
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/639284.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Jake_English/Dirk_Strider
  Character:
      Jake_English, Dirk_Strider
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-01-14 Words: 1015
****** Mad Libs ******
by orchidbreezefc
Summary
     Today is the day you, Jake English, asked Dirk Strider to go steady.
     Today is the day you had accepted a ride to his apartment after
     school, and today is the day he had his tongue in your mouth and his
     hand on your hindquarters before you even got through the door.
Notes
     on_tumblr
See the end of the work for more notes
Today is the day you, Jake English, asked Dirk Strider to go steady. Today is
the day you had accepted a ride to his apartment after school, and today is the
day he had his tongue in your mouth and his hand on your hindquarters before
you even got through the door.
Strider fumbles to get the key into the lock behind his back, with the one hand
that isn’t otherwise occupied. He has the approximate dexterity of a fucking
octopus, though, and soon he has it open. Without taking his mouth off yours,
he bodily drags you in, kicks the door shut, and presses you against it. You
only get a moment to get your breath back when he strips off your shirt, and
haphazardly snatches your glasses and puts them on the table by the door. He
appears to have forgotten about his own shades, which are hooked on his shirt’s
collar, but you don’t have time to remind him because he’s on you again.
It’s not like this has never happened between you two. It’s not like fisticuffs
have never turned into him biting and licking and holding you down and—but now,
it’s not just a brawl getting carried away. Now you know that giving you a
boner is the plan expressly, and holy shit he’s raking his nails down your back
and has that always been this bawdy because it goes straight to your chocolate
mayo rocket. Did you just never notice how licentious this all was with all
that platonic brofriend wool over your spectacles?
Surely you wouldn’t have missed something like this, with the way his movements
are laser focused with fervor. In every touch of his hand and every swipe of
his tongue you feel all the things he must have, all this time, wanted to do to
you. All the things nothing is stopping him from doing now. Dirk’s absolutely
ardent with lust, all for you. It makes you positively dizzy.
He’s still biting quite fiercely at your neck, like a vampire or a badly-
trained chihuahua, and good lord now that is distracting. He does this all the
time, but right now the application of those pearly whites is making it
difficult to concentrate and, you fear, may be contributing to the growing
fabric strain by your nether bits. His voice is uneven for a Strider—which is
to say quite unfairly steady indeed—when he says, with none of his usual flair
for metaphor (metaflair), “Bed.”
“Bed?” you repeat dumbly, eyeballing his chambers. Better his than yours, at
any rate; you figure Strider’s more the chap to be prepared for this sort of
event.
“I could tear your clothes off and have you right here,” he proposes in a
thrice-damned deadpan. You honestly believe he could, what with the way he’s
practically rutting against your thigh. “But traditional guy like you, I’d
figure you’d prefer the more conventional venue.”
You’re starting to lose track of him a bit because he’s got this tongue and
these teeth, and he’s not using either of them on you when he’s electing to
make words instead. You hustle to the room in question, just to make him stop,
but he doesn’t shimmy off his trousers and get right to it like you had
expected.
You do get his shirt off, along with the shades—Dirk looks like he’s about to
complain at the mistreatment of his cool glasses when you fling them to the
floor, but he thinks better of it. He stretches you out on the bed, belly-up,
and you raise your hips for him to pull off your trousers. He whistles
appreciatively at your girth. You get the distinct notion that at some point he
is going to make the most of it.
He could finish you in a flash if he wanted, like a miniboss with as many hit
points as a chicken has teeth, but he seems to have no such contrivances. He
works you slowly, pays intense attention to one locale or another, your thighs
or your shoulders or that little gap thing at the top of your sternum, whatever
that’s called. You squirm with impatience, but he only looks up from taste-
testing random body parts and offers a pat on the navel, and goes back to
taking his sweet fucking time with you. He’s yet to give any acknowledgement to
your loaded sex pistol, desperate as it is for his administrations, and that’s
not only inconsiderate but also just fucking unlike him.
You’ve started pleading in an undignified whine when he finally finishes
applying his tongue to the underside of your wrist, and deigns to pull down his
own britches. You skip a breath or two, only now realising that he’s as
stupidly stiff as you are, which only makes his delay more egregious. He takes
both your wrists in hand and pins them down to the mattress, and his bacon
torpedo presses flush with yours. His hips continue to accost yours, bearing
down even farther farther farther meeting your own pelvic region and you’re
going to “lose it Dirk do something now Dirk please touch me fuck me you’ve
goddamn got to I’m going to—”
You expect him to roll his eyes, but he just smirks at your babble. “Come,” he
intones, as an order. His orange eyes are dark but they burn fierce into you
anyway.
You acquiesce.
He just watches, just observes your erotic explosion. He strokes your face and
runs his hand down your chest and touches his fingers to the manjuice on his
stomach. He looks into your eyes, his still half-lidded, and he licks his
fingers clean just like he did last time, but looking at you, holy shit fuck.
He moves his knees forward for some stability and, with a few economic
movements, he joins your post-coital status.
Strider leans back down and affords you a long, slow kiss for your trouble.
“Next time,” he murmurs into your mouth, “I’m going to beat the shit out of
you.”
You think you like the sound of that.
End Notes
     euphemisms
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