Darren reaches under, wraps fingers around Jake’s dick, finds it leaking steadily, jerks him rough and fast while pounding harder. “Look at the big Premier League rookie creaming himself on delivery driver cock,” he mutters, breath hot on Jake’s ear. Jake’s moans crack, angry turning desperate, hips starting to rock back without permission while tears cut clean tracks into the cushion. The orgasm barrels through him sudden and humiliating, body seizing, cum shooting across the couch in thick ropes while his hole spasms hard around the cock inside him. Darren groans, slams deep one last time, and unloads, grinding until every drop is buried.
He pulls out slow, watches the mess leak out mixed with chocolate milkshake, then wipes his dick clean on the inside of Jake’s tracksuit top before unknotting the jacket just enough to free one arm; immediately re-knots it to the couch leg so Jake stays bent over, ass up, face down. Darren grabs the spilled burger, takes a bite, chews slow while admiring the view.
“Order’s on the house tonight, superstar. Next time tip better.”
He pockets Jake’s phone and wallet, leaves the front door on the latch.
Jake stays draped over his own couch till sunrise, tracksuit ruined, socks still on, cum and milkshake cooling on his skin and dripping from his gaping hole while the fairy lights blink overhead and the PS5 controller glows red like it’s waiting for a rematch that will never come.
First team training is at nine. And Darren has his new address.
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