dirk-rider

[dirk-rider]

Lovenote.md

You have been dissecting a mathematical equation for the last few hours. Over and over again, reading and re-reading the same matrices and checking the entries to a near-obsessive degree and trying to get your calculations to balance out on both ends, to little avail.

You are in the middle of writing, when your boyfriend forcibly grabs your hand, lifting your pencil, and breaking the continuous graphite trail on the page alongside your focus. He knocks the headphones off of your head, and they, tethered by their wire, hit the side of your desk.

"Hey," your boyfriend says, having certainly gotten your attention.

"Yes?" you turn your head to face him. A tap on the desk would have worked too, but you are sensing some underlying emotions that would render the necessary composure quite difficult indeed.

He grabs you, spinning you around in your desk-chair to face him with your whole body. "We need to talk."

Initially, you can't help but feel shocked. Of course, you've loved your boyfriend for long enough that you've grown past a lot of these little fears that could come from time to time. But there are a few things you perhaps neglected to consider when evaluating this.

"What is it?" You cock a brow, curious and inquisitive as for what he may have in store for you.

"This." He reaches his hand in his pocket, and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper. "Lookit." You recognize it immediately.

"Recognize it?"

Of course you do. It's a love-letter addressed to your name. You considered showing it to your boyfriend, just to be clearly transparent with him. But you inevitably decided against it, not wanting him to get the wrong idea.

"Of course you do. Fucking hell. Trying to hide it from me too, of course you were."

You don't know how he got a hold of it in the first place. It was an afterthought, buried in the wastebin to be forgotten about overnight. In fact, you had already forgotten about it come morning, the memory only just resurfacing as he shows you this reminder.

It seems your boyfriend takes a liking towards searching your things when you aren't in the know. Not that you particularly mind. In fact, you find his obsession quite charming.

"C'mon." His sweaty palm firmly finds your cheek, and he jerks your face up to look at his. "You know you're not going to find another guy like me."

There is a certain part of you that wants to speak up. To calm him down, assure him that you thought nothing of the sort. Him getting riled up like this makes you worry. You worry about him quite a bit.

"You don't believe me, do you? I'll just have to show you then. I'll show you."

He leaves you to yourself. You return to that pesky equation of yours, gnawing on your mind like teeth.

Just as you are about to pick up your pencil to scribble out a few figures, you drop it just as quickly as you hear him coming back, scrambling nervously to find your footing on the ground.

"Back."

There is still that tender part of you that wants to reassure him. To nurse him to some sort of understanding. Assure him that you are staying for certain.

But you see him unscrew the cap of a two-litre, hearing it hiss aggressively. And you tense immediately, stopping in your tracks. You want to watch this unfold. You want to see what happens when he forcibly takes ownership of you.

"Yeah? You like the sound of that, don'tcha? Perv."

He sets the bottle on the desk next to you, and steps over you to sit on your lap. You're glad you don't have any arm-rests. Otherwise, he wouldn't fit. It's moments like this, in particular, where you are reminded of just how big he's getting. It's particularly apparent when his gut is pressing into yours. The desk-chair creaks in desperation against both of your combined weights, and it only gets noisier as he leans into you. Even just the sound alone excites you, though you don't like to admit it.

"Can't help it. I'm just such a hungry guy," he places his hand on his belly. You can hear lunch still digesting in there, blurbing and bubbling away. You know what he had, you hand-fed it to him a few hours ago. "Starving. You don't care about me at all."

He grabs the beverage and begins to drink it. As the side of his head faces you, you see his throat bob as he chugs down mouthful after mouthful of it, gulping greedily with abandon.

He behaves in such a wild, uncontrolled way. As though his anger undomesticates him. You know you've tamed him too well for that to truly happen though. After he eats enough, he'll have a bellyache and come crying over to you about it. And you'll chide him for eating too much, knowing very well that both of you very-much wanted it to happen.

"mlp-" he parts from the bottle with a pop, and a sigh. You hear his throat groan as he breathes out onto you, and you can smell the artificial citrus on him. Paired with lunch, of course.

Then, a pained expression. The sort that makes you want to kiss it better, when you see it. But you know better than to try and kiss him before he-

"bruURRRPrrrrrrrp."

-erupts.

"Heh. 'scuse me. hic. You ain't seen nothing yet. 'm still getting warmed up."

He practically bathes you in his breath, a spray of lunch still in there. Grease and sugar, and you can feel it coat your face like a fine-layer of oil on your skin. Even if that weren't happening, your glasses fogging up would be a clear-indicator of the sheer grossness of it all.

"More where that's coming from. Haven't even begun to start feeling full. I'm fucking HUNGRY. This is what happens when you don't feed me-hrp. Domestic abuse all up in this bitch."

You can't help but smile at him, loving the feisty little brat that you raised in him. He's so loveable, it's endearing.

He leans back from you with a grunt and an urp. You'd help him up, if it weren't such a treat to watch him struggle to sit upright all on his own, bracing himself against you to straighten himself up.

He smacks his belly. A few more times. Then, he picks up a meaty handful and wobbles it for good measure. And yes, wobble is certainly the right word for it, as it jiggles hypnotically before you. You pay definite attention to the soft hairs on it, as it melds to his hands and takes their shape so obediently, like a liquid putty of sorts.

When he drops his gut, it smacks onto his fat thighs with a plap. It covers up his boxers almost completely. When you hear him groan again, you look back up and take another faceful of him.

"brrRUUURrRRRraRph." It lays onto you, thick and loud. You swear, this man is going to give you tinnitus one day.

He pants like it took effort to set that one up. Probably did, sitting up like a big boy and picking up his belly all by himself. He didn't even have any help from you, working it all up on his own. What a good boy.

"No one else is ever going to do this for you. Yer getting special treatment from your goddamned highness, so you better act like you want it."

You're too shaken to even attempt to reply. You couldn't find any words even if you could say something.

"Fuck me," he pants, "I'm too fat to be doing this. You're really wearing me out right now, y'hear? You should be forcing these out for me, ideally."

You love your boyfriend so much. He got all tuckered out by trying to belch on you, and now he's trying to blame it on you. Shame on you, you should know better than to sit there and do nothing but be his breath-soaked burp-rag.

"I'm treating you right now, and after what? You running off and getting knocked up with some random other men? You're as pampered as a pussycat. You hear me?"

You look up at him with shy eyes, and ever so slightly, nod your head.

"Better not be a woman. Lord knows how all the women want you, and you just let them fawn over you. Gets you goin', to hear about what a great fuckin' guy you are."

He rides his hand under your shirt, groping your torso like he owns it. His other hand slides down your pants, which are a little wet right now.

"Next time somebody tries to slip you a lovenote," he whispers into your ear, and you can hear groaning, exhaled burps, "what are you going to say doll?"

"I'll tell them I'm not interested." You can barely hear yourself next to him.

"And?" he squeezes you, getting a little whine out of you. "Why won't you take them?"

"Because I'm taken." You're often too shy to mention it, having a habit of blushing profusely if you picture him too closely in public.

"Damn right. You've got an owner to return to." He slides his hand up to your throat, pinching your breath. "And when you get too far away, I get to pull on the leash. Got that?"

"Yes sir," you hiss out.

"That's not it, is it? And if the bastard keeps putting their hands where they don't belong, what are you going to do then?"

His hand is still on your throat. You are starting to become light-headed, you can't think of what to say, what he wants to hear. All you feel are his hands on you, his weight sat on top of you, how heavy and perfect he feels and how glad you are that he touches you like this.

"I can't-"

"Go on. You know what to say."

"I- I'm-"

"OURRRRARrrRpphGhlp."

You hear him gulp, before belching right in your ear. It is loud and it is overwhelming and it is wet enough that you still feel it in your ringing ears after he does it. You feel dizzy with arousal and can't imagine doing this with anybody else.

"I'm filth."

"Yep." He blows gentle air against you, as though getting the rest of his putrid fumes out into your face is as amusing to him as it is painfully arousing to you. "You're disgusting. Tell them more."

"I- I like men that- I like-" you huff, struggling to get the words out. "I like men that are as filthy as I am."

"More. Tell them how awful you are, how wet you get thinking about me being nasty on you."

"I…I'm… ngh…attracted to-hff…guys that- guys that-" you stammer, nearly on the verge of passing out. Breathing in your system for the last minute or so, almost exclusively your boyfriend's post-lunch and post-soda-chug breath, has to have some sort of greater toll on you. You think the psychological factor is the most important part though. "I get aroused by, hah, e-eh-eructations."

"Good boy," he stops choking you, and you almost immediately collapse onto him once he stops holding you up.

"bWWAAARarRRRarARRrrrrpppgh!"

Again, agitating his stomach, and he presses out yet another burp to startle you. Your vision starts to come back at the edges, which you didn't realize you were losing until it began to return.

You love him more than anything in the world. Painfully wet and crotch throbbing against him, you hope that it is apparent to him. You agree that there is absolutely no one else in the world who would take pleasure in doing this to you. You are forever certain that he is, without a doubt, your favourite person.

When you catch your breath, you look up at him with droopy, sleepy eyes. "Are you still hungry?"

[dirk-rider]

untitled

On the screen is a movie you've seen probably a thousand times by now. Classic Hollywood, the male lead saves the female and she becomes his property and trophy by the end.

°. • BREELCH×.`

God, you've probably seen this happen a hundred times before.

And yet here is your male best friend, scoffing down tonight's arsenal of theatre-treats and movie-junk.

At first, there was some semblance of manners. 'You gonna finish that?' or at the very least leaving a serving for you that he'll finish anyways if you don't get to that.

* .+hiCOURurp –×.

You watch your friend from the corner of your peripherals, wiping at a touch of wetness soda dew budding at the corner of his lips.

And then he immediately plants his hand in the teeming bowl of chips and mashes a handful into his mouth. Chewing at a volume that is not so much purposeful, but definitely audible if you listen with an intent certainly as curious as yours.

Every night you can, you tell yourself a hundred reasons why that isn't so strange. Surely people have thought stranger of their fellow chums and close ones.

You ignore the movie in front of you, but make sure you stay generally facing the television as to not incur any incoming suspicion.

You watch close to none of it, with so much other stuff occupying your mind. It's not as though you want to ignore the movie, but rather the surrounding activities have you quite distracted.

As far as Dirk is aware, you haven't seen this film at all and now is a first time. An admittedly silly fib you told for an excuse regarding the two of you to hang out together to watch it, but you're embarrassingly desperate to stalk your friend's eating habits unnoticed.

A long while ago, you tried your best to ignore him. Next, you wouldn't admit to throwing him a few more glances in his overall direction, but you would find your eyes drifting and settling on him anyways. Then, your resolve broke, and you have no choice but to admit to yourself that you have yourself a voyeuristic sort of 'watching problem', as you happen to call it. Now all you can do is try and convince yourself that you're not a pervert.

You first started off as just a supplier. Putting it that way makes it sound stranger than it actually is, but the gist of it is simple. You host the film, you feed the guests movie snacks so you're an alright host. You'd leave out a generous amount, for the sake of variety and varying tastes.

You hadn't expected him to graze on the snacks you laid out as well as he did. As time went on, you had begun to suspect that Dirk thought you were expecting him to polish off whatever you had set out for you two.

You could have simply adapted to this and brought out a reasonable amount of food for two people in order to compensate for this overshot, but you were unusually fascinated by just how well he quaffed down a family-sized bag of chips over the span of half a film.

But let it be known that you didn't make any adjustments, despite having every reason to.

No, strange as it may be, you wound up boy-curious about your boy-best-friend, and wondering at what point would he call it quits.

So slowly but surely one bag became two, a can of soda became a litre-bottle, slices of pizza became boxes, and so on and so forth.

Originally, it seemed that as long as you laid something on the table, he would eat it. However, far along enough in this experiment, you found that wasn't quite the case. He certainly would try to finish it, but he might end up too full to finish before the end if you allow him such a challenge.

You may have been a bit deceitful in saying that you made no adjustments to the spread you laid out for movie night. No, you have been subtly upping the portion size past a reasonable maximum to observe Dirk as though he were some sort of lab experiment. The thought of it is so utterly bizarre and pointless, but it quickly became the highlight of your weekend to watch him stuff himself on Fridays until he reached his limits.

You soon became a major enabler in some hungry habits of his. His peckish nibblings would turn to ravenous stuffings, so long as you gave him the means to pursue this certain fullness, and you watched the effects span out in full-time.

`◞◠⁛ glrr‥r.p ⁙⁀°º

You turn your head and watch as Dirk furrows his brow, cheeks puffing right before he—

`⨯º ʙrᴜRaaAAᵣrᵁuUUuᵁRᵣRPg⁀°◌⌎

—interrupts your train of thought with an awfully disruptive eruption from his mouth. You watch him gently pat his stomach and smack his lips. You imagine him savouring the taste of it, before leaning in to grab another slice of pizza.

Fuck, you'd think he's trying to kill you with those things. You swallow, and your dignity feels rough and dry going back down, never to be found again. You try and replay the sound in your head, but it sounds so much quieter than when it's actually happening. You instead choose to fixate on the quiet rumbling and gurgling before and after it happens, sign-posting a very-much overtaxed stomach working overtime to digest a heavy load.

Bite, chew, swallow, burp. It's almost consistent enough to be ritualistic, and you feel a little cultish in just how closely you're stalking his movements. You feel like such a pervert, but no, you try and convince yourself that it's completely normal—completely ordinary bodily functions that have no bearing on anybody's pride and sanity here.

*thump*

⏑∘ʹ৻ʙᴿᵉEᴇᵉₑELᴿRᵤᵣʀRCᴴhh∿●₊*

Holy fuck you can't even get a thought in— ◌ hrrp °.⌎—without him rudely interrupting you. You wish you could just be normal about this and be disgusted with him, but no, you are anything but as it comes to this.

When you pry your eyes away from his lips, you find them lingering instead on his stomach. When you take them away from there, you end up noticing how his clothes don't quite seem to fit him anymore, pants pinching his stomach. You fear you may owe him a new waistband if he ever decides to hold you accountable for his recent gainage, but you aren't so sure whether or not the thought has ever crossed him that he might need a new change of clothes.

"Jake," he says. And you see the slight piercing orange of his eyes from the closest side-edge of his shades. "Something bothering you?"

You forget how to breathe and speak just for a minute. "H-huh? Wha..?"

You aren't even pretending to be clueless here. You are simply caught so off-guard that even if you wanted to explain yourself—and you most certainly do not—you couldn't.

"Movie's been done for a solid few minutes now," he stifles a hiccup behind his fist and you lose your function for words, "Is the black screen really that invigorating, Jake?"

"Come on now," you laugh nervously, "it hasn't been that long." And you say this without knowing exactly how long it's been that way for. You could've sworn you were about halfway through, last time you checked.

"It's been twenty-eight minutes, Jake." You cringe at the implications of those words. You've been gawking at him for almost a half-hour now.

"You're kidding," you reply, voice barely hushed as though telling a secret that's already been said.

"Am not." He laughs, confident, unafraid, everything you're not at this very moment. "You've been zoned out for the last half-hour bro, aren't you ashamed of yourself for being such a poor host?"

"What? Did I forget something?"

"UrrRArRRp," he belches loud and wetly, "ran out of food."

No, that can't be. You always set out way too much food for one person to finish off by themselves, it'd be impossible for him to pack it all away just like that.

"Oof, got another one—urRARRp—-"

You grab the collar of his shirt and start kissing him like you won't be alive to remember it tomorrow. You plant your lips against his, firm with confidence you don't have, and feel him rumble against you.

[dirk-rider]

You don’t know what exactly stirred you, but whatever it was, you’re not sure whether you should feel secondhand shame or a sense of gratitude at knowing that your best bro is jacking it right next to you.

Your eyes are both unadjusted to the light levels in the room as well as unaided by the glasses currently not covering them, meaning you don’t exactly get a full visual on what he’s doing, but you can feel the mattresses movements alongside every thrust taken.

And as he pumps he makes such ungodly sounds. Dirk moans like a pornstar and grunts like a pig, and you’re frankly flabbergasted he has the gall to make such noises around you. Your dear, toneless Strider, suddenly allowing such glissando from his lips? He bucks his hips up off the mattress and then back down, and with one particularly forceful movement, his motion down is accompanied by a low but drawn out eructation. He parts his lips, allows a small, self satisfied chuckle to fall from them, and utters the dawn’s first words.

“Hff- fffuuuck, that’n was good.”

Not a particularly proper sentence, and definitely not what you’d typically expect from Dirk. This verbalization lacked the care he seems to put into every word spoken, and your heart skips at the intimacy of the fact.

And then the previous events of the night come back to you.

You’d invited him over to watch a movie, of which you fail to recall as the nights focus was not on its intended target, but rather the burgeoning belly of your boy best friend. The two of you had agreed to split a pizza and a box of breadsticks, but by the pizza’s end, you had only touched a single slice. And you recall how selfish you’d felt he’d been in that moment, taking so much for himself without even asking. But the thought hadn’t made you upset.

No, it was worse than that.

It had made you aroused.

The unrestrained hedonism he’d displayed, your dear Dirk seemingly not even considering your own feelings. Well. It did something for you.

And it seems to have done something for him, too, as another raunchy belch rips its way through his chest and out his throat, and he grunts and you feel the mattress rise and dip beside you.

He has to be close to climax, you tell yourself, if only to give yourself hope that you’ll soon be able to drift off once more and forget about all of this until your next personal masturbatory session.

He has to be close to climax, and maybe he is.

But then he stops.

You hear shaky breathing beside you, interrupted only by an overfull hiccup. And you’re left to ponder the situation, really run it through your mind.

There’s no way he came quietly, not after that buildup. Not unless he typically follows the entire masturbatory process quietly, and tonight is simply an exception.

But what would even be the reason behind making such a scene if it can be avoided? Dirk’s not one to draw attention unless he feels it’s important for others to view his actions or hear his ideas, you know that better than anyone. And despite that, Dirk has just put on pause possibly the most sexually explicit experience of your life.

Then the mattress moves again.

It’s possible he’s getting up to finish in the bathroom, you tell yourself. Maybe he does have some shame, and maybe that’ll end your own arousal, as you’ll realize his lack of masculinity in the fact.

You squeeze your eyes shut and try desperately to focus on this.

If he leaves, then he must at least feel a shred of shame.

If he leaves, then he still has a chance to hold onto his morality.

And if he leaves, then your slumbersome sanctity won’t be completely and totally violated.

And then your pants are being shimmied down and you’re lifted by the back to get them around your ass, and then your boxers follow suit, and then his hands land beside your ears and his dick is angled towards you and you’re squeezing your eyes shut, praying that he’s unaware of your conscious state.

Warm breaths hit your face, smelling of sickly sweet orange soda, and you’re transported back to the earlier night, forced to recall how he’d swallowed about half of a two liter bottle of orange soda alongside his meal, then cringing as you think of how the bottle had ended, rhythmically swallowed like your living room was that of a frat house before he’d allowed out one of the worst eructations you’d ever heard.

At the time you’d patted him on the back, forced out even more carbonated air, and you’d almost found it humorous how loud he could get and his lack of response.

But there had been a response.

A self satisfied smirk and a change of seating position had followed the sound, and now, as Dirk attempts to position himself against your asshole, you’re left to wonder whether this was all coincidental.

He misses the first time he tries to enter, which you find a bit humorous - all this effort put into raping you, and he can’t even do it correctly. But then he slides himself inside you and suddenly your entire being is focused on not gasping for air.

He’s warm as he stretches you out, fills your hole entirely and pulsates against your walls. It’s unfamiliar, and honestly a bit uncomfortable, but the way it hurts is more bearable than you’d expected it to be.

Still, you’re emasculated.

Dirk has always been more man than you, despite your desperate attempts to keep up with him. And it makes you so incredibly jealous, knowing you’ll never be half the fighter he is, never have the self discipline he holds. You’ll never end a day covered in grease, either from an old engine he’s fixed or a large pizza he’s devoured. You’ll never be him, you’ll never even get close. And even through your facades of manliness, he sees you where your other friends don’t. He always has. And now he’s acting on that shameful truth.

He snorts over top of you and you realize you’ve tensed, and in an effort to retain your image of slumber you force yourself to relax.

“Pro’ly his first time with a guy,” he muses, his voice coarse with languor and lust. And, though you’d toyed with your own rim on occasion, you’re forced to admit to yourself too that he was right on the money with your homosexual inexperience. Or sexual inexperience in general.

Still, you’ve watched enough filmography, no matter the orientation, to expect where this is going. You can deal with his sex, it’s not like there’s too much he can do with his dick in you. You know the direction he’s taking things, you know soon enough he’ll be thrusting into you and you’ll be gripping the sheets, forcing down your own sexual responses so as to retain your friendship when morning comes.

He stays still a moment, shaky breaths leaving his bloated form above you as though hes unaware of the actions you know he’ll take.

As he begins moving again the pace is slow, and you feel every inch of him sliding in and out of you.

His hot breaths linger in the air, combining with the scent of sexed sweat and presemen.

And his breaths are shaking.

Anxious, ragged breaths fill your ears where the inner workings of his abdomen do not, and you realize then that his whole body, too, is shaking atop you.

He’s a nervous wreck despite it all, despite all of the machismo and performative masculinity.

You���d ask yourself why he’d even get so far inside you if he was going to be such a wuss, but then again, you know if you had the desire you might just pleasure yourself on him without even the balls to make such an entrance.

Then he moves, slips, not completely out of you but he is certainly moving in a direction incongruent with the direction of his throbbing cock and your asshole.

The mattress rises as his hands leave to reach towards the bedside table, and with a soft click and fizz the split second before he even begins swallowing, you know what he’s doing.

He takes heavy gulps of obnoxious volume for what seems like forever, never breaking his lips from the lid to even take a breath - his only air intake is carbonated.

And then, as he finally parts, panting for air, you can practically hear his cocky, crooked grin forming on his lips.

He pounds on his chest once, then twice, theeeEEAAAARRPhh .○.°

A loud, voluminously obnoxious belch practically rips its way out of him. As it trails on, your face gets warmer and you open your eyes just so slightly and realize that, within the duration of the eructation, his lips had moved to just above yours.

Your eyes meet.

For a split second, he looks terrified.

And then that damned smile returns to his lips as he mocks you again.

“Well hello, Sleeping Beauty.”

Before you have time to react, he’s thrusting into you again, but now so so much more forcefully, and this was what you’d expected, but not what you’d prepared for, and his hand moves to grip your arm, as if to remind you that he is, no matter what, in control, as though the situation hasn’t proven this already. Hes biting his lip, his brows furrowed as he repeatedly buries himself inside of you only to give you that momentary relief. Youre experiencing him in a way you never have before, complete with all five senses stimulated, and before you can even help it you’re moaning his name and he’s mumbling about what a bitch you are and then he grunts and his warm, sticky load is pumped into you as he falls to a stop.

The feeling is so intense you’re shooting buckets yourself, but still all you can focus on is him, even as your vision blurs and hips thrust weakly against the air. You moan and drool seeps out the side of your mouth, and before you can wipe it away he leans down and kisses you.

“I’m willing to debate you on why what I just did was ethical, but I really doubt you aren’t already convinced,” he tells you, and you can only find yourself nodding in agreement.

“*Glp!* Y-yeah, man, I’m - I’m convinced,” you respond, and you wish so badly you hadn’t came off as such a dweeb in comparison.

Still, he chuckles and kisses you again, just a short peck. “You’re cute.”

As he pulls himself out of you, he adds, “n’ I’m one sexy motherfucker.”

[dirk-rider]

baby dirk🧡🍊

Ref:

[dirk-rider]

"I'm so fuckin' full, Jake." Dirk arches his spine and holds the small of his back.

"We're in public, Dirk," Jake hushes him under his breath.

"You're such a perv, dude," he rests his hand on his gut and gives it a hearty shake, letting a loud, long belch tumble out of him, "*grroOarlph~◌* ah, that hit the motherfuckin' spot, man. Did you hear that babe? That was fuckin' wet."

"Dirk. We're in. Public," he breathes through his teeth and lets a bead of sweat dot behind his ear.

"Aw hell naw, don't tell me you're one of those fuckers who gets off to this kind of shit," he gags for the bit, but ends up forcing another pocket of air up with it, "∴ bwwwrp°,×. shit— you hear that? That's why you don't buy me Mexican food. And you ordered a shit-fucking-ton of it too. Couldn't just leave me full, you had to have me aching."

"Because you told me to! You wouldn't shut up about it until I lent you fifty dollars, what choice did I have?"

"No one needs fifty dollars for lunch at some shitty grease-shack," he pokes the divot of his navel, "unless you're trying to get me to overeat. But no normal person with a functioning, perfectly vanilla cranium, would think to do something as obscene."

"Dirk fucking Strider, I swear to shit, if you don't shut up right now—"

"URPp– oh fuuuuuck dude, what were you sayin'?"

"Stop doing that," he hisses through his bared teeth.

"Doing what."

"That thing with your mouth." He doesn't look at Dirk for a second as he walks with him.

"Mmm, you mean this thing?" he opens his mouth to a groan and takes a deep breath, swallowing as much air as he can, before-

Jake grabs his hand and damn-near drags him to an unassuming crevice between two buildings, all while clasping a hand to his mouth. "I thought I fucking told you to stop doing that to me when we're out and about."

Pinned to the cold concrete wall, a coarse chill runs its way through Dirk's spine. As his expression tightens to the point of discomfort, Jake squeezes harder on his mouth to shut him up. With all the pressure pent up inside him, his skull feels like splitting.

"•,'⌍grrrrrrrworooaaarlphh⌎⨯," he rolls a hot and meaty belch off his tongue, speckles of already-eaten food coming back up as wet little speckles to spray against the palm of Jake's hand.

Jake's hand recoils like it was bitten, shaking the dampness off and wiping it onto the wall next to him. No matter how much he rubs, there's always a remnant sheen of greasiness that he can feel. "Bro! That is so fucking gross, do not do that!"

"Don't try'n put your hand on me when I'm - rrp - feelin gassier than usual," he raises his brows, amused with Jake's little outburst. "Besides, what the hell were you thinking, sloshing up my stuffed stomach like that. Something had to get out, man. Just be glad it was that end."

There is no response. Jake's cheeks are puffed and he's deep to the ears with blush, little angry creases between his dark and hairy brows as he stares Dirk down through his stupid, awfully pretentious shades.

"You're horrendous, Dirk, you... ugh!"

"Dude, chill. Relax. Take the stick out of your ass. What reason do you have to be all fucked up about this?" Dirk smirks, knowing damn well what the problem is. "Take a step backwards."

"What? No, why?"

"Jake, are you really going to wait for your dick to stand the fuck down, or can we get going already. Because if it's the former, then you're going to be stuck like this for ages man. I'm bloated as shit right now."

He stiffens at the accusation, in more than one sense of the word. "You're going to kill me one of these days, you know that Dirk?"

"Don't die," he says, expression feigning flatness, "who'll rub my belly for me when you're gone?"

"You're in no need of new rubs right now, mister," he wipes his hand on the inside of his jacket.

"I'm in such desperate need actually," he grabs Jake's unsteady hand and plunges it into the taut surface of his gurgling stomach, "check out that pressure, man, fuckin' hurts - bwrrrrrrRRrrrrrph"

"You're not helping me with my..." he pauses, searching for a word, "situation."

"I'm not trying to help you, it's my gut that's in need of rubbing. Poor you, you're hard. So what? Not like you can get off to your own hands any time soon-"

"Dirk!" he squeaks, face dark with color. "Not funny! It's not my fault you're stuffed senseless."

"Oh, but it is, you told me I had to eat up if I didn't want to get hungry. You held my cheek and slipped that spoon past my lips more times than I can even say. And- ooouRphugh - ugh, you sure can see consequences of your actions packed into me."

"No! No I did not! You- you told me to feed you, and so I did."

"You were a bit too excited to get something in me. More excited than I'd imagine a guy to be." He slips his hands under his gut and heaves it up and into his hands. "You can't deny this - hicoUrp - killer fuckin' evidence of your perversion."

"Stop making such a scene," his dick twitches in his pants at the sound of another eructation and he winces in shame, "I can't be in public like this-"

"See? There's the kicker, it's not me, bloated as I am, who's the real sicko between us. It's completely innocent and ordinary to eat more than you should. And these burps would kill me if I didn't - hrrRP - let 'em out. Perfectly normal bodily functions. What's really unfit for public is what happens to you about it. Getting off to me all bloated like this, you nasty fuck."

"Stop! Stop, stop, stop! I don't want to hear another word of it- I-" Jake stumbles as Dirk pushes him away.

"There's your little guy, all nice and roused. You really had that in your pants while we were out walkin'?"

"No! That only happened when you started... belching, and being such a slob about it!" he makes an accusatory whine and hides his face behind a hand. "I know you can hold them in, can't you just wait until we're home?"

"Ugh, but it feels so fuckin' good to rile you - urRPPh, mm, nice - buRRARPh - fuck - rile you up like this, 'scuse me. And holdin' in these beasts ain't as easy as it looks. Why don't you just stop bein' such a fuckin' slut for my mouth noises."

"I can't help it! I- you... fuck-" he groans upon contact as Dirk lines up his bloated belly to the curve of Jake's swollen shaft. "You're so bad for me, I never would've considered this before you. Whatever have you done to me, bro?"

"Hey, I'm not the one who popped a boner after watching me down a 2-litre," he hugs Jake, squeezing him tight to his stomach. "You can feel every bite in there right now, can't you?"

Jake can't respond. A small bob of the head answers for him as he whimpers.

"Good. Now let's see you taste the consequences of your actions."

[dirk-rider]

Happy birthday to the handsomest pumpkin in the patch <3

His heart races, his stomach groans and gurgles in agony, and his bloodflow seems to be centered in the most adverse areas it possibly could.

He’s clutching his overtaxed stomach like his life depends on it, like he might just burst if he doesn’t get rid of this ache, and quickly, too.

He pumps out rancid blast of air after another under the covers, struggling not to cough as he inhales his own scent, and the way it sticks to his already sweaty skin leads to him becoming even sweatier.

Obviously the heat’s doing this to him, and an observer might assume that there’s some shame there, too.

And yeah, maybe there used to be shame in the guy, but you’ve been peeling away at those layers of his since you started dating, and now he was practically barren of any semblance of the feeling.

No, it’s not shame that makes him sweat, makes his heartrate fast enough to warrant a ticket, not anymore.

Nowadays, it’s arousal.

If the observer looked a bit closer at him, they’d see not an embarrassed discontentment on his face, but a more bitter look instead as your boyfriend shuffled through thoughts, all leading back to one origin.

“How could you do this to me?”

And really, how could you? How could you go all out, really stuff the guy full of junk, full of grease and cheese and heavy meats, and not tend to him? How could you fall asleep with him so full next to you, him so in need of your touch, of your attention? He needed your hands on his stomach or his crotch, he needed your sweet, soothing words and gentle guidings so that he, too, could fall asleep.

And yet there you lay, not even facing him, fully immersed in whatever dreams your mind had conjured.

Your dreams couldn’t be better than what he had to offer you!!

Realistically, maybe they could.

They definitely could, had you not been such a twisted, perverted freak.

But you were a twisted perverted freak, and that was a fact of which you were both very well aware of.

After all, you were the reason he had turned into this.

Your soft, seductive words and hands had led to bigger and bigger portion sizes, and subsequently bigger and bigger waistlines, a fact which had initially filled him with anxieties. But you’d given him praise in exchange for his indulgence, finding a perverse sense of pleasure in his growth, and soon he’d grow to a point that he hardly cared what others thought of him. All he cared for was you. All he wanted was you. All he felt he needed was you.

Which made your ignoring him just that much more upsetting.

He’d so diligently done as he was told, taking bite after bite even past taxation, but he’d hardly even laid down when he’d found you asleep.

Still, he tried to be good at first. He’d lied down next to you, wrapped an arm around you and closed his eyes, hoping to join you in your slumber.

But as the hours went by, his arm had retracted from behind you as he’d tired of his one last attempt at being the man in the relationship in favor of soothing his own stomach, doing the task which should have been yours.

Irritation began setting in with that thought, as he knew he shouldn’t have been the one to soothe himself, he knew the task to be beyond him by now.

His stomach, too, was only getting angrier, upset at being forced into this position when it so clearly needed to digest, and it cried out in pain as he tenderly massaged its mass.

And the irritation grew with that, too; had he really allowed himself to submit to someone so physically inferior to him? Had he seriously allowed himself to be placated by plates of food? Had he allowed himself to hand over control of his portion sizes, allowed himself to bloat larger than the human form was intended to, and allowed him to keep the excess weight, all for an orgasm he’d never even received?

To answer the final question would be to answer “no”, and that’s when his irritation was replaced with panic.

He hadn’t allowed himself to submit because he wanted to eat, or because he wanted to come, or for any other reason with no strings attached.

He’d allowed himself to submit because he loved you.

And that scared him.

He would do anything to maintain your interest in him.

Sure, indulgence was something he’d frequently engage in even before you’d met him, but he only ever started pushing himself to the point of legitimate physical exhaustion when you were there to play his audience.

And similarly, he knew that, if push came to shove and you really seemed keen on leaving him, he’d be willing to force himself into roles he dreaded, actions which filled him with revulsion the vast majority of the time, just for that shred of hope that that’d win back your affections.

He was willing to do anything if it meant that you’d remain interested in him - this is what led to so many actions taken, or not, so many nights spent like this, lying alone, dreading an abandonment that always seemed to loom over the horizon, even if that fear was founded near entirely on his spiraling thoughts rather than any rationality.

But why should he cower?

Why should he listen to someone so physically inferior to him?

Why should he allow himself to act on the whims of someone who so clearly didn’t care for him?

Because you didn’t care for him, you couldn’t. In his mind, even the kindest of words you sent his way were forgotten on nights like this, nights when one anxious thought allowed itself to mutate and spread within his mind, fill his head with fears and self loathing and his stomach with a gaseous, unpleasant nausea that only increased his upset.

And if you didn’t care for him, that meant he had nothing left to lose.

So, ever so carefully, he forced himself upright, the jostling of his stomach inviting a sickeningly long yet uncharacteristically quiet belch alongside.

He palmed his chest and covered his mouth, glancing over at you, your only movement being the steady ups-and-downs of your breathing.

He didn’t like that you weren’t even looking his way; were you really so repulsed by him that you couldn’t even sleep facing him? He supposed maybe the rancidity of his outbursts may have warranted that, but if they were really so awful to smell maybe you should have withheld your gentle words.

And they were gentle this time, he realized. Usually you were so adamant that he take just another bite, you were so keen on ordering plate after plate, but tonight he’d taken the lead, he’d been the one to order, he’d asked you how much to get, he’d led it all. You had only been dragged along, it seemed.

Had he forced you into something you wouldn’t have otherwise agreed to?

This thought upset him further, but still he allowed it to plant itself firmly in his mind.

He’d forced you into witnessing an act of exhibitionism which only the two of you were in on, he’d forced you to smile and pretend you enjoyed him like this, he’d forced you to agree with his portions and forced you to sleep with him and forced you to be kind to him and forced you to pretend you loved him.

But when you slept, your intentions seemed clear; your intentions were to please, to sedate, to calm the raging storm of emotions that always seemed so close to the surface, emotions he seemed to conjure so superficially, emotions which only the two of you knew the depths of.

Your intentions weren’t for self pleasure, though, they never could be. Nobody could really find him as attractive as he found himself, especially when he was like this, so full, so fat, so absolutely rancid in scent - he had forced you into accepting his indulgence as a part of him, and what’s worse, he’d forced you to pretend you found it attractive.

And, too, he’d forced you to play therapist, always tending to his emotional woes in ways nobody ever had before. Nobody before you had ever seemed to care when he was upset, so he’d gotten used to holding his most intense feelings inside himself, trading emotional expression for physical.

He had nobody to verbally express his emotions to, which led to violent fantasies which scared even him. He grew to hate himself for these, hate himself for just how awful he could be, how awful his thoughts could get. So he took out the sadness, the anger, the hatred inside himself onto himself. When he was younger, he’d starved himself and slashed his wrists and thighs. When he was older, he’d ran for miles and pumped iron until his shins were sore and his arms unsteady.

And now he had somewhere to go to with all of his horrible, awful thoughts, all of his upset with the world around him and with the world inside him, and he’d been utilizing it - or, rather, he’d been utilizing you. And what was worse was that you seemed to truly understand him, to empathize with the feelings he shared through pathetic moping and guttural sobs, to know exactly how he felt and how to help him feel better. He thrusted you back into the times you’d felt the way he had, forced you to think about things you shouldn’t, just for a few moments of peace from him, for a few weeks where he seemed genuinely okay before it all came tumbling down again and he begged for your affections once more.

God he was selfish.

He had to get you away from him, he knew he did, but everything he’d done thus far had only seemed to further your attraction to him, his manipulation and false charisma somehow overriding the awful scenarios he’d force you into on a regular basis. You acted as his servant, and he hated himself for how much he enjoyed it, how much he loved being cared about.

His stomach groaned and he returned a palm to its rounded top, cringing as it seemed to sink into fat which he did not deserve.

If you’d been awake, maybe he’d have managed to force your hands onto this same stomach, coerced you into telling him how attractive you found his body and how arousing you found his sounds, whether or not you believed it, just to get him to shut up about why you hadn’t held his hand like you normally would, why you hadn’t actively encouraged him to go for more, why you were sleeping facing away from him.

But, indeed, you were facing away from him, thoughts likely nowhere relating to him, even as all of his centered upon you.

He wondered what you were dreaming about, even if you wouldn’t remember it in the morning. He knew he could catch a glimpse of emotion in your face if you were experiencing any, if only he could see it.

Ever so carefully he took hold of your closer shoulder and pulled it towards him, forcing you onto your back so he could see your face.

Before he could look, he thought that it must be uncomfortable being twisted in the middle like this, so he pulled back the covers briefly to rearrange your legs.

And as he was down there, his finger caught your boxers, though he hadn’t intended it to, and he quickly pulled it away, accidentally moving the elastic a bit lower as well, so that your bush was slightly exposed and your v-line more visible.

Fuck, you were gorgeous. Every part of you growing stronger every day, your body replacing rigidity with healthy softness, your skin glowing just like your smile, and your crotch slowly becoming exposed.

He flushed at this, knowing he shouldn’t be looking at you this way while you were asleep, much less touching you the way he was.

Still, he also knew that you weren’t the type to object to this sort of action; he’d caught you touching yourself to him as you slept once now.

But you hadn’t been touching him then the way he was touching you now, you’d been innocent, simply overcome by lust and affection for the form he’d taken.

On the other hand, he was acting on self hatred, acting entirely selfishly, wishing for intimacy with you, unconscious and fully uninterested in him in the current moment.

You were unconscious, though.

You were unconscious and now sprawled out, completely limp as he touched you, and would likely remain so if he continued.

He could do whatever he liked to you as you slept and you’d stay just as limp as his puppets and plush, but now warmer, more alive, more full of love.

He could do whatever he liked to you and you’d have no way to fight back.

He could do whatever he liked to you.

Thoughts hazy and goals unclear, he abandoned the pursuit of emotional viewing, now acting once more on self interest and selfish desire.

He moved from sitting on his fat ass to his knees, gut hanging below him, hands held out on each side of your hips to steady himself. He pulled your boxers down lower, then lower still, lifting you by your back as he did so to reduce tension.

Once he had done this he lowered himself down until his mouth was level with your hole, arms seeming to shake as he held himself up, anxiety coursing through him.

He needed more, though, he needed to eat until you were pleased with him. And what more was there to eat than you.

He held up two thick, frankly chubby fingers against you, parting your lips slightly to assess how hard he’d have to work for his meal. You were only the slightest bit wet, nothing additional to your body’s basic requirements. Damn.

He honestly didn’t want too much, and he didn’t expect you to cum, especially not in your sleep, but even just a bit of lubrication separate from his saliva would help - he needed you inside him, so intimately intertwined with his intestines, and this was the easiest way of getting that.

He slid a finger into you and winced for a moment as hot, acidic air made itself known to his poorly managed bare nailbed, but still left it inside you. You were pleasantly warm and unsurprisingly tight, which he was just fine with - you never penetrated yourself, and he was only able to on rare occasion, so the tightness honestly brought some relief, knowing that you hadn’t seen anybody else, even if there was no rational reason to think you would, despite being as gorgeous as you are.

He began stimulating you, finger sliding against your clit, then your vaginal walls, until he hit your g spot, then back out, in and out, in and out, in a rhythmic motion, until he was certain that a dampness had set in, whereupon he took his finger out and licked off any excess. It tasted tangy and slightly sweet, much less acidic than his own slick did and much kinder, more inviting of his taste buds.

He moved his mouth back to you and his tongue inched out of him until it was against you, pressed flat against your skin. He licked slowly up, then pulled it back into his mouth to once more hit you, forming another repeated pattern. Where his finger had retained a consistent speed, though, as he simply mimicked the way he’d touch himself, here he started out fairly slowly, out of practice since his last relationships, as you were much less physically needy than they had been and he hadn’t done this in a long time.

You tasted even better from the source, even as his stomach growled angrily below him, warning him against any more swallowing. He still continued, working against his body’s wishes to map out your folds orally.

Heavy breathing was only worsening the condition, as the air between his lips and yours became muggy, and his tongue thrusting more desperate, and when he felt his stomach shift he knew he was about to make matters worse. He would have pulled away had he had the time, made things easier on himself. But as quickly as the thought entered his mind the gas was making its way up and out and right against you.

"°·×bOUURwP’·.-—*hic*, mm…”

He moaned slightly as it slid out of him, stomach shifting beneath him and chest momentarily clearing.

Now the air was even more congested, but it mixed with the taste of the nights previous meals and he supposed it wasn’t all bad.

He kept licking like a rabid dog, swallowing every drop of you, his precious, his sweetness, that he could, his anxiety subsiding just a bit as he kept going, kept tasting you, lapping up every bit of sweet slick that your body produced, all as a result of his actions - something he found himself taking a hazy pride in. Gas continued to force its way out of him, too, now in the form of thicker burps and belches that reverberated against you and seemed to increase your physical arousal, fueled by desperate gulps of air and lubricant.

When one more rancid sound forced its way out of him, he decided he couldn’t go a second longer without doing something regarding his own lower regions, so, after one last quick kiss on each of your inner thighs, he pulled his head back with a low throaty growl and made quick work of shimmying off his own boxers and tossing them to the floor.

He then crawled over you so that his stomach hovered over yours and he slid two fingers inside himself, shame washing over him with the action - he couldn’t even really rape you, he didn’t have a dick to do so with.

Still, he was horny and desperate and in need of relief, both abdominally as well as sexually, so much so that his shame seemed to all go away as his vision landed on your tits, your perfect, bare tits.

He loved them, he loved how soft they were, he loved how big they were, he loved how full they were, and most importantly he loved that they were yours. Another vessel to feed your ever-starved baby, even if said baby was just a few months behind you in age and quickly entering young adulthood.

He moved so that his chin rested at your pectorals and once more extended his tongue so that it touched the skin, and he marveled at how clean you tasted, how warm your skin felt even up here against his tongue. He licked downwards in a shaky line until your regular skin changed texture and he knew he had met nipple. He wrapped his tongue around the surface and then pulled it off, felt every small divot and bump and tasted every bit of you that he could. He played the thing like an oral instrument, an excited sort of music sounding in his head as he did, and he did until he felt he’d covered the expanse and moved to your other tit.

Oh, but he didn’t want the cold night air to stick to your now wet skin, he couldn’t have that happen!! So he removed his fingers from himself and licked them off, too, swallowed his seed and placed the hand not holding him stable against your breast, squeezing at it until he felt his palm covered it decently enough for you to not wake up from the sudden cold.

He then moved his chin to the top of your other mound of breast and repeated his action, sliding down til he met the nipple and orally massaging it against your will. He loved the way you tasted, every inch of you wonderful and warm beneath his tongue, and he licked and lapped at it with an admittedly comforting ease; he knew your breasts and he knew them well, and the familiarity of this physical closeness almost helped him forget that what he was doing was wrong.

But what he was doing was wrong, and he froze for a brief moment with that thought.

What was he doing?? What was he doing to his princess, his love, his greenest pumpkin?? He hadn’t asked if he could, he hadn’t cared if he could, and he was acting in ways that completely opposed the disinterested you he’d spent the past hours building up in his mind.

God he was so awful, he was so selfish, he was abusing the body of the one he loved most, abusing the trust you’d provided sleeping in the same bed, abusing the you who did not care for him, and who would now never care for him again.

He pulled his head up and took a moment to admire your face. Your soft skin wrapped around your eyes, eyes closed so peacefully, eyes which would never dare to look at him again with anything beyond resentment.

And your nose, a nose which wrinkled at your scents, but which made way for loving praise and letting him know just how proud you were that he got all of that gas out.

And your lips, lips which sung these praises, lips which made way for a voice that had once made him nauseous with anxiety for how gorgeous it was, for how lucky it made him feel, lips which he would kiss hundreds of times over if he could.

His heart absolutely pounded in his chest as he continued admiring your face, the face of the person he loved most and who would never love him again. He’d cemented this fact with his nonconsensual actions, cemented your hatred of him for times to come. He felt so disgusting hovering over you like this, but he couldn’t make himself move away, so he stayed, heart pounding, breath hanging heavy in the air.

He moved a hand to push back a stray hair of yours that’d ended up between your eyes, only to quickly regret this action as they fluttered open and your gaze turned to him. Before he could think what to do, what to say, an anxious sort of gas bubbled up inside him and an ill-timed heartbeat smacked against his lungs, forcing it all out in one obnoxiously loud, awful sound; as it was happening he had enough sense at the least to slap a palm over his mouth to muffle the sound as it forced its way out of him, but this didn’t seem to make much difference - you’d already heard it, you could still hear it, and pretty soon your own hand was prying his away, allowing the last moments of gaseous breath to escape him, and you giggled slightly, hardly audible beneath the sound you giggled, and it was the most gorgeous sound, it really was.

As his eructation tapered off he wanted to stumble through apologies, but he found himself unable to speak, to even move, and so he was just a creep hovering over you, a creep hovering over you who had just so obscenely eructated over top of you, who had prior suckled your tits and ingested your wet, a creep who did nothing consensually and who hated himself more than anything else.

But, as he hovered over you, your lips began moving and he was suddenly entirely focused on your words, words he was not yet ready for, words which seemed to come so easily to you.

“I love you, strider.”

And a giggle escaped you as you said so, and the look in your eyes seemed so real he could almost envision stars in the reflection, and he broke. His arms collapsed from underneath him and he broke into loud, awful wet sobs on top of you.

You loved him as he loved you, and in that moment it felt so true and so real, that even despite everything you still loved him, and he clung to you as harsh sobs and high pitched hiccups wracked his bloated frame, a body now pressed into your own, and as you rubbed a hand against his back he knew that it would all be alright.

[dirk-rider]

[dirk-rider]

shoutout to bad kissers btw. shoutout to inexperienced kisses where there's more teeth than lips and readjusting and shifting without end. shoutout to breathless little laughs because god you guys must look pretty silly right now, huh? shoutout to missing the lips by just a few centimeters and settling for an almost-kiss on the cheek.

shoutout to alternatives also. shoutout to gentle bites on the shoulder in place of kisses. shoutout to shapes traced on the skin in place of kisses. shoutout to a few extra 'i love you's in place of kisses. shoutout to tapping and caressing and every other little gesture that bleeds love in place of kisses.

proship / adjacent dni + don't steal my shit

[dirk-rider]

getting my hair brushed and various outfits put on me so i can be displayed all niceys on a shelf like a pretty dollgirl but i also have a really obvious boner the whole time and am posed in such a way to accentuate this

[dirk-rider]

I want to be held and allowed to cry in such a fucking wreck my cars wrecked my body’s wrecked my relationships are wrecked and I can’t do a single thing to help you

[dirk-rider]

[dirk-rider]

r/offmychest My girlfriend washed my hair today

[dirk-rider]

[dirk-rider]

[dirk-rider]

[dirk-rider]

“Babe would you be mad at me if I was aroused by you as a horse”

[dirk-rider]

she tries her best to be supportive