Chapter Text
Your name is (you’re not going to reintroduce yourself for the nth time, so you better have the character profile memorized by this point) DIRK STRIDER. And right now, you’re dead certain your live-in boyfriend of two and a half years has just got to be fucking with you.
It started off easy. He sat you down in your shared bedroom a few minutes ago, all jumpy and skittish and toying around with a pillow, to discuss something of note vis-à-vis your freshly renewed relationship. Cool, you thought then, in your misguided flashback naiveté. This isn’t going to be a problem at all.
Frankly, you were ready to deal with a lot of really awkward shit. You just weren't prepared for that. Your brain must have blanked out as a security measure.
DIRK: Can you run that by me again?
JAKE: Errrrrrrr the whole spiel or just the very last bits?
DIRK: The former. From the top, preferably.
JAKE: haha… hah…
JAKE: Bro you know maybe we can slap a big cork stopper on the ol wine barrel and just let bygones be beengones i dont necessarily NEED you to dive headfirst into it, on second thought.
JAKE: Its cool!
DIRK: Please?
Jake’s cheeks are certifiably beet red. And that’s quite a feat, considering how dark his skin is— not darker than yours, for sure, but you know a handful of gossip magazines that would kill for the chance to describe this look as 'Toasty with a tan'. You try not to laugh at the ridiculous thought out of sheer nervousness. Firstly, it would be so immature. Secondly, from the looks of it a mere throwaway comment might send Jake bolting on the spot, scurrying away faster than an olympic athlete.
JAKE: Right um of course.
JAKE: As i was saying… well the matter is in fact…
JAKE: That i want you to.
JAKE: What i WANT is
JAKE: (*whispers* Oh boy this is going to haunt me forever isnt it…………)
DIRK: Jake?
JAKE: (...*whisper whisper*youto…… *whisper whisper*eakyse… *whisper whisper*ithme… )
DIRK: I don’t know what the fuck that means. It’s like text for ants.
DIRK: Just let it go man. No hard feelings, we’re among comrades.
DIRK: We’re chill.
JAKE: UUUUUUGHHHHHHHHHHH.
JAKE: FINE!!!
He slaps his open hands over the top half of his face—deliberately leaving his mouth free— and throws his head back, leaning on the computer chair for support.
JAKE: I WANT you to use your fancy THOUGHTPOWERS to have REALLY FREAKY SEX with me!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
DIRK:
DIRK:
DIRK:
DIRK: You mean like.
DIRK: Right now?
JAKE: It doesnt have to be right now or right away or EVER if you dont want to!!!
JAKE: But i figured id.
JAKE: Ask?
JAKE: Because ive thought a fair bit about it.
JAKE: Honest.
DIRK: So you did.
DIRK: Now, just for the sake of clarification, do you think about me mind-controlling you often?
DIRK: And is that related to something else?
DIRK: A metaphorical sign, perhaps, of my current and/or past behavior?
DIRK: Am I being a clingy motherfucker again?
DIRK: I can take a hint. If that’s what you want to talk about.
DIRK: We can totally have that conversation, as adults and peers.
JAKE: Dirk darling no offense meant but i think youre SEVERELY underplaying the super freaky sex part of my statement!!!
JAKE: And it was SORT OF meant to be the WHOLE dadblasted point of saying it to you!!!!!!!!!
DIRK: Right. You did say that. I heard it.
DIRK: Twice.
DIRK: I’m just processing the information I’ve received.
DIRK: Slowly.
DIRK: You are heard. I am doing the hearing. Our counselor would be very proud of that fact, and how openly we are communicating right now.
DIRK: It's so open.
DIRK: Open like you wouldn't even believe.
DIRK: Open like a 24/7 gay dutch gloryhole service.
You hear the sound of your own voice, and come away unsure of what it was trying to say.
Jake winces.
JAKE: We can drop it!
JAKE: If it makes you uncomfortable it doesnt have to be a whole wretched production.
JAKE: We dont even need to blather about it anymore!!
JAKE: I thereby pronounce the present motion DEAD FOREVER and hold out my memory eraser stick like the part in that one ripsnorting will smith movie about aliens and snazzy agents in black suits and when the flash goes off EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS MOMENT will be as good as gone faster than you can say— Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious!
JAKE: WHAM.
JAKE: *breathe*
JAKE: I suddenly cannot recall what all the fuss was even about!
JAKE: *laughs nervously* hahaha ha.
You see yourself raising one hand into the air, and leaving it there, as a feeble request for silence.
Jake winds his own machinations down, dropping his hands to his lap. A look of apprehensiveness has crawled over his criminally photogenic face, so he looks less like a marble god and more like a CoverGuy with a light case of constipation. Whether it's emotional or physical is anybody’s guess.
DIRK: I’m game. I didn’t say I wasn’t game.
DIRK: So pipe down.
DIRK: But before I agree to any sort of journey into the center of the Jake I’m gonna need you to walk me through the steps. Think of it as wooing me, here.
DIRK: What’s in it for you?
DIRK: Why do you want this?
The request is really messing with your brain. You can't find a palatable reason that explains why Jake would want this, and you're searching your totally rad logical archives pretty fucking hard to come up with one.
The problem, as it were, is that it's not like there's many good reasons to be found, as far as the breaching of this subject is concerned. Or in the very least, none that don’t involve you incontrovertibly coming off as a total fucking psycho that's been left hanging from a loose chain. He knows you have issues with the ‘control’ thing. You know better than anybody else that you have issues with the ‘control’ thing. This is like showing a glistening cut of fat lamb ass to a famished dumpster slumdog and expecting it to dig in with couteaux et fourchettes.
You may be trying to not play the bad guy, but that doesn't mean it's working.
JAKE: Well when you shove me hard on the spot like that a fella starts feeling a little bit silly.
JAKE: How shall i put this...
JAKE: Have you ever seen the movie Avatar, dearest?
JAKE: It stars these huge and really elegant androgynous alien catpersons of various blue hues frolicking about in the jungle and experiencing primal intimacy through the act of downright spiritual brainfucking.
JAKE: Which rules by the way. Flick of the summer.
JAKE: Even though you have childishly dismissed it as, and i quote,
JAKE: “so gay.”
DIRK: Oh my fucking god.
DIRK: We’re really coming back to my pubescent movie reviews?
JAKE: Hahaha… Bingo.
DIRK: Ok for starters, that’s not what I sound like at all.
JAKE: It tooootally is.
JAKE: Admit it, ive got your delivery down pat!
DIRK: I decline comment.
DIRK: So what exactly does this entail?
DIRK: Do you want me to braid our ponytails together before I play with your brain putty, bro?
DIRK: Should I prepare a bathtub filled with magic markers for the complete and religious experience of blue body paint?
JAKE: Now theres no need to get so outrageously hyperliteral.
JAKE: Ive had enough unpleasant bouts with making my body into a canvas to know its not worth the stress just to get trapped in some shitty four hour shower afterwards!
DIRK: Excuse me.
JAKE: No offense to your bathroom habits. I just dont like getting all pruney and wrinkly. It sucks? Also its sorta boring?
JAKE: And anyhow… i dont want to make this too much about me.
Jake scratches the back of his neck like an anime girl, an action whose meaning is unreadable to you. He ended up ditching the mustache after way too many beverage accidents, but only on the condition that he got a go at growing a beard instead. He's been trying to avoid scratching at the stubble, but sometimes instinct betrays him, and you watch him fumble and pretend he meant to reach for his neck all along.
DIRK: I think you lost me there.
It's not about him? Who's it purportedly about, then? That only leaves one other possibility, and you're not fond of the implication.
Situation's not looking so great, buddy.
JAKE: *sighhhh*
JAKE: Its just that when were, like, you know.
DIRK: What.
JAKE: You know.
DIRK: Shagging?
JAKE: Nooooooo!
DIRK: Oh, behave.
DIRK: What is it, then?
DIRK: Porking?
DIRK: Knobbing?
DIRK: Shafting?
DIRK: Screwing?
DIRK: Diddling?
DIRK: Nailing?
DIRK: Fuckin’ ballin?
JAKE: Y-- *wince* No.
JAKE: When were fucking-
JAKE: Dont laugh!!!
It's beyond your control now. You don't know what's happening. You've got a terminal case of the giggles.
Jake is forced to throw the pillow he's been holding at you in mock-admonishment, and hey, you take the chance to hide your face behind something as soon as you get it. The situation’s too embarrassing not to.
You let it cover your head as your back hits the bed. It helps sustain the fragile illusion of your pride.
JAKE: You know that whenever were fucking and im the big horny idiot making all the rules you never tell me what you want and just sort of lay there all quiet and prone and doll-like!
DIRK: My mistake, man. I was under the impression you found that sexy.
JAKE: Sometimes, yes!!
JAKE: I think youre devastatingly friggin hot when youre barely even trying!
JAKE: So i believe its entirely within the realm of good sense to assume that everything will be EVEN sexier if youre actually given carte blanche to… to um well… get what you want from me, whichever way it is you want it, and ill just.
JAKE: Ill just *know* right away.
JAKE: No blunders or misreads or missteps anymore.
Huh.
DIRK: So you do want to be awake for it?
JAKE: Oh. Yes.
JAKE: Dont see a point to the whole rigmarole if i cant process whats out and about.
DIRK: Right. Okay.
DIRK: That makes it a bit more approachable.
DIRK: So let me see if I got this straight. In sum, what you're asking for is "A suggestive trance state devoid of any resistance, in which I’m the sexy pilot making sure we stay on track, while you’re the lucky spectator-slash-hunky-anthropomorphic-airplane-boyfriend” because I couldn't come up with a better metaphor on the fly.
DIRK: That’s what you want?
JAKE: Yeah. That sounds about nice.
DIRK: And I can do absolutely anything I want with you?
The question hangs in the air for a second.
JAKE: *blushing sheepishly*
JAKE: Well… within the realm of good sense and gentlemanliness of course! nothing embarrassing. Or with. Erm—Involving other people.
JAKE: Stuff not between just the two of us, you know.
JAKE: Pretty please.
JAKE: But i trust you to do good by me on that.
He really does, doesn’t he? Jake wouldn’t have the balls to ask for this otherwise. You know you wouldn’t, not in a million years. The whole schtick screams 'dubious business'. Jake has placed an unfathomable amount of confidence in the assumption that you're cool enough of a guy to do good by him, whatever that means in the context of asking someone to pilot your brain while you jack off. And he may have implied it's mostly for your benefit somewhere?
That's kinda hot. You can admit to that much. You find the trust thing considerably hotter than the brainjacking thing almost instantly, but upon closer examination, you know you can warm up to the appeal of both given enough time. As the resident pillow prince, you've indulged in the privilege of a spoiled as fuck existence for long enough. It’s time to be put to work.
You raise your shoulders a little to peer at him; and splay your legs off the edge of the bed, petting the unkempt blankets in a way you can only assume makes for a titillating display.
DIRK: So… do you wanna do a test run?
JAKE: Oh.
JAKE: Right away?
DIRK: Yeah. I don't see why not. We can start small, see what works, what doesn’t.
DIRK: How’s that sound?
JAKE: *Nodding vigorously!*
Jake looks like his hands might start sweating profusely at any minute. You take a bit of pity on him, pointing in his general direction with a leg.
DIRK: You stay right where you are.
DIRK: And… I want you to close your eyes, and try to be perceptive or attuned or whatever.
DIRK: Roleplay as an empath for a sec.
JAKE: Gotcha.
DIRK: Breathe in, out.
DIRK: Yeah, like that. Only slower.
DIRK: I’m going to make a slight suggestion, and I want you to follow through.
> Come closer.
You watch Jake’s chest flutter when the thought hits him, but he lags on the seconds between receival and reaction, almost hesitant to take a step forward. There’s a light crease on the middle of his forehead where his furrowed brows meet, and his overbite worries at his lip.
You think it’s cute.
JAKE: How do i know which thoughts are yours and which are mine?
DIRK: You don’t, not unless you’re looking for it.
DIRK: Which is to say, chill, and clear your mind.
DIRK: Follow my voice.
> Don’t be shy. Come up to the bed.
This time he jolts right ahead, coming to a stop only when his knees hit the bedding. With his eyes still closed, head held high, and very poor impulse controls, he all but towers over you, casting shadows between your legs.
> Now, hunker down like a frog and growl like a man-yeti.
He pops one splendid emerald eye open, and lifts his eyebrow in silent judgement of you.
DIRK: Whoops.
DIRK: What WAS that?
DIRK: Some kind of sick freak must’ve taken over when I wasn’t looking.
DIRK: Just testing, you know.
You shrug, smiling.
What you’re doing to him is pathetically non-intrusive. You can’t get wild unless he allows it, and any shred of funny business can be quickly shot down. It’s mentalism on training wheels. The basest form of hypnosis: cooperation, provided by a very willing participant.
You think that reassurance is what makes you confident enough in him, and in yourself, to give out the next command.
> Hop onto the bed and kiss me.
The bed dips with Jake's weight as his mouth slowly but surely meets yours, and you find yourself sinking further into the mattress, responding to the delectable drag of his lips. Jake enjoys kissing you; this is not assumption nor command, merely a proven observation. He puts his whole body into it, suddenly soft and altogether too present, so intent is he in grasping your cheek in his hand that the both of you end up tumbling sideways for ease of access, gracelessly tangling in the sheets, snuggling closer to fit next to one another.
This is not a kiss given as proof of obedience, that much you can recognize. Instead, it’s his way of wordlessly soothing the rough edges of your frayed nerves. It feels like a preemptive 'thank you' for indulging his peculiar jakeisms, pressed reverently against your flesh. It’s unwavering and understanding and still sheepish, somehow.
Above all else, it’s the dictionary definition of tender.
You wind up breathless, nested into the crook of his warmth and running your fingers up the back of his neck, as he lavishly dots your own in kisses. His eyes haven’t opened since he began. Jake's body is heavy and solid next to you, so full of goodwill and intent, so focused on letting you take the lead. Aw, fuck. You're already tempted to fall back and enjoy what he gives you, like the world's readiest on-demand beta bitch boywife, but you made a deal.
DIRK: Keep your eyes shut.
You whisper into his cheek, tightening a lazy leg around his hip. He shivers at the unexpected reciprocity of close contact.
DIRK: You've done awesomely well so far, Jake.
You splay your palms against his shoulders, feeling the thrum of his heart as you move them down.
> You feel yourself sinking into the mattress.
> There's no bottom to it, only a steady and long way down, dense as molasses. Like being a bee nesting into amber for a nice, quiet, and prolonged summer nap.
> The warmth fits itself neatly around you, molds to your form.
Jake hums agreeably. You pet his chest in slow, steady motions, trying to find out what puts him at ease.
DIRK: No need to answer me, bro. Words will only get in the way of my voice.
DIRK: Just listen to the sound of my voice, okay?
> I want you to breathe in slowly for me. Take your time. Don't worry about falling asleep. If you slip away, I can catch you.
DIRK: Just like that.
DIRK: You're doing so good, Jake…
DIRK: So good…
It's your turn to close your eyes. In the darkness, you zone out of meatspace and zoom in on a very specific narrative construct, resplendent in the ether; Jake’s character, wound tight like a perfectly designed puzzle box.
You can hear him ticking away, tranquil and harmonious. Your influence prods at the edges of his conscience, trying to get past the locking mechanisms.
Projecting your thoughts as external input is kiddie stuff. The beginner's course, really.
Getting inside someone else's head and being able to see what everything looks like from their point of view, without making shit up? That's the real challenge.
> You can feel me filling in every part of your being, can't you? It's like holding hands.
> I'm asking to be let inside. Do you want me to come in?
Yes, he does, calm and comfortable as one can be. A person's will is a bit like a barrier; isolating, immovable, built like an insurmountable wall. Jake’s has been made into a permeable membrane for the sake of your touch. The tips of your fingers dip into the surface of the pool, anxious and wary of being eaten up by the abyss. But when you do connect, they find little to no resistance. It's the total opposite— radiant, all-encompassing warmth — you’re rather like that bee, yourself.
You sink up to your metaphorical arms in malleable thought-water, take a long breath, and dive in.
It feels just like swimming.
> Jake: Be the other guy.
> Your name is JAKE ENGLISH, and sweet jockstrap on a christ figurine, are you cozy as a clam.
You are, for the most part, floating right off the boundaries of the waking world and into wherever the water current deems fit to take you—which should be worrying at this rate, but you honestly can't bring yourself to care. You figure you'll be okay. You rather like it here.
> Wake up.
> Pshhh! It turns out you haven't been sleeping at all, so instead, you just open your eyes.
Dirk's staring at you, all big sunset eyes, his calloused thumb petting at your cheek. You like Dirk a whole heck of a lot, so this scenario totally rules.
The world is misty at the edges, now. You think it feels just like a VHS recording. Between Dirk's eyebrows lies a familiar crease that you know for a fact only manifests when he's deeply enthused or worried about the status of an upcoming project, and you blearily think about how much you'd enjoy kissing it off. He gets so unbearably cute when he's like this.
You can feel your lips instinctively tugging into the shape of a sleepy smile, and he smiles back, looking a little flustered with himself.
DIRK: Hi.
DIRK: I... see you.
> Your heart does a somersault. Oh, the clever bastard and his legendary array of pop culture whositswhatsits. He knows just how to get you! You would respond out of politeness, but you find you can't— or rather, don't want to exercise that particular muscle at the moment.
You don't want to exercise much of anything, to be quite frank. Everything's really foggy and sluggish and you feel the most comfortable planted right where you are, floating on a dreamy cloud. It seems more than fine anyways, since somebody else is at the control panel.
Unbeknownst to you, your eyes are pink. Not reddish at the whites and sorta weepy like a generic dopey weed glaze; your irises are just sort of, well... filled with pure, unadulterated hot Heart magenta. It's startling, like you're wearing high-tech cosplay contacts. (Dirk, who's looking at them right now, just thought it'd be cool to let you know.)
DIRK: FYI, I'm… having a hard time discerning my thoughts from your thoughts at the moment, so I wouldn’t bother with trying it.
DIRK: Not that you'd even want to do that, I guess.
DIRK: Anyway.
DIRK: Shall we begin?
> You briefly wonder what Dirk is talking about, cocking your head to the side out of habit, but you figure it must be something reasonably good. Then, just out of your line of sight, you feel a gentle hand palming over the cotton of your thin boxer briefs, cupping your shape between dexterous fingers; it’s the realest feeling in the whole marshmallow landscape, present and overpowering. Your mouth parts to seek out breath. Oh wow. It’s getting, like, hot in here.
He gives you a tempting squeeze, teasing your half-alert dick.
Dirk breathes out a shaky sigh from the steady pressure pooling inside his navel, barely a second before you do the same. And then you realize maybe it was the other way around. Sorry. My bad. You are the one who's—Oh. Huh. Am I feeling what you're feeling because I'm inside your head? I hadn't even… considered that possibility in the slightest.
But I think both of us can agree it's really really hot.
Dirk moves his hand to the top of your stiffening dick, fondling the sensitive head like he's trying to polish it over the cloth. Pleasure rolls over you in waves, strangely new and deep. All the blood in your body seems to be concentrated on rushing to either your face or your pants. You feel yourself thickening under his grip, building up adrenaline even as you lay curled and prone amidst the bed; while Dirk’s eyes threaten to flutter shut, unused to this mode of stimulation. You think he looks astoundingly good, lips parted like that. You want to buck into his hand but you're physically incapable to, though your instinct still tries its best with the occasional spasm. Dirk's hips twitch like he's getting his own handjob. It’s such a puzzling concept, you're sure that has got to feel really confusing to manage.
His eyes have you pinned like a butterfly nailed to a corkscrew board just as soon as you dare the thought, and it's both intense and unfocused, hazy unlike any look you've ever seen him wear before.
DIRK: Really now?
DIRK: I've been double-timing my split ID ever since I was ten.
DIRK: Just try me on for size, English.
> He shoves your bundled shirt up notch and sticks his fingers under your pants; smoothly freeing your cock and placing both his hands around its throbbing length. And there it is again: the brand-new feeling of hard and overpowering human hands, the heavenly, satisfying friction, the need to be touched, it's so strong it makes you shiver. Dirk looks so smug you want to snog him breathless. Even though you can clearly feel how this is affecting him, too.
But he just chuckles at you.
Aw, bummer. Not even a peck? Pleeeeease? Please please please please come oooooon?
DIRK: Nah.
DIRK: You said you didn't want it to be just about your rules, didn'tcha?
DIRK: Well. This is what I want.
DIRK: And that's what you're going to get.
> He tightens his playful grip around you so devilishly well you're half-sure you're already leaking, then lets go. Ohhhhhh fuck. You feel like whimpering. Is this going to be an edging thing? You’re no good at those. Really, truly no good. You might actually go insane.
Your cock aches in solitude. When you feel the heel of his palm ghosting over you again, it's like it's been an age. But you’re pleasantly surprised by its slickness. He slides smoothly against your skin, and the sensation knocks the air out of your lungs again— simultaneously too much and not nearly enough. He can go way faster now and has no intention of stopping. Dirk works you into a delirious, steadfast lather, his face flushed and half-buried into your shoulder. His teeth graze your collarbone.
One of his hands is tasked with pumping your cockhead upright, fucking with the roll of your foreskin as though he intends to milk you for profit; and as if to further prove his thesis statement, the other dutifully focuses its attention down lower where you’re soft and embarrassingingly sensitive, toying with you to an overwhelming degree. You're pretty much producing your own lube now, and he's making sure you know it by slicking you up with each spurt. No wasting. Dirk's eyes keep flicking down and back up at you as he builds up the merciless pace.
You vaguely become aware of the fact you have been moaning on automatic this entire time, even if only because it's making Dirk wet.
> God you feel so fucking good, Jake. I love it.
> You're just so big. And you know that, don’t you? Bigger than Dirk's ever going to get. Look at you, I need a full hand and then some.
> You whine, bashful with the appraisal. The words send a jolt of electric desire down your spine and it sears, red-hot in the best way, but some of the sparks linger. You don't think you enjoy when other people talk like that about you, because it's all they ever want to talk about. It makes you feel like a farce, like a non-person. Just a pretty and discardable thing they can use and throw out in the garbage when they don't have a need for you anymore. Something to brag about to their vicious friends. Isn't that just what you are? What? A conquest. An ego-booster. You know they always get sick quicker with you just as soon as you open your insufferable mouth. It feels a little better with Dirk, though. Woah. Wait. This is sounding really fuckin' personal. Are you sure?
It's okay. You like it when Dirk tells you you're handsome. It makes you feel loved. You just have to try and forget about the other nasty stuff. Sometimes it gets in the way.
Dirk's hand stills. He looks a little conflicted, now, and it's a bit of a bummer. It was all going so swimmingly. Did you do something wrong?
Did he see something?
Oh. That's… right. He can see you. Really see you. He can see into your head. Your innermost thoughts and ugly, misshapen little feelings. Your secrets. He can probably see everything, if he tried. All of it. Including the mangled, filthy stuff. All of the things you've done. All of the things you've let happen to you, because you're a fucking idiot. All of the people. So many people. All of the gross, gross, gross memories you have. And the crying and the hiding and the drinking and the fucking and how it just goes on and on and never stops. Oh no no no no what have you done? This was your worst and most terrible idea. You need to hide it. You need to purge everything.
What are you even saying. Of course Dirk's seen it. Just have a look at his face. He's not stupid. You're the brickheaded imbecile here.
You're fucking it up. You're fucking this up. Fuck fuck fuck Why didn't you think this through?
Would it be better if he knew you didn't mean any of it? Or would he think worse of you for holding no feeling for them at all? Of course it would be worse. Who are you kidding???? WAKE UP, JAKE. It only makes you more GROTESQUE. Really goes to show the kind of cold and sad creature that you are. It's depressing. Leeching off others like vermin. Stripping for the first person that tells you something nice so you can feel better about yourself. It's almost a sickness. Oh BOO HOO. You didn't ‘want’ him to know? But it’s not like you ever even tried to hide it, did you. Everyone knows there's something wrong with you. Your illness isn’t secluded to the psyche. It’s degeneration branded on the skin.
He didn't even want to do this, did he? You had to barter and haggle all the way through. Push his hand until he gave in just to keep you happy. You never know just when to stop, Jake. Ever heard of taking a hint? You're such a desperate selfish prick. He probably thinks you're gross, and he's right. You're repugnant. You only ever think about yourself. Sure, it's not like any of what you did counts as "cheating", but it's almost worse, isn't it? Dirk never pretended to love anybody else. But you just had to keep burying the knife. Stabbing it further, again and again. Making a mess out of yourself.
Do you at least know half of their names? Their faces? Their wants? Of course not. You're not even capable of staying conscious most of the time. It's almost like you do it on purpose, just so you can feel all sad and beat up about your sorry miserable self later. Cry until someone shows you pity. Then start it all over again.
You're filthy. Just take a look at yourself. Go on, have a gander! You're filth. You're a horrible person. You're a terrible boyfriend. An inexcusable waste of time. A lost cause before you even began! He's going to figure it out too, sooner or later. If he hasn't already! And he's going to realize you're too broken to ever be patched back up right. Too dirty. Too unclean. Useless, helpless, worthless. Let’s have another cry about poor old Jake, dead on arrival. Who could ever settle for you? Your touch is repulsive even when it’s all you can give. You're nauseating. Your soul is full of cracked blisters and leaking fetid pus. You can't even do this one thing right. It's why Dirk doesn't want you. No. Hey. No. Can you even blame him? You've let yourself be seen by everyone. Be quartered by the esurient crowds. Disfigured into a truly detestable shape. All that’s left of you are the indigestible pieces. What the fuck. No. No. No. No.
You're filthy. You're filth!!!!!!! You infest everything you TOUCH. You're fucking it all up! Just like you fuck EVERYTHING ELSE! He's going to figure it out. He's going to figure it out. You’re a fucking FRAUD.
You're a farce. You're probably better off all alo
> STOP
> Stop.
> Stop.
> Your mind goes quiet. Your thoughts slither away. You're not bound to them. They're not… whatever it is you think they are, they're not. You don't have to think them anymore.
> They're not true.
> Dirk loves you. Dirk always has. He always will.
> I love you. Okay?
DIRK: I would never lie about that.
> Dirk cradles your face with his hands and he wipes away the near-formed tears congealed into your eyes, so uncharacteristically gently that—he can be gentle if he wants, and he wants to be gentle with you. You don't have to cry. Hey, you don't have to worry anymore.
You said you trusted him, didn't you? You can trust him. He loves you.
You can trust me.
> If you don't want to do this anymore, I want you to wake up.