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It’s hard to think with Dirk’s hands in your pants. Or, really, it’s hard to think with Dirk, period. He always seems to be a marathon ahead intellectually speaking, and sometimes that makes you feel stupid — bad stupid, the sort of stupid you’re not manufacturing to brush off overwhelming responsibilities. Real bad stupid, for true blue-collar slaves to the idiot grind.
And now you're thinking too much.
Lock in, English. His calloused fingers gnaw at your hips predatorily, snaking to your ass with stone cold confidence. You'd think it's sexy if you weren't so anxious.
About what exactly, you've only recently been able to pinpoint. Dirk's cool. He's intelligent and quiet and unexpectedly lithe, everything he touches left more consequential than it was before. He makes you feel like a real beast sometimes, though he finds it "incredibly cringey" any time you bother to describe it that way. You'd laugh that off if it weren't for his terrible illness of blatant hypocrisy. The thought makes you shiver, or perhaps, it's the warmth of his breath against your spit-slick neck.
He uses moments like these, the ones where you're so wrapped up in him he knows you won't fight, to let it all out. He says things, quite fascinating things that he'd never even imply in normal conversation, and as soon as you come to, he decides he doesn't want to discuss it anymore. It's really quite frustrating. Especially because, on the off chance you can recite him verbatim, he's so damn sure he doesn't want to talk about it tha he's already turned over and fallen asleep.
God. Exposition really is hard in a state like this. He licks another chilling strike against your jaw and kisses it furiously, the sound of his labored grunts amplified just because he knows you like it. He's practically been dry humping you since you woke up this morning. Normally, this would totally turn you on, but with this new "feelings" narrative you've invited into your head, it's almost offputting. You try to ignore it. He wants you to lose yourself in his hands so he can get whatever he wants off his chest. As avoidance is your middle name (ask the government), you choose to let him continue on that way. You wouldn't mind getting off right about now.
Plus, he likes to keep it simple to begin with. You do dreadfully love to hear him speak in the funny way that he tends to.
"You, have... ugh—" Dirk begins, as he thrusts himself onto your thigh with force. He straddles your leg as his hands rise to your back, scraping lines beside your spine as his hips roll against you, lightly for now. "...got it going on." His murmur dies in your ear, followed by a single breathy laugh. One of those things no one really says in seriousness, but you believe from him. Banishing the thought of letting him know how cute you observe him to be, you can't help but slightly jerk your knee to his rhythm. It's in your instincts to watch him ride your thigh. You're not opposed to the idea of flopping on your back and coaxing him right onto your dick, but it seems like he's got a sequence in mind.
"Do I really?" You say, barely charming and mostly absent. He cups your ass again, even less decently. You really wish he'd just commit and pull your shorts down instead of playing around in them. The thought dissolves when his breath hushes against your cheek, and you can't help but think the two of you would be perfect for the camera. Well, the first few minutes at least. One of his hands is in your shirt, rubbing down your back, almost comforting. The other is a bit more interesting as it winds around to your stomach and slowly down. His touch is feverish. You weren't sure he could properly get off just from grinding until right about now. He won't finish there, of course, only if you ask him to, which you never would, because you couldn't bear to neglect your poor old self. But the rough, quiet huffing over your shoulder tells you he's really in the game now, and suspiciously quiet. You try not to let it catch you off guard.
Eventually, with a bit of extra fumbling and the luck of practiced dexterity, he undoes the button of your shorts with his fingers and takes down the zipper with just one, a drag of his pointer down your crotch. It's a tried-and-true Strider staple, but you don't dare comment on his routine at all moment like this. Although it has its time, you're far too impatient for fussy Dirk right now. You can't help but notice he didn't even give a response to your response.
"...Could do this for hours..." He mutters in your ear, after a while of uninterrupted quietude. You snicker and make some sound of agreement as his hand quite bluntly breaks two fingers into your waistband. His hands are hot and quick, just like the rest of him. After a moment, his hand freezes. You can hear him quicken against your thigh, impressed that he could ever get that sort of friction through his pants. You'll take them right off when it gets down to it. As he adjusts to the sensation, thankfully, his fingers travel around again. They scrunch and open against your skin once before properly acknowledging your dick, standing patiently for him. You're hoping you'd be able to put it to real use soon enough, but it seemed like you'll have to use your words for it. You're not sure you'll find it in you to switch positions once he's already started jerking you off, so you man up and let his ass know.
"Erm— Dirk?"
He whines, almost churlish, then freezes.
"Mhm?"
"Why don't..." And you freeze, too. For some reason.
"Words, babe." He teases. His two thighs release yours from a clenched grip, and that cute, happy expression melts into his usual Dirkism.
"Why don't..." Your hands find his hips, and then the front of his pants, giving his hipbone an affectionate tap. "...I take these off of you, huh? Sound good?"
He smiles, odd and unnaturally real. "Fuck, if you insist." He's cool and collected, but doesn't even wait for you to set anything in motion. He unbuttons his own cargos, leaving the zipper down and pulling at the top of yours, attempting to tug them completely down with your underwear. You let him do it, obviously. Left by the fabric, your dick stands at attention for him, telltale and inviting. Only Dirk could give you the idea that your dick was even anything to write home about at all, what with the way he's always looking at it like it's his next and final meal. As he shoves his pants messily down his legs, his contact with it never seems to break. As soon as you're both naked from the waist down, he ignores it instantly. Dirk dives on top of you, his hands running up your shirt and squeezing at your chest, your cock and his crotch flush against each other. You could grind against his bare skin right now and get somewhere, but you wait for him to play out this bat of energy.
After a minute or two, he's back on track. Dirk's hands give a last hearty squeeze at your pecs (which, really, aren't much more than a little bit of lean weight) and then find their home back on your thighs, pulling you towards him. He quickly aligns himself with your dick and urges you to press into him, rough and game. It takes you no persuasion to do so, a little too quickly if you're taking notes, which you are not. Dirk's entire body tenses around you, his hands planting themselves firmly on your backside for comfort. Neither of you will ever get over the fact that you're just a little too big for him. He likes getting used to you inside him. Usually, though, with a lot more words than you're getting now .You're starting to think something's wrong, and then your boyfriend yelps a strained moan and you suddenly can't remember what you were just thinking about.
Dirk thrusts you further into him, his eyebrows scrunching together. You fuck to his beat. You're never really in control, with him.
"Fuck. Yes. Yes, dude. Yes." He whines. You're not sure when his arms found their way around your neck, but all you can think about is how to get closer. You search his hips for the hem of his shirt, pull it up and stick it between his lips. He bites down with a moan, dragging itself out for an extra second as you lose rhythm for a moment. Your current position just wouldn't allow for it, but right now, as you pull his other tank up above his tits, you'd give anything to suck them. You're sure he wouldn't mind it either. Instead, you settle for a hearty fondle, pushing his breast up against the other. Yet again nerfed by positioning, you yearn to stick your face right between those bad boys. You've asked him numerous sheepish times, in which he always confirms, "Jake. It's fine. You can't make me uncomfortable." You have come to recognize this as Dirk Strider's patented "yes please!"
Sigh. You can't stop thinking about the fact that he isn't babbling about his deeply troubled and confusing mindset that may or may not even have anything to do with you right now. It's become sort of routine for you two now, that he pours his heart out while you're having sex. It's almost kind, a free pass for you to ignore it. You're not sure of the implications of sex without this, and you can't exactly phone a friend, so you do what you do best; change the subject.
"How's it feel?" You coo, trying to keep it cool. Your cock feels fantastic inside of him.
Dirk pulls himself towards you, his bare chest against your shirt. The soggy fabric he was biting into falls from his mouth and he moans against your skin, biting kisses into the crook of your neck between sounds. You break him off of you for a split second to lift his shirt over his ruffled hair. It catches annoyingly on his shades, taking them with it. He ignores it, perhaps purposely.
"Good. Good." He replies, and it feels like he really means it. You hope he'll follow it up with something insightful, or concerning, or something. Instead, "You're perfect. Fuck."
You're not going to pretend like that's not good enough for the moment. As long as you're making him happy in some capacity, you can look past a jump in the routine, right? Right! Right.
You take his compliment and roll with it. Looking in his eyes, you feel an ache in your back. Instantly, you push the both of you back against the bed, Dirk's head resting on a pillow and you square above him. Dirk has relaxed with you inside him by now, which he always eventually does, and continues his vocalizations more for the fun of it than anything else. You certainly don't mind, and you join him. You wonder how, possibly, could he enjoy your hot-breathed panting right in his face from above?
His eyes are focused and full of intent. If the rest of him won't outright say he loves you, these absolutely do, at least something of the sort.
Dirk comes to a quiet halt when he's close. He always does. Any noise is exchanged for breathing roughly through his nose. If you didn't know any better, and hadn't asked at least a thousand times already, you'd think he's having a panic attack. It makes you feel lonely and exposed, because suddenly you're the only one making noise and you might as well be balls deep in a cadaver. That's not true, really. You would very much prefer Dirk, but for once, you'd appreciate if he'd start talking.
He doesn't. Not until he's already finished, and realizes he should perform for you. You sort of hate the thought that he is ever not having fun with you, so you try to work through your orgasm quickly. It's good. It's always good, even if there's not much separating this from plain jerking off on your own. As your sweaty face drops over the crook of his neck, Dirk lays his metaphorical sword at your shoulder and pities this fool.
"Nice." He whispers, taking the fingers he was driving into your biceps and lacing them around your back.
You give him a moment to relax. More accurately, you give yourself a moment to come back to life and think a little. Once that precious time is up, you toss yourself to the left of him and lay yourself on your side, your head resting in your arm. It takes him a second to look at you.
"Cat got your tongue?" You start, an uneasy smile spreading on your face.
"I said, that was nice."
You stifle a laugh (more like one little "ha!" and roll onto your back. This is one of few times you're not sure where to push him.
"You didn't, um..." You run your hand over your face. Have you been that sweaty the whole time? "You didn't say one funny thing the whole way through. That threw me a tad."
Dirk scoots closer to you, embracing you with his arm over your chest. He fits his face beside your neck with a huff. "What are you talking about?" he says, but he has to know. He has to get it. You don't have the patience for his egging right now, you really don't. You've gotten so used to the idea that he can read your mind that any proof otherwise just plain pisses you off.
"You always confess things to me in the sack. Every single time, without fail, except for, APPARENTLY, this one singular occasion. I was waiting the entire go for you to start talking about... I don't know, how you're guilty about something, or unsure about something, I mean—it's just.. some befuddling hogshit, really. No! No, it's not, its completely... alright. I don't even TRY to comprehend it. And I swear on it, I'm not angry at you but you know I can be a bit of a walnut sometimes and i just need to know that I'm not royally screwing the pooch without a clue, you know?"
He looks at you. He staaaares at you, actually. You feel the urge to find his shades for him, but you don't move. "Huh."
"Huh?" You repeat. "What do you mean, huh?"
"I just didn't think you'd notice."
Of course you'd notice. Obviously, you'd notice! You've heard enough rambling for its absence to be loud, and you won't stand for this.
"Of course I'd notice. Obviously, I'd notice, Dirk. Why nothing?"
With a huff, his chest rises and falls. He lifts his head to get a good look at you, looking oddly peaceful as ever. You want to relax with him, but it'll take a little more than some dead movie wife facework to calm you down.
"No ulterior motive for this particular bout of homoerotic passion, I guess. You were sulking around the house and wouldn't tell me why, so I wanted to make you feel better. Are you following?"
Sure you are.
"And I don't start spouting all that existential horseshit on purpose. It just sort of comes out?"
You know, you know.
"Looks like you had me thoroughly distracted this time around, English."
Oh, absolutely.
"And, hey. This are some killer communications we're getting up to here. Uber healthy. Dr. Phil's stocks have hit our big beautiful iceberg."
And I have always said this.
"Dude, are you listening to me?"
Ah, no, not really. :B
You shake your head for a moment. Sometimes, that's what it takes for you to conduct yourself. A product of growing up with zero company for ten years, no doubt. "God. I'm sorry. Had my head in the clouds for a moment there. I-, uh. I'm with you. And I really do feel better."
"Okay. Good. And I was going to follow this up with, 'I wish you had said something sooner', but I'm well aware of how difficult I can be in that regard, so..." You're both quiet for a bit. Dirk pulls himself up closer to your side, latching his leg over your torso and lacing his arms around you like a clinging stuffed monkey. "Sorry for... being a head case most of the time." He admits, tracing pictures in your skin. There's not much he can say, because you both know I'll try to be less confusing couldn't be more of a lie.
"Oh, cut it. You know I adore your head for all it is."