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”… we should what?”
It’s not about the tilted tone in which he says it, and it’s not even about the fact that he heard you loud and clear… but it could be about the fact that he’s leaning over you, elbows planted on each side of you against the red henge stone: you swallow.
“… call this arrangement between us off dear chum…”
You should be giving him reasons, lining them down like you’ve practiced, picture perfect scenario in which he’d lean back and nod, seeing your point of view and shifting a gear down. But you can see his eyes through the shades from this close and he’s not freaking out, he’s got this so much more than you, you whose jaw hangs limp, voice stuck in your throat and you can’t spit it out, but you also can’t swallow it down now. Blast it all to hell…
“Why?”
You could tell him it’s because he won’t let you breathe. Because he’s awesome and amazing and so much fucking better than you with anything he touches. He even fired a headshot on his third try. He’s got the attitude, and he’s got the looks, and he’s so blatantly obviously the hero and you’re the sidekick and this is not what you had in mind at all. Even now, when you told him you want to break up, he’s still composed and cool and friggin SENSIBLE. It’s driving you up all the stone henge walls in the area, it really is.
“Because you… deserve more than me,” you offer, swallowing again. It’s a piss poor reason and you both know it.
His eyes narrow and your gut clenches in that way it’s not supposed to clench.
“I don’t want more. Or anyone else.”
You know what this clenching means. It means you’re hyperaware of his leaning so close, so possessively, of the timbre of his voice vibrating through you, of the way you know he doesn’t want to let you go. Basically… your shorts are getting tighter is what’s wrong with it. They’re not supposed to do that.
“Im merely saying were not on equal grounds,” you offer, eyes averting, only to watch the bicep just pass your shoulder tense, the muscle shifting there making your knees just a fracture less stable. You know what his arms can do, have done. How he can hold you down just right, just enough to make you feel like you’ve got a fighting chance at turning the tables, but it’s not happening, because your body just gives up, gives in. You don’t even want to look past the wall of denial on that one – you don’t have to to know you like it. It still doesn’t mean you have to like liking it. “Youre meant for more for bigger things – im just slowing you down.”
“Nothing can slow me down,” he informs you, but his tone is softer, just a fracture closer. You glance at him and immediately regret it. He’s got his shades slipped down the ridge of his nose and you can’t look away from his eyes, even when you know he can see your hesitation, your wavering, your gravitating right back into this whole clusterfuck you’re trying to pull away from. “I’ve got you.”
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. He’s hot, you’re way over the roof and simultaneously bananas attracted to him. When he shuts up, when he’s not jumping in front of you every god damn time like you’re some sort of play-pretend princess in shorts, when he’s not so impossibly stellar at everything you love without even fucking trying to be… he’s just so fucking perfect. And you’re not sure you’re equipped to deal with it.
“Dirk…” It’s not happening, your voice is stuck on his name.
His eyebrows raise, but it takes a breath trembled out of you for him to clue in. He glances down between you and you just close your eyes, bumping the back of your head against the wall behind you because you’re a fucking idiot. Who the hell gets hard when they’re trying to break up with their boyfriends…
You can hear a little snort, barely beyond a quick breath, and you don’t have to look to know he’s amused. He doesn’t have to call you adorable, or goofy or anything else, you just get it anyway. He’s an insufferable prick… only problem is, even calling him a prick makes you remember said physical part of him, and your hormones latch onto that thought like a lifeline. You’re fully hard by the count of ten.
It dawns on you that you had a purpose to this. That you have a face to save. You shove at him, angry at yourself more than anything, angrier when he doesn’t budge an inch. “Would you quit that,” you groan under your breath, frustrated.
He resettles to lean on his other hip, just a breath out of reach from yours and you want to scream. At him, for him, you can’t even decide. You just slump back, staring up at him as you see him put on the douche ranting cockiness like it’s a flipping magical wizard hat that will sort him into superiority galore.
“You’re conflicted, and you’re not telling me what this is all about,” he states, matter-of-factly, confidence coming off in radiations. “But if there’s a problem, there’s also a solution, one that doesn't involve running away.” He tilts his head just so, just that fracture closer that makes you feel your dick press demandingly against the zipper of your shorts, closer to the heat of Dirk’s groin between your legs, just out of touch and your nails dig into the stone behind you painfully. “I’m not just going to back off. Not unless you give me a reason to.”
You stare back at him, heartbeat in your ears. How can he be so fucking awesome, it’s painstakingly tedious, like pulling teeth. But you can’t just yank it all out at the root, not by yourself, not when you’re fighting not to gravitate towards him, fall in instead of falling out, hook, line and sinker.
“Oh do shut it…” you mumble, but you know it’s not just the words that your resolve’s slipping for. It’s thrilling. This keeping on the edge of something. This less than regular kind of setting… it’s a challenge. For him, for you. You don’t know what you want to tell him, but your eyes lock with his. He stares back, unrelenting, fighting the plea in them for the longest of moments. Every inch of you not touching him hurts, physically longs for him, and he knows it, plays it, rap and rhymes it, silently, in the nuclear reactor of his mind. Someday he’ll have a meltdown, and god save you that day, or the rest of the world. But it’s not today.
Today he presses his hips to yours, your ass cushions against the stone behind you – and you’re the one melting down.
You grab him roughly, bring him close with intent, and he leans in, to meet your lips with force. He tilts his head just so, like he learned to do because of you, and thrusts his tongue pass your lips. A sigh of relief floods you, like you’ve been waiting for him to do just that all these days you’ve been avoiding him, but your fingers fist in his hair painfully. You’re not angry at him, but you need to hurt him, because him hurting hurts you, and you… you deserve it, because you’re being an idiot for being unable to fight this. For wanting it. Badly.
His hands are rough on your hips, but not enough to hurt and it’s frustrating. You want it to hurt, to leave marks, to give you an artificial reason to hate this, but it’s not happening. You’ve got an elbow in his gut and it’s not doing anything. He’s got a knee between yours, thigh against your balls, and it’s a draw. One false move marks the difference between pain and pleasure and no one’s giving in.
You’re breathless, his kisses are insatiable. He’s down your throat, and then retreating with a playful lick in a matter of moments, push repeat. You want to melt and bite his fucking tongue off, you really do… but your fingers are curled in his shirt and your hips twitch, grinding forth, and there’s no turning back.
He’s got your hips, you’ve got his shoulders, and he pushes close, grips you up, and you’re between a rock and rock-hard place, your thighs falling open because you can’t think straight anymore. You just fold your arms over his shoulders, breathe in his neck as he pants into your collarbone. You hold him like a lifeline, and he grinds like he’s thrusting your hearbeat into you, synced and charged.
It’s ridiculous how hard he makes you, the thought of him alone, let alone when he’s there and doing something about it. You hate it, the way he makes your heart pick up, your dick hard, just like he does everything else: effortlessly. You feel like he’s a cheating, overpowered, manipulative little shit. But he loves you, and why you of all people – when you’re never going to be on equal grounds. Is he power-playing you to stay by his side, so that he can see he’s better?
But he is. He always was. Always will be. You don’t get him at all. Nor yourself, why can’t you just tear off.
Beyond it all, you think it’s because you love him, too. Painfully so.
“Fuck-“
“So eloquent, English.”
“Fuck- you— nn…!”
You kiss him, open-mouthedly, so he won’t rant on, as he rocks your world. You don’t warn him, don’t care if he’s close – but he can tell anyway, by the way your grinds miss the rhythm, by the way moans start riding on your breath. He’s seen it all before, will be seeing it for a while to come. It’s insane how tuned you are, like this, how he knows just where to press, just how to thrust, and you tatter on the edge, endlessly.
“Please…”
“Please what…?” He’s done in, too, breathless, just as painfully hard.
You don’t want to play by his rules. You don’t want to spell shit out for him. You’re pissed and horny and probably more in love with him than you’re even comfortable with admitting, and he’s being a dick about it. You clench your thighs around his hips, fingers digging into the rocky surface behind you for purchase and rock him till he’s trembling, doubling over you, grasping at strands of restraint not to come.
Your eyes lock like this, lidded, troubled, tense – but intrigued, leveled on an understanding that goes beyond words. It’s what he does to you, what you do to him, and it not fitting anywhere and everywhere in your lives.
He doesn’t say he loves you. You don’t say it back. But it’s there, tangible.
He lunges closer, traps your hips with his and shoves a hand in between. You’re done for – you half brace yourself against his straining bicep as he palms you up, but your strength is gone, kissed goodbye and sent on its merry way without a fight. You come, mouth agape, without a sound, as he keeps his hand against you, drinking in every time you twitch against it, spurt after spurt of release shooting pleasure through you and cum into the clinging, damp confinement of your shorts.
You feel him wedged between your ass cheeks, hard bulge against sensitive nerves he’s breached to before and no shit, you know he remembers, he has to, your own body rocking onto him, milking him for it, till his humps are beyond desperate, pleasure wrenching through him, and his hips lock, twice, three times- he’s done in.
You both slide down against the red wall, breathless, and you want to push him away, but you can’t. Not physically, not emotionally. All you do is hide in the crook of his neck and his arms come around you, firmly. For a moment, everything is all right. Everything makes sense. You want to stay like this forever.
“You sure we should break up?” His voice is raspy in your ear and you hate how you love it.
“Yes,” you breathe, “but we wont will we?”
He sways his head no, and you hold him tighter.