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restraints, blindfolds, and other totally platonic devices

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Your name is Dirk Strider and you don't want to feel anymore.

Control has always, for lack of better words, controlled you. Every aspect of your life, your routine, your relationships, has been puppeted by the desire. You don't feel safe when you're not the one pulling the strings. But, even then, it's not something that comes naturally to you. It's something you have to consciously work at. Every minute of every day is spent figuratively gripping the reins of not only your narrative but everyone else's, and it's...

Well. It's exhausting.

Sometimes you just want to let go, but that doesn't come naturally to you either. You're not sure that anything does. Maybe being a massive tool. You've never really had any problem with that.

The point is—you need help.

"Uh," John says skeptically. "Sorry. Can you repeat that?"

"Okay, let me start over." With a frustrated sigh, you lift your shades just enough to pinch the bridge of your nose. "Have you heard of subspace?"

"Yeah," he says to your surprise. Then, "I don't really see what a hypothetical space-time continuum has to do with, uh." He gestures at your personal arsenal spread out on his kitchen table.  "This."

Christ, sometimes you forget he's a giant fucking nerd.

"No. I'm not talking about the communication between two points in space that are light-years away in distance, Egbert. Not that the subject of science fiction doesn't truly fascinate me."

He frowns. "Oh."

"I'm talking about you getting me to a place where I can shut down mentally through physical impact."

You pick up a flogger from the pile and offer it to John, handle first. He takes it, eyeing you for a long, drawn-out moment with a look of disbelief before dropping his gaze to the device in his hand. It's nothing fancy. You brought the basics, not anything that might scare him off. The flogger he's holding, some simple restraints, a crop, some rope, a gag. Pretty mundane, overall.

John lifts it eye-level and shakes the tassels, looking over at you with a curiously raised eyebrow. "With this?"

You shrug. "Sure."

"Uh." He sets it down, biting his lip. You know that look. He's trying to let you down easily. That's fine. You've prepared for this. "Dirk, listen. I'm not...I'm not gay?"

There it is. Exactly what you'd prepared for.

"What does that have to do with anything? This isn't sexual."

John picks up the fuzzy pink cuffs that are more ironic than anything. You've never actually used them, but you figured John would think they were funny or, at the very least, intriguing. The fact that goes for them first kinda proves your point.

"These aren't sexual?" John asks. "I don't believe you."

"They can be," you lie. Those are mostly sexual.  "But they don't have to be. In fact, I don't want them to be. That's why I came to you."

"Okay, thanks, I guess? I don't know if I should be offended or not."

"Why would you be offended?"

"I don't know," he yells, throwing up his hands, pink cuffs waving in the air like a flag of surrender. Perhaps a declaration of war. "Maybe that you find me so unattractive you're like, here's a guy who I will get no sexual gratification from!"

"Stop putting words in my mouth," you say flatly. Then, because you've already established that you're naturally a massive tool, you pick up the ball gag. "Now, this, however..."

John's face flushes dark red and he slaps it right out of your hand. You both watch it fly across the kitchen and sadly bounce off the linoleum. "You're an asshole," he mumbles.

See?

Alright. Looks like you're gonna have to open up for a good old-fashion feelings jam. Pushing up your shades, you turn to fix him with an intense stare. You don't mean for it to be intense, that's just kinda how you look all the time. Pissed off and tired. It works to your advantage though because you've got his attention.

"Let me explain."

"Okay."

Where to start? You've always viewed John like the wind; flexible, free, and untethered. There's an easiness about him. There's also a natural dominance, something he doesn't even realize. So, in a sense, John has two things you lack. Innate control and the ability to let it go. You find him utterly fascinating. Platonically speaking.

You also don't say any of that fucking nonsense.

Instead, you shrug and say, "It's because you're straight and I'm looking for something that’s a little more no-strings-attached."

John seems to consider this. "That does make sense, but can't you like...I don't know. Aren't there websites for stuff like this?"

"There are." You've even considered them, but you can't be vulnerable with a complete stranger, no matter how hard they smack your ass. "I need someone I can trust."

John blinks. "You trust me?"

"Yeah."

"You barely know me, dude!"

"John," you say sternly, "I know you just enough. If I wanted someone who knew me inside and out, I'd just ask Jake. Plus, Dave thinks the world of you, and honestly, that's good enough for me. But, aside from that, I observe. You're a good person with a good heart, someone who'd do anything for their friends. And never once have I seen you ask for anything in return."

John's not looking at you anymore, but you can tell he's listening. On the table, his fingers tap out a nervous beat.

"Not to mention," you continue, "I can tell you need a release too."

The tapping stops. He still doesn't look at you. "What do you mean?"

"We all have our ways of dealing with the shitty things that life throws at us. Even then, sometimes it still gets clogged up.” You gesture to your general chest region, signifying your uh, heart, or something. Your soul? “You need to let yourself air out. Get all the pent up emotions out of your system. Get cleansed, bro."

John likes to pretend he has it all together. Likes to pretend it's all water off a duck's back. But you see the frustration he doesn't want to cop to. Maybe no one else does, but you do.

"I'm giving you an outlet," you sigh. “I’m giving us both an outlet.”

There’s a pause of awkward silence and then—

"Okay."

Wait, hold on.

"Okay, as in...?"

John turns and looks at you. He's still holding those fuzzy fucking handcuffs and it's an unfairly hot visual. You weren't lying when you said you weren’t looking for anything sexual, but you're also a functioning human with eyes and a brain, and John is attractive and agreeing to tie you up and spank you. So, if someone wants to sue you for being into that, they can sue your traitorous dick.

"Okay, as in okay," he confirms. "I'll do it."

Wow. You weren't expecting it to be that easy. Alright then. You clap your hands together and rub, letting out a deep breath. Time to sensei it up.

"Great. Now there are some things I need to go over first. Basic BDSM ground rules, safe words, etcetera."

John mouths ‘safe word’, all adorable and confused, and braces his hands on the rounded back of the kitchen chair.  His gaze goes back to staring at the pile of bedroom accessories, but he nods along as you continue to discuss proper etiquette. A few times he stops you to ask a question, which you're both thankful for and proud of. That means he's listening. That also means he cares.

You really couldn't have picked a better suitor for this endeavor.

Still, for good measure, when you've finished your lesson, you prompt him one more time. "Any questions?"

John licks his lips, eyes darting anywhere but yours. Maybe you should lower your shades and relieve him of the first-degree Dirk Strider eye contact. Nah. This is all about open communication, no barriers. The shades stay off.

"Yeah, uh. When do you want to do this?"

Oh, he wants to do this right now? That’s cute and honestly pretty fuckin’ tempting. But, you sigh, gotta be responsible.

"Spend a couple of days doing your own research and then give me a call when you're ready," you tell him. It's been this long; you can go for a couple more days. The thoughts in your head are loud and threatening to burst, but you can keep them at bay a little longer.

"Right, okay," John says, sounding curiously disappointed. "I'll give you a shout."

 

You get a message two days later.

EB: i've done some thinking.
EB: and some research.
EB: so, i guess, uh…
EB: my place or yours? haha

The universe has never been particularly kind to you before, so it’s jarring for things to be going this smoothly. But you're not going to wait around for the other shoe to drop. You message John back and tell him that his place if fine. He asks you how soon you can be there, eager little shit, and you let him know you'll be on your way.

Having John come to your place probably makes the most sense, seeing that all your stuff is here, but you do want him to feel comfortable. This is his first rodeo, not yours. Might help him feel more at ease in a familiar environment. Plus, you'd left the items you'd brought on your last visit, so you know there's stuff to work with. Getting tied up with John's acid green Slimer tie doesn't exactly sound like the type of night either of you are aiming for.

Doesn’t sound like a bad night, per se, but.

Yeah.

Before you leave, you take a quick shower. Back when you used to do this with Jake, this is where you'd go ahead and open yourself up so that later when you were well and truly out of your gourd, he could slip in and take his turn. But, again, not really what you're aiming for. You keep fingers in your hair and that's it.

An hour later, you're on John's doorstep. He answers before you can even knock.

"Dirk.” He’s all flushed and wide-eyed. Startled, for some reason. "You're here."

Did he not think you were going to show? This was your idea. You performatively look around the porch; at the potted plants that have Jade Harley written all over them; the wooden swing creaking in the breeze; the traditionally homey, worn welcome mat that you're standing on.

"Yeah, so it seems," you say.

"Shut up," John says, stepping aside.

You take the first step graciously. He takes your coat, offers you some water, which you accept. The cup stays firmly in your hand and you don't drink. It's for later. For after you've left this mortal coil and returned lighter.

Hm.

Now that you think about it, you didn't actually brief him on aftercare. Oh well. It's been a while, sure, but you doubt you'll need it.

Somehow, you feel like bringing up the subject of cuddling might make John reconsider. You've compared him to the wind once before. It's not far off. Through the grapevine, you've learned he's hard to hold; free and ever-changing, wispy like air. Something the two of you have in common but for wildly different reasons.

You’re just hard to hold because you’re prickly and sharp.

But you think you saw a cactus back on the porch so. Mental thumbs up.

He takes you to his bedroom, hesitantly looking over his shoulder every few steps to make sure you're still following. Each time you give him a reassuring nod. Again, where does he think you're going to go? He's nervous, you get that, but.

Oh.

Not nervous. Embarrassed.

You step into the room, take one look at the bed, and feel your entire body heat and tingle.

He's got the blankets stripped off, leaving just the sheets; the leather cuff restraints you’d brought are already strapped to the bedposts; the flogger and crop are carefully laid out in a uniform line. And, in the middle of the bed, are the fuzzy pink cuffs.

"You prepared," you observe, taking it all in with a nod. "Looks like the centerfold for Better BDSM Homes and Gardens. Nice."

John groans. "Don't make it weird."

"I'm not. I'm genuinely impressed," you say, shucking off your shirt and handing it to him. He looks at it blankly before balling it up and tossing it in the corner. Rude.

You go for your buckle next, but a high-pitched wheeze stops you mid-zipper-pull. "What?"

"You're taking off your pants."

You lift an eyebrow. "Did you think I wasn't going to?"

"I guess," John stammers and then sighs. "No, I knew that. Sorry. Uh, continue."

You don't continue.

Alright, this might...cross some of the previously discussed lines, but you'll be damned if you get strapped in bed only for John to panic and administer shy feather-light blows. You want it to sting, not tickle. That's a whole other kink entirely and not one that you particularly want to explore with John Egbert.

"I'm going to need you to be a little more assertive."

"Uh."

"Tell me to take my pants off," you say as clinically as possible. He looks at you like you're a floating head. Confused and horrified. "I'm just trying to get you in the right headspace here."

"Oh, alright." John takes a deep breath, brow creasing. When he looks at you again, there's an air of authority. A flipped switch.

Oh, shit.

"Take off your pants, Dirk."

Without question, you do so, toeing off your shoes and socks, stripping down to your boxers, and kicking your jeans to join your shirt in the corner. You start to take off your gloves next but hesitate when John hums disapprovingly.

"Keep them on," he says.

Oh. You strap them back up.

It appears John has stepped into his role with frightening ease. You knew he had it in him. What a fuckin’ champ.

Unfortunately, you didn't know how into it'd you be. The orders are already starting to make your dick twitch, which you assumed would be a side effect of the impact play and not John himself. That's…concerning, but not deal-breaker.

Still, you walk over to the bed before he can ask anything else of you. It'll be less awkward when you're face down and able to hide how much it affects you.

You look down at the options he's presented and nod, considering. "So, what were you thinking? Maybe go for the—"

John cuts you off with a snap of his fingers. "Get on the bed."

Okay, your dick definitely jumps at that. Shit. You swallow down your words and slowly set the crop you'd picked up back down.

John's demanding that you hand over your control and you have no option but to lay it humbly at his feet.

You climb on the bed, carefully moving the cuffs out of the way but keeping them close. You already know he's going to want to use them. That's why they're there, displayed like a bowl-of-fruit centerpiece.

Once you're on your stomach, you prop yourself up on your elbows and look over your shoulder to see John approaching the end of the bed. The leather restraint cuffed to the bedpost is the only thing in his line of sight.

"Do you need me to show you how to—" John grabs your ankle and gently, but forcibly, pulls you closer, sliding you down the bed. Your stomach flips. "Okay. Never mind."

"Don't worry. I got you." He pauses, seems to realize what he's just said and quickly remedies with, "I got it."

He gets your first leg situated fairly quickly. It doesn't give you a lot of time to mentally prepare for the fact that he's about to—yeah. That.

John takes your free ankle and pulls it closer to its designated bedpost and successfully spreads you wide open. You go light-headed and dizzy, all of your blood rushing straight from your head to your dick. There's a semi in your neon orange boxers, and you know by the time he gets to your hands, you're gonna be at full mast.

You're so caught up in your boner dilemma that you don't register when the bed dips with John's weight. He's behind you, slotted between your spread legs and when he leans forward to reach the pink cuffs, he steadies himself with a light touch to your hip.

You nearly draw blood with how hard you bite your bottom lip to keep from whimpering.

John's still leaning over you, chest pressed against your back while he loops the handcuffs through the middle bar of his grated headboard. Wordlessly, you cross your wrists and offer them up.

John locks you up, slipping a finger under the cuff to rub soothing circles into your skin. "Are these comfortable enough?"

The faux-fur isn't as bad as you thought it'd be. Beneath it, there's a soft padding that feels nice when you pull and test the give and tension. But, honestly, any discomfort is eclipsed by the sensation of John tenderly touching you.

"Yeah, feels fine."

That's all you trust your mouth to say. If you keep talking, you might end up begging for more.

"Good," John huffs, and then he's pulling back. You hear the rustling of cloth against cloth and holy fuck, is he taking off his clothes?

Attempting to crane your head to look over your shoulder is met with a hand forcefully turning it right the fuck back around. John scratches at your scalp, a reassuring gesture and he coos at you.

What the fuck?

"One more thing," he says and then there's a blindfold being draped over your eyes and knotted at the back of your head.  "There we go."

You're going to die.

You're going to die, and Dave will have to give a eulogy at your funeral that reads: My bro died as he lived. Questionably tied up and with a raging fucking boner for an emotionally unavailable dude wearing glasses and cargo shorts.

All your friends are going to be horrified but not particularly surprised.

"Alright," John says. "Are you ready? Your safe word was...uh."

"Rainbow Dash," you remind him.

He groans. "Yeah. I was kinda hoping I didn't remember that right. Okay. Can't think of anything less sexy than that."

"That's the point," you remind him again.

"I know." The bed shifts again, and you feel the flat end of the riding crop trace down your thigh lightly. "I guess this one will be appropriate to start with then."

Horse jokes. Nice.

Boldly, you ask, "Do you think you know how to break a stallion?"

It's an attempt at your usual light, antagonistic banter. John doesn't take the bait. He places a large palm on the back of your head and pushes you down.

"Be quiet now."

Oh, fuck. Thank god you're face-first in the pillow so you can hide the desperate sound that escapes you. Raising your head back up to breathe, you keep quiet. Not because he told you to—okay, partly because he told you to—but because you have to listen closely to anticipate his next move anyway. You can't move. You can't see.

It's fucking amazing.

The riding crop is back on your thigh, he taps it lightly, teasing you, and slowly drags it upward. It catches on the hem of your boxer-briefs, lifting them just a hair, and pleasure pools low in your belly. Trapped between your stomach and the sheets, your dick pulses and leaks.

Fuck, maybe you should.

The first strike to your bare skin dislodges any coherent thought you might have had. Holy fuck, John's got an arm on him. It stings in the best way, burning hot, and leaves you audibly gasping.

"Too hard?" John asks.

You shake your head weakly before remembering that you should probably respond verbally. Open communication and all that.

"No, that's good." The sting is already fading. You might regret this but... "Could even go a little harder if you wanted."

John hums thoughtfully, a joyous sound that shakes you to your core. Leather presses down on your burning skin like a promise.

Maybe a threat.

"Ask me for it nicely," he says.

Oh, son of a bitch. He's trying to kill you.

"Harder?"

John pulls the crop away. "I said nicely."

You tug against the cuffs, metal clinking against metal, and groan. Fine. You grit your teeth. "Harder, please?"

"I want you to say, John, will you please go harder?" John demands. Even though you're blindfolded with your back to him, you can see his smug smirk. It's the same one he gets when he's pulled a successful prank.

He’s enjoying this.

Okay. You're having a talk with him when this is over. If this is going to be a regular, non-sexual thing between you two, he's going to have to stop acting like he just stepped off the scene of your dirtiest, most shameful fantasy. Afterward, though. You're way too into this to stop it right now.

You can play along.

"John." You push the words from between bared teeth, entire face on fire. "Will you please go harder?"

He laughs.

Before you say something that’ll get you in trouble, he brings the crop down again, a little higher up and with unprecedented force.

You don't even try to hide the moan that’s knocked loose and behind you, he goes oddly still and quiet. Serves him fucking right. You shift your hips up off the bed; partly to be an ass, mostly to relieve some of the pressure of your aching dick.

Turns out, angled like this, John has a much easier time striking your thighs. He takes turns, switching from your left to your right. Your flesh is tender and sensitive, burning with delicious residual pain. You can't anticipate where he'll strike you next, but each time it sends you careening closer and closer to where you need to be.

Distantly, you hear something clatter to the floor. You don't have time or energy to think of what it might be, but when you feel John's hands on your hot, smarted flesh, you realize it's the crop.

You whimper into the bend of your elbows and make a futile attempt to shy away from his touch. He doesn't let you, taking you firmly by the hips and pressing you gently into the mattress. You let out a low moan and, luckily, you've stopped caring about those somewhere between the tenth and twentieth strike. It's just that you've been trying to keep yourself from grinding down into his sheets and now you can't escape it.

You're so close to a lot of things. Orgasm is one of them.

A hand presses into the middle of your back and drags slowly upward. John curls his fingers around the base of your neck, damp with sweat, and massages gently.

"You're so red," he breaths out. "Do you want me to keep going?"

"Mmm," you manage.

"Can you take it?" His voice is light, as soothing as his touch. You nod your head. "Okay, I trust you. But, uh, I'm going to try something different, okay?"

You make a noise of affirmation. Or, at least you think you do. Either way, John deciphers it as permission.

Suddenly there are fingers at your briefs.

"Lift," he says, and you do.

He drags them down painfully slow and the elastic band gets caught on your poor, oversensitive dick. You suck in a breath, hissing, back arching as you pull against all your restraints. He gives one more good tug and there’s a wet slap against your stomach.

There's no way he doesn't know.

If anything, he's got your underwear pulled down as far as they'll go and he can see the very telling, damp spot you've left there.

John sucks in his own sharp, shaky breath.

Fuck. You start to panic. Feel yourself being yanked away from the threshold of bliss.

"Sorry, 'm sorry," you mumble. "Shit."

"Dirk," John says, shushing you like a scared rabbit. "It's okay."

You tense up and he lays a gentle hand back on your hip, thumb moving in circles. He keeps shushing you, whispering that it’s okay, it’s fine.

Instantly, you relax again, his touch and voice like a tranquilizer.

"It's okay," John repeats and asks again, "Do you want me to keep going?"

You nod shakily, thankful that the blindfold hides the tears in your eyes, and cant your hips back toward him to show you still want it. Words aren't coming to you. Thoughts barely are. At least the panic is ebbing away now, calmed by John reassuring you quietly while tracing his fingers up and down the backs of your tender, abused thighs.

Once you've fully relaxed back down into the bed, he ends his careful exploration in favor of palming your bare ass. He pauses, a silent question, and you don’t want him to stop so moan encouragingly. He does it again.

"Fuck," John grunts. The sound makes something in your chest flutter. “Is this okay?”

Words. Use your words.

“Don’t stop,” you say between punched out breaths.

He doesn’t.

John kneads your ass like he's making bread, squeezing and massaging, pulling you apart with his thumbs. It nearly makes you choke on the air that fills your lungs with each gasping breath. You have to rock your hips down to grind against the mattress to keep from blacking out.

Instead of freaking John out, it seems to give him an idea and he guides you through the next one. You're leaking all over his bed, leaving a damp spot on his sheets but he doesn't seem to give a fuck and neither do you. He's groaning and chanting your name, driving you down to dry hump his mattress while pressure builds low in your belly.

"John," you breath, "I'm gonna."

He hauls back a hand and smacks your ass with his open palm. The noise it rips out of you is more a scream than anything.

"Fuck," he says and does it again. "Holy fuck, Dirk.”

The third slap rings loud in your ears. Tears are spilling from beneath your blindfold. You're trying so hard to hold on.

The fourth slap makes you outright sob.

The fifth one makes you beg.

"Please," you whine. He's got a knee pressed to the inside of each of your thighs, spreading you more than the restraints ever did, and your muscles burn to accommodate him. "Please."

You don't even know what you're begging for.

But John does.

He grabs you by the hips and hauls you up as far as you'll go. It's enough for him to wrap a hand around your middle and grab your neglected cock and wring your orgasm out without even flicking his wrist. Your body tenses when you come, the cuffs on your hands and ankles pulling taut with the sound of metal scraping against metal.

John's hand squeezes and twists, coaxing out the very last drop.

Your muscles give out and you drop boneless against the sheets. Your mind is finally clear and empty. Quiet. Pleasure hums through your body, wrapping around your bones and dissolving them until you feel weightless. For the first time in a long time, you feel sated.

Behind you, a buckle clinks.

"Can I?" John asks with a strained voice.

You’re not sure what he's asking for exactly, but you're pretty sure you'd let him do anything at this point. So, you hum and nod, liquid in your motion.

John uses one hand to squeeze a single cheek, pressing his thumb close to your center and pulling you open. You're too blissed-out to feel exposed by it, and probably wouldn't anyway. Not with how John makes a throaty moan and curses under his breath. He likes the sight of you spread open beneath him and you're not entirely sure what to do with that information.

You'd wager he likes it a lot.

You hear something. The slick sound of John fucking his fist. Slick because his hand is still wet from getting you off. Even in your current state of mind and disposal, that makes your stomach turn a somersault.

John Egbert is jerking off on your ass.

What the fuck?

He lasts a little longer than you did, but not by much. You can tell when he's close because the lewd squelch of him stripping his dick gets more and more frantic and the grip that holds you open gets near painful. John’s biggest tell, however, is the way he moans your name and rocks forward to rub the blunt head of his cock against you before coming wet and hot along your backside.

You don't even have the energy to tell him how gay that was.

He's probably going to have a spiraling panic about this later and you suppose that you'll help him through it. Least you can do. But right now, you're going to enjoy basking in the euphoric bliss you'd set out to reach in the first place.

You close your eyes and let your body relax, uncaring of the mess drying to your skin.

John moves around you, unbuckling your ankle restraints, rubbing where the leather bit into your skin, and moves on to the next one. He leans over you to unlatch the cuffs and your wrists get the same treatment before he unknots the blindfold and slips it off. You’re too out of it to even stretch, so gone you're barely aching. That's tomorrow's problem.

You're rolled over to lay on your back with the help of strong hands. Lazily, you open your eyes to get a good look at him. John's tucked away, but his shorts and shirt are off. You don't remember that happening. When you're more coherent, you'll be sure to appreciate how hot he is without a nerd shirt and khakis.

For now, you settle your head on John’s chest after he moves you like a ragdoll, shifting you around to rest cradled under his arm.

"I heard this was important," John says. You tilt your head up to see him looking at you, earnest in expression. "When I was, uh, researching. Most things mentioned aftercare."

"Oh," you say, blinking. It slowly starts to dawn on you that you are, in fact, cuddling him. "Alright."

John squeezes you, smiling his goofy smile. "So, do you feel cared for?"

"Extremely." You make sure it sounds sarcastic as possible; despite the fact it isn't.

"Alright, good." A pause. "That was...You were right. I think I needed that. For like, a lot of different reasons, but, yeah. It felt good."

"Mhm," you say into his chest, rubbing your nose against the wiry hair. "Good."

Sleep is starting to pull you under, and you let it. You always get the most rest like this—when your head is finally quiet and empty enough to allow it. Having someone to hold you isn't such a bad deal either. It's actually a really good deal. John is...

He's good. He's giving you exactly what you need, something you didn't even ask for.

Something you didn't even think to ask for.

"I wouldn't mind doing it again," he says, voice rumbling through his chest and into your ear. You melt into him further. "All of it. If you want."

You don't answer because you're already asleep, curled up against John's side while he cradles you like a baby, and presses a kiss to the sweaty line of your forehead.

Your name is Dirk Strider and you're fine with whatever feeling this is.

Chapter Text

Your name is John Egbert and you have no idea how you got here.

Okay, that’s possibly a tiny white lie. You have some ideas, maybe a couple. And all of them are pointing a giant, flashing neon arrow at the display laid out before you.

You see. It’s just that.

Well.

There happens to be one Dirk Strider on your bed, arms and legs stretched and bound to the posts, looking like an anime Vitruvian Man with his stupid triangle shades and spikey hair.

You're going to destroy him.

Consensually, of course. But not tenderly. That’s not exactly what he’s into, and this late in the game, you can safely admit that you aren’t either.

You've been doing this off and on for a couple of months now and it's definitely sexual in nature. Thank you very much, Dirk. Whatever. You came to terms with that after the first time; kinda had to since you got so turned on that you couldn't stop yourself from jerking off on his ass and cuddling him. No big deal.

Your scenes, as he calls them, vary from woah, that’s really horny to wow, Dirk, do you need to talk about it? Sometimes it's just you slapping his ass until the thoughts fall out of his noggin and nothing more. Sometimes he gets off during it. Sometimes you do. Sometimes you both do.

And, sometimes, they feature you, holding a lubed up fleshlight, situated between Dirk’s splayed thighs while he writhes in anticipation.

That sometimes is now.

You are currently situated between Dirk’s splayed thighs while he writhes in anticipation. Oh, yeah, and you’re holding a fleshlight. Can’t forget that sordid detail.

Whew, boy.

This is, uh, the first time it's been...that. Purely sexual. Every time before had just been a fun byproduct of your activities. This is way more deliberate and maybe you're just a little bit nervous to drive the final nail in your heterosexual coffin before lowering it into the ground. Because after this? Yeah. You're no longer just bi-curious. That particular curiosity has been sated a few times over by now.

"John?"

Your head snaps up to find Dirk attempting to look over the rim of his shades disapprovingly. Unfortunately, he's tied to the bed and can't make use of his arms, so he looks like an idiot. This does not faze him.

"You good?" he asks.

"Yeah, just like making you wait," you answer cheekily. It's not a lie. Teasing and denying Dirk sorta gets your engine going. Knowing that he's already halfway to hard and unable to do anything about it...

Yeah.

You're good.

He snorts, unamused. "Asshole.”

"Oh jeez," you hum disapprovingly, "I don't think it's a good idea to call someone names when they’re holding the fate of your dick in their hands."

Dirk's eyebrows furrow in a mixture of frustration and blatant fear. That's more than fair. You've been sitting between his legs for about thirty minutes while you contemplate how you want to go about doing this and, in that time, you've barely touched him. That's part of the game though. He likes it just as much as you do, as evident, once again, by his half-hard cock.

It’s a shame you can’t fully read the desperation on his face. You have no idea why you allowed him to keep the shades on in the first place. The fingerless gloves? Sure, those are admittedly hot, and you’ll be hard-pressed to see them go. The shades? Also, admittedly hot—but you’ll never tell him that. Also-also? A huge, pain-in-the-ass obstruction to your view, even with the best seat in the house.

Luckily, you have the power to remedy that.

You lean over Dirk, careful not to touch him too much, and slide them right off his nose. He looks disgruntled but that’s fine. Now you can see just how blown-out his pupils are, how the blacks of them nearly swallow all the amber.

You carelessly toss his shades to the side, ignoring Dirk’s dagger glare when they clatter to the floor, and smile graciously down at him. "That's better."

"Careful," Dirk warns.

"I plan to be," you say, smugly.

For good measure, you squirt another glob of lube onto the device in your hand, making a show of really getting it in there with your fingers. Demonstrate to him just how careful you can be. Across from you, Dirk tries and fails to hide a whimper. You bite down on your answering grin without trying to hide it at all.

Why were you so nervous before? This is fun!

"Yeah?” Dirk grouses. “From where I'm sittin', it doesn't look like you're plannin' to do anything.”

He can deny it and gripe all he wants to, but the anticipation is riling him up. You know because he’s slipping into your favorite tell. That slow, Texan drawl always makes an appearance when he starts to get antsy, and right now it's thicker than syrup and you wanna lick the plate clean.

Uh, metaphorically.

Later, though. Right now, you need to do something about all the yammering.

"You're mouthy tonight," you say, a pithy observation. With a wet sound, you free your fingers from the anatomically-ambiguous toy and place it to the side. Dirk frowns at it and then frowns you. You smile back, tapping your chin. "I think we left the gag in the living room though."

That was a fun night. Dirk, bent over your couch, holding his ankles with a bright red ball between his teeth. If you recall correctly, you believe you used the flogger.

"John," Dirk says very seriously. "Don't you fuckin' leave me here."

Oh! Now that's an idea. Leaving him here all hot and bothered, waiting while you sit cozy in the recliner to watch a movie. He sees you mulling it over and lets out a frustrated grunt, wiggling in his restraints to no avail. You've got him strapped in nice and tight and unless he says the word, you're not letting him go anywhere.

But you don't have any problem with watching him try.

"Mouthy," you repeat, tutting your tongue and shaking your head. With one hand, you undo your buckle, and Dirk's gaze zeroes in on the action. He goes still, eyes widening, and it feels like a victory.

You whip your belt from the loops in one fluid motion. It makes a sharp snap and Dirk's dick twitches where it lays red, leaking, and now fully hard on his belly.

He gulps.

At once, several options present themselves to you.

A.) Straddle his chest and fuck his mouth.

B.) Double up your belt and leave red welts all over his milky white thighs.

C.) Leave him to suffer.

The first option is very tempting, and you can't deny that you're hard as a rock right now. But…the two of you have never. Well. He's never touched your dick directly. It's always been you getting yourself off on him. That might be a bit much, appealing as it sounds. The second option is a real contender but the third is just a little too cruel for your brand of punishment.

Oh, well.

You toss all of them out the window, hold your belt to Dirk's mouth and give him a very simple command.

"Bite down."

For a moment, he looks at you like you've lost your mind. His lip twitches like he wants to talk back but thinks better of it at the last second. Instead, he opens up and clamps down on the leather.

You let go so that the belt dangles between his clenched teeth and sit back on your haunches, admiring your intuitive handiwork. Satisfied, you hum appreciatively and nod your head.

Dirk, however. Well. If looks could kill, you'd be a dead man.

"Now, where were we?" You pick up the fleshlight with a quiet a-ha. "Here we go."

Grabbing him by the base of his cock, you direct him to point upward like a compass near north. He's got a slight curve that hangs to the left; overall, a little longer than yourself but not quite as thick. Like the rest of him, it's freckled in patches, including a really cute lone one dotted on the head.

Cute...? Is that a word you should use for a dick freckle? Whatever doesn't matter. It's fucking cute and when you press your thumb against it, Dirk makes an even cuter noise.

Wonder what would happen if you kiss it...

No. Back on track. It keeps getting derailed to imagining your dick in his mouth, or his dick in yours. Which isn’t upsetting but, it is distracting.

You’ve got business to attend to.

You've got to fuck Dirk with this electric-blue, silicone monstrosity and you've gotta make him like it. But maybe not too much, too soon.

"Let me know when you're close," you instruct. He complains with a series of muffled, whiney nonsense that you can't understand on account of your belt being between his teeth. You’re pretty sure you get the gist of it though, rolling your eyes. "Get creative then!"

Slowly, you lower the toy down onto his dick and woah. That’s a really tight fit; like really gotta squeeze him in there. His answering moan sounds near painful. You know you've got enough lube though because you can see it oozing out where you're pushing him in. And that sure is a sight that gets your stomach tangled in knots for reasons you don’t want to examine too closely.

By the time you have the fleshlight fitted snuggly at the base of his cock, he's tugging so hard against his wrist restraints that you're afraid he might bend the wrought-iron of your bedposts.

"Tight?" you ask, though you obviously know the answer. Dirk nods feverishly. "Good."

You give him a moment to adjust to the pressure and squeeze. But only that, a moment. Then you twist it and drag back up at a slow, antagonizing pace; taking your time to examine every inch of slick, glistening skin left in its wake. You stop when his head catches on the rim and shove it back down; full-body shivering at the sound of wet, suction.

Dirk whines, pleading with the only thing he has left—his eyes.

He wants you to fuck him with it, and okay. You can do that. The teasing has lasted long enough.

You find a pace pretty quickly and, after a while, the toy starts to glide easily, like its interior has molded to the shape of his cock.

Dirk looks like he feels good, all red-faced and sweaty. He sounds like he feels even better. He moans loudly, biting down on the belt, breathing heavily through his nose. He's more squirmy than usual, so you plant one hand on his hip to keep him pinned down and still. It throws off your rhythm when he tries to buck up into it like that.

Plus, holding him down and stripping his dick mercilessly with a fleshlight is hot. It's so fucking hot, oh god.

The ambient white-noise of Dirk’s high-pitched, desperate whines bounce off your bedroom walls to rattle around in your head. He’s close and you’re half-tempted to let him come right now and start all over. Fuck him right through an orgasm and drag him headfirst into another without stopping. Idly, you wonder if he could take it, or if he’d have to tap out.

You don’t get to find out where Dirk falls on the overstimulation spectrum just yet.

He’s spouting muffled warnings at you, doing his best to keep the belt between his teeth, and you remember what it is he’s asked for. You pull him right to the edge and, when he starts to thrash, arching clear off the bed, you yank the toy away with a loud gasp. Dirk makes an appreciative sound, eyes rolling back as he sinks down, relaxing into the duvet.

You watch him, chest heaving, and give yourself a moment to assess his dick situation. Shiny and wet, that’s the verdict—and so, so red. Seriously. You bet if you blow on him like a dandelion, he'd shoot off.

Strategically, you adjust yourself in your very sexy cargo shorts.

You give Dirk a few minutes to cool down before you're pushing it back on him. Beneath you, he shudders and tries to squeeze you with his legs, but the restraints don't quite allow it. He’s coming unraveled at the seams already. You can’t even imagine how this feels for him.

Distantly, you think maybe you wouldn’t mind finding out.

Hmm.

"You know," you say conversationally, as you start to move again, "I think I'd like to try this."

Dirk makes a noise that sounds like a question, followed by a moan because you're speeding back up to your previous pace. You’ve also learned that the silicone casing is pretty malleable and if you squeeze just right—

“Mmmmfph!”

"I don't know about the fleshlight though. I mean, you're clearly enjoying it, so I'm sure it feels great but..." You pull off again because you can see him starting to shake, the muscles in his abdomen twitching. While you wait, you continue spinning your fantasy, telling him, "I think I'd rather have the real deal."

You stuff his dick back into the dripping wet channel, dragging it up and down slowly, keeping a watchful eye. The intervals between close-calls are getting smaller and smaller with each go around. But he’s hanging on so nicely, even if he looks well and truly out of it.

"What do you think about that?"

You pull up.

"Strapping me up like this?"

You push down.

"Riding me until I tell you to stop?"

You pull off completely.

Dirk sobs and there's no way in hell your belt isn’t going to have permanent bitemarks engraved in the leather. Worth it. Maybe you'll wear it the next time someone decides to host a friendly reunion. You know, as a power move or something. Dirk would probably find that hot. He might even let you drag him off to a secluded closet and add some fresh, teeth-shaped punctures while all your friends stay none-the-wiser.

Jeez. That's right.

You should probably tell your friends about this. Maybe not in so many words but...you and Dirk, you guys are...uh.

You're a thing, right?

A low grumbling brings you back to earth. Dirk shifts around to get your attention and, if you listen closely, you can kinda make out what he's saying.

Oh. Begging.

He's begging.

You bring him to the edge three more times before the glassy look in his eyes starts to turn to full-blown tears and you feel...well. Bad. You feel bad. Like you always do when he cries during a scene when you've gotten a little too carried away or particularly relentless. Dirk always tells you that it’s fine, that feeling like that is normal. Tells you not to forget he asked for it, that he’d push pause if he needed to.

(Then he allows you to be the big spoon so you can hold him to your chest and bury your nose in his hair—but that’s neither here nor there.)

"You're doing great," you soothe.

Praising him always works as a pretty solid Band-Aid for your guilt. A quick, temporary fix, if you will. When everything is said and done, you’ll make sure he’s okay. But for now…

You fit the fleshlight over his twitching, sensitive cock one more time and go for gold, fucking him quick and filthy.

"Look how long you've lasted,” you flatter. “Go ahead, let go."

He's been waiting for your command all this time. The moment you give permission, he’s arching off the bed, muscles straining as he pulls against his restraints. You let him fuck up into the silicone toy while he comes, crying your name through clenched teeth.

You help him along the way until he finally spits out the belt and wheezes for a clear breath. Asking— no, begging—you to stop, please, stop, John, I can’t take anymore, holy shit.

His dick softening dick slaps against his stomach when you pull off.

You, on the other hand, are not soft. You're so fucking hard you can't see straight. Normally, this is the part where you’d frantically pull yourself out to jerk off on his thighs, or ass, or dick, but god. You have an idea and it's an absolutely disgusting idea and yeah, Dirk can tease you about it some other time.

Right now, you just really don't care. You’ve only got one thing on your mind.

This time, you release him from his restraints before you come. He makes a quiet, confused noise and you hush him. If you say out loud what it is that you want to do, you'll get too flustered to do it. So, you just keep shushing him. He doesn't put up much of a protest, while you finish unbuckling his wrists and ankles, carefully moving him to roll over on his stomach once he’s free.

You rake your gaze up and down his back, taking in his lean muscle dotted with sunspots and freckles, shining with a thin layer of sweat. All the way down to his ass, which you often tease him about, but truth be told, it’s a nice ass. Fits his build. Fits your hands perfectly. Turns the prettiest shade of red when you smack it.

Oh, god. Okay.

You tear your eyes away, wiping the sweat from your brow, and set to work.

Thankfully, he’s always lazy and compliant after he comes. There’s no way you could handle Dirk Strider at his most inquisitive right now. At most, he softly grunts while you maneuver his legs closed, running your palms up the backs of his thighs, taking a moment to admire his ass again. You've grown very acquainted with it. You'd like to take things to the next level, you think. Upgrade from an acquaintance, maybe. Get some friendship bracelets, perhaps.

Tender thoughts aside, you firmly place the fleshlight between Dirk's legs.

"Uh," he says, lifting his head from the pillow. "Are you...?"

You straddle his thighs and drape your body over his, pressing your chest to his back. The sweat soaks through your shirt immediately. One of these days you'll learn that you should just get undressed too, but you've already learned that you like being completely clothed while he's naked and at your mercy.

It’s a power thing, Dirk had explained.

It’s not, you had argued.

And, okay, it might be…but you’re not trying to exert any power right now. You’re just too desperate to get off to worry with stripping down.

"If you're not cool with this just say the word," you tell him, honestly.

But, god, if you hear the name of a rainbow cartoon pony right now—before you get the chance to fuck him by proxy? You'll literally die. You’ll back off because you're not an asshole, but you'll also die. It won't be an honorable death either. It'll be super embarrassing and awful.

"Nah, s'cool," Dirk mutters, still sounding a bit breathless. "Go ahead."

Alright.

You line yourself up with the fleshlight’s opening, all slicked up with lube and Dirk's release, and push in slowly and holy fuck, fuck, fuck. This thing is like a vise clamp around your dick. Your vision goes black at the edges, but you don’t let up. You fuck your way into the tight, messy heat until you bottom out. This is probably the grossest thing you've ever done.

It's also probably the hottest.

You drop your forehead to rest against the nape of Dirk's neck and groan, letting yourself adjust.

It’s making you crazy; the tightness, the heat, the pure filth you’re sticking your dick in. The fact that Dirk had been here just moments before, found his release exactly where you’re buried.

"Holy shit, that feels good," you say on a breathless laugh.

Dirk makes a strangled noise in agreement and you feel his body tense. More specifically, you feel his thighs tightening to keep the device securely in place.

He’s so good to you.

It's easy to close your eyes and pretend like you're fucking him. Dirk moves with every thrust and his hands scramble to white-knuckle the iron bars of your headboard, keeping himself anchored so you can rock into him. He takes it, and takes it, and takes it with every snap of your hips. God, you wish you were actually fucking him right now. This toy feels good, but you know for a fact he'll feel better.

Twisting your head to the side, you press a sloppy, open-mouth kiss to the side of his neck, and he breathes out your name like a prayer. You do it again, just cause you can, and he repeats a litany of—John, John, mmm, fuck, John.

"Wanna fuck you," you tell him. "Just like this."

To demonstrate, you drive into the toy hard. The plastic base hurts, but the sound Dirk makes soothes any discomfort. You don’t mind when he cries like this. So, you do it again, and again, and again.

He’s back to babbling. "Please, John—ahhh, fuck, please."

And you don't have a clue whether he's asking you to fuck him or finish or both, but it still makes you see double. The pressure that’s been coiling low in your stomach unfurls and you feel your arms betray you, giving out. You collapse against Dirk’s back, pushing in as face as you can go.

For the second time that night, the fleshlight gets filled up to the brim.

Each push in wrings out the last of your orgasm until there’s nothing left. You feel the mixed mess of your release, coupled with Dirk’s and a shit ton of lube, oozing out around you, dripping like a thick slime.

And, for the second time that night, you realize that shouldn’t be a thing that threatens to turn you on again but, oh well. It seems you're constantly learning new things about yourself in Dirk’s company. Some you sorta wish you hadn't. This whole, uh, slime thing being number one.

Regardless, this contraption is ruined...you're probably just going to have to toss the whole thing out. Hopefully, it wasn’t too expensive, or maybe Dirk has some cool lifehack to squeegee out the gunk.

That’s a problem for another day. For now, you slip loose from the toy and toss it to the floor. It echoes with a loud, wet smack.

"Dude," Dirk says flatly.

You lean back up on shaky elbows, catching your breath. "It's hardwood. I can mop."

"I'm not..." Dirk pauses and twists around so he's lying under you, looking up with a frown. He's wearing the hardened stare that he believes is intimidating but isn’t. For all his sharp edges, Dirk is surprisingly soft. "I'm not talking about the helping of jizz soup you just ladled onto your floor."

"Dude," you parrot, scrunching up your nose. "Gross."

"I’m just saying. That was a hell of a truth bomb to detonate mid-scene, bro."

Oh.

You roll off of him, flopping to your back, slinging your forearm over your eyes with a heavy sigh. A dramatic pose made very difficult by your glasses, but you manage. Whatever. Maybe it’s for the best that you can’t see shit. Especially now that you have to face your stupid, horny confession. Curse your dick, and curse Dirk Strider's very fuckable ass.

"Right, that," you say. "Uh, we can just forget I said anything. Good? Good."

"Not unless you want to forget it." Dirk nudges him. "Do you want to?"

You lift your arm enough to crack an eye open in his direction. "Do I want to forget it?"

That sure is a question, isn’t it?

"No. Do you want to fuck me?”

Sheesh! That is too.

“I mean," you sigh again, just as dramatically. You’re embarrassed and Dirk’s asking if you want to fuck him. You press your burning face into the crook of your elbow, groaning. "I think so. No, wait, I’m sorry. I do...but not this second or anything because I don't think I could get it up if I tried but...”

You trail off, ushering in a respectable pause.

“Yeah. I want to.”

"Okay, Dirk says like it’s the easiest thing in the world. "We can arrange that."

Your stomach turns in on itself all funny. Right. Arrange. That's...that's what this is. An arrangement. Albeit a good one, but the more time you spend with Dirk outside of the bedroom, the more you want…well, more? He gets you. He walked into your house with an armload of sex toys, threw a dart, and got a bullseye.

Slowly, you lower your arm away from your eyes, mouth dry. Dirk reaches over to adjust your glasses, straightens them so that they sit properly on your nose, and your stomach turns again.

"So, with ropes and stuff?"

He shrugs. "Sure. If you want."

"What if…" Here, you pause, biting down on your lip to stop yourself from saying something utterly fucking stupid.

But, since you're John Egbert, you go ahead and say something utterly fucking stupid.

"What if we just did it normally?” you blurt, then decide that empty silence is room for him to turn you down, so you start right back up. “Okay, hear me out. Let me cook dinner for you—hey! Don't look at me like that! I'm an excellent cook."

Dirk gives you an exaggerated nod and thumbs up, very clearly sarcastic! And you give him a playful shove right back. He pushes against the force and you to change tactics, grabbing him by the shoulder and dragging him forward. He lands securely on your chest.

Dirk looks down at you, visibly startled. You smile, showing your teeth. Well, you're always showing your teeth, but that's beside the point.

"Hi," you say, content with this new arrangement, and continue. "Anyway, I cook dinner and maybe we watch a movie and then…I don't know."

You shrug nonchalantly before suggesting: "Fuck you until you can't walk?"

Dirk takes a moment to blink rapidly, the cogs turning behind his eyes while he basks in the silence, expression taciturn. You bet he wishes that he had his shades right about now. You know him well enough to realize that it’s a security thing, to feel safe. Hell, you knew that before you truly met the guy. He's a lot like Dave, in more ways than either of them care to cop to.

“Do you mean a, uh," Dirk stops abruptly to swallow and you watch the bob of his throat to keep the panic down. You already know what he’s going to say. "Date?"

Ah, man. There it is.

Don’t act over-eager, Egbert. Striders are like emotionally-stunted fawns. If you spook ‘em, they’ll go running all knock-kneed and ridiculous.

You take a deep breath. Let it out.

"Sure,” you say.

"Sure."

You narrow your eyes slyly. "Are you just repeating me or are you agreeing?"

"Both," Dirk says, nose twitching. "Yeah. That works."

"Cool," you say, and then because you're paranoid that he's disappointed, remedy it with, "I mean we can totally still do the kinky stuff. I just think, uh, that it might be nice to do something boring occasionally too.”

Dirk smiles; or, well, his mouth quirks just a hairline fraction. "You think a date with me would be boring?"

Har, har. There’s real insecurity there, but you’re nice and won’t call him out on it. Let him think he’s being smooth.

"I dunno," you say skeptically. "Are you gonna talk my ear off about some obscure anime that's probably, most definitely just hentai?"

"Yeah."

"Well then, no. I guess not."

The world around you goes sluggish like someone hit the slow-mo feature on the universal stop-watch. Dirk’s looking down at you. You’re looking up at him. If this were one of his stupid animes, there’d be dramatic pink blush on both of your cheeks while a sakura blossom shower provided a shoujo-worthy backdrop.

You really hate the fact that ridiculous scenario played through your head at all.

For the most part, throughout your shared endeavors, you've always been the one with the upper-hand. Figuratively and literally. It's you in the position of power, usually wrestling him into submission with your hand, or paddle, or some other suitable device. Sometimes he's blindfolded, sometimes his head pushed facedown into a pillow, sometimes it's just your hand over his eyes, and sometimes it's none of the above.

Regardless, it's always him on the receiving end of the anticipation. It's always him wondering what you’re going to do next.

But then Dirk leans down and kisses you, and it's finally your turn to gasp in delighted surprise. You can barely wrap your head around what’s happening. Dirk just kissed you.

No, Dirk is kissing you.

And you’re not doing jack shit to kiss him back!

He pulls back, flustered. "Oh, shit. Sorry. I--"

"For what?" You crumple your doubt up like a wad of paper and swallow it, only half aware that’s not what you do with wads of paper. You reach up to cup his cheek and he flinches at the touch but allows you to pull him back down.

Against his lips, you say, "Kiss me, you moron."

Like always, he obeys. Of course, he does. Dirk is so, so good for you. You’ve established that, narratively speaking, several times. You suppose a couple more won’t hurt.

Dirk is so, so, so good for you.

He kisses you like he's dying for it, and you kiss him back just as desperately, carding your fingers through his hair at the nape of his neck where it’s soft and damp with sweat. When you part your lips, he opens gratefully and you lick your way inside, swallowing down his content moan.

Leaning up, he moves with you, seamlessly in tandem. Let’s you guide him back down to the lay flat on the bed where you can easily kiss him into the mattress. It never rises past a slow exploration of tongues and mouths, aside from the occasional nip of teeth. It's intimate and sweet and you think that you might like it a lot.

You think you might like him a lot.

Dirk pulls away to take a breath, looking up at you with his languid, heavy-lidded eyes. He raises an eyebrow, dragging that lazy gaze down, down, and down.

"Think you could get it up right now?" he asks.

Oh, man. Your dick wants to twitch at that saucy implication so bad, but it can't. That’s fine, you tell yourself. You're not a teenager anymore.

"No."

"Worth a shot," he sighs.

You get an idea, a wonderful idea. Much better than your last one.

"Stay the night?"

Dirk looks interested, humming lower under his breath. "And Scratch dinner for breakfast?"

"Lazy morning sex?" you add, sweetening the pot, and wiggle your eyebrows. 

"Hell fuckin' yeah."

There's a giddiness bubbling in your chest; like you've just been asked to prom by the coolest guy in school. You know, if prom was the promise of bacon, eggs, and sex and Dirk Strider was actually cool. You can't suppress your smile and it looks like he can’t either. Huh. As much as you love seeing all his blissed-out expressions in the throes of passion…You may like this a lot more.

For a metaphorical victory lap, you kiss him again.

Your name is John Egbert and you have no idea how you got here, but you're not complaining.